Last Friday night we had the most charming cabbie for the ride from the Hotel Bel-Air (tr�s posh) back downtown. He pointed out the lovely Getty Museum, up on the hill and sang the museum�s praises. Alas, it was not meant to be. Nor did I make it to the Museum of Neon Art. Ah, well, next time.
(I�ve always wanted to go to the hologram museum in Chicago�anyone been?)
But I can�t hate LA entirely. The air downtown is heavy with the scent of magnolia blossoms, which reminds me of old town Memphis, and I can�t help but walk more slowly and smile at people passing by.
Today my body�s finally returned to the central time zone. Vivid, restless dreams mixing an ex and work till 6 am. A walk, interspersed with halfhearted attempts to run farther than a quarter of a mile, of defying my dense brain and failing synapses. Lectures to Fuzzy/Pants in a (s)low morning voice. Hunger at designated meal times. I need not move west, after all.
Oh, but I do want to travel west. In the plane, in my window seat, the land transfixed me. I understand vast squares of farmland punctuated by barns, houses, silos. But mountains? Desert? Was it real? It defies imagination.
(Important aside�today I learned that my hero, Sen. Robert Byrd, once appeared on Hee Haw, singing in a cornfield with Buck Owens. And that Buck�s birth name was Alvis Edgar Owens, Jr.)
I swear I�ve eaten nothing but delicious, bean-laden Mexican food and piles of fresh vegetables since I got home (Ben & Jerry�s notwithstanding). Just now I told Jeremy I needed a nice Mexican boy who�d cook for me. He pointed out that the nice Mexican boy would be far more likely to expect me to be in the kitchen. Ah, you know those gays. Always stereotyping.
In unrelated news, the new Gillian Welch album is delicious. Scott Miller and the Commonwealth arrives next week. I�m falling miserably behind. Paycheck, please! Preferably before happy hour.