22 March, 2006
back in the USSR

that's certainly the feeling that pervaded, as the AirBus descended into the patterned lights of early evening Dulles. seeing the unending line of pearl-like headlights leaving the DC area on Rt. 7... yeah, i know how much fun that is. looks much better from a height. pretty, but rigid.

always heavy, the feeling of landing, when the wheels drag on the tarmac. where it's cold, again.

in the shuttle to the main terminal, there was one cat directly across from me... middle-aged, dour version of that HipHopTeutonic dude on the VW commercials. had to be a spy, heading to the dead drop.

the cabbie who drove me to my dormant Volvo? from Azerbaijan. instructional on World Cup action.

so, this is starting at the end of my trek to California. why here? because this is the part where all of the stressing over airport security, boarding the plane to a place i've never been, driving a rented Cavalier with the local alternative radio playing on the 405 freeway, searching for house numbers that are really painted on the curb in a dark neighborhood calmed down to a nice, low blaze.

...and finally setting eyes on someone that i've been scorching the phonelines and emails with for months.
she smolders, she's hip... she'll make your backbone slip. and she'll make you watch weaseled-out DannyBonaduce reality TV in broad daylight. and drunk MiniMe piss naked in a corner on a disabled trike.

damn good kisser, too.

Good Times.

she's written it, already, has Andria... there was that just-barely tentative time before the pieces came together, in 3-D. that vaporized.
there should be Stylistics music here, "Let's Put It All Together". in falsetto. with glitter. and sparkly rainbows. oops, the disco ball was in her glovebox, already.

...and we're both totally full of shit.

lucky Hussy. she has this to look at, from her back door, everyday:

...those palms rustle like dry paper, in the wind. that's a nice way to greet the morning, with a strong cup of coffee, and my lone cigarette of the AM.

except for her asshole neighbor, who raised my redneck ire when she dramatically fanned imaginary smoke fumes from her nose, twenty feet away... muttered "it stinks", disappeared inside her door, and came back after the cat so she wouldn't "have an asthma attack".

why she still walks and talks and wasn't buried in a shallow grave under her sunburnt plants, i'll never know.

but that place jived with me. one of those Carlos Castaneda things where you knew you were in your comfortable spot, right away.
unique, small houses. a killer Japanese market. ocean. hills. good food. palms of every size and description.

and a right good seeing to.

my cousin, north in Van Nuys, gave me a day long tour of LA... all interesting spots, like crossing Hollywood and Vine, where the Anti-Bush rally of 20,000 was underway, impossibly cool deco, Chinatown, crackheads, and nearly-deads. and earthquake stories.

all of this, colourful little pieces of a mosaic that says, get your ass here.

goddamn i hated coming back.
i hated the hangover from the waterfall of martinis, last night, too. this coping mechanism will not stand.

but we'll always have Torrance.

and a pile of photos to come on the Flickr page.

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