All artsy academic bally docks left aside. I just felt like coasting idly through my mind and writing whatever I crash into.
I've given my blog 5 stars, so that's good. It's a positive response, so I'm optimistic.
For a while I considered having a honest-to-goodness reflective blog with a catchy title, and the subtitle "A Midwestern Girl near La-La Land" and then I jettisoned the idea because I was too busy to notice much about being near LaLaLand apart from the same five or six thoughts, like 'I hate palm trees' and 'Was that Paris Hilton who just cut me off on the Orange Crush.' The first few times I thought that, I thought it was blog-worthy. After about a week it just seemed sort of like a catch-phrase from a sit-com. See, I didn't even realize I was already thinking in "Industry Speak." You become Californian, despite feeling alien, without really noticing it. Until you go back to the Midwest, which smells of sulfer, and realize how Californicated you've become. And just when you can't remember why California seemed so wild and foreign to you, you get on a plane with actual Californians, and realize you're not one of them. Which is fine, but then you, or I, begin to think about how you don't feel at home anywhere anymore, and how lonely you are. The cholas in the row ahead of you mix their Spanglish with Valley-Speak, the kind you hear in 80s movies about people driving around all night long on Mulholland Drive or Hollywood and Vine, where you've, or I've, been once and compared to your uncle you feel like an expert. It always seems like 3am on the 101, that dim horizon just after the party has hit its zenith and the crash hasn't set in yet, and I'm watching all of it from a car window. Because I spend most of my time here on a freeway...that's just the reference system. I'm not really always in a car. And I've been on the 101 once.
Who are you now? A corrupted file? Part metropolitan midwesterner expat, part west coast transplant, on your way back to the dim hills of the south. Execution failed. File is corrupt.
What am I doing tonight? Goofing off. I have mountains of things to do but instead I spent 2 hours reading Hollywood gossip columns, like PerezHilton. And now I am here. California is a very gothic place. I will miss it. I will miss that feeling that not an hour away, Lindsay Lohan is passed out at Hyde. Nicole Richie is probably driving the wrong way down the east-bound Santa Monica freeway. They don't seem like celebrities to me, they seem like your neighbour's messed up kids. When I am 1500 miles away, they seem like celebrities. And that's just that aspect of being not-terribly-far from LA. There is much more to say of this and that around my own neighbourhood, IE, the dirty 909. I have no idea what that means, but the kids say it. The kids say a lot of things I don't understand but that fascinate me. Like Hollaback Girl. Or cholo/chola. Dirty 909. Mija. I won't hear those things in other places.
All the good TV shows are over. the 24 season finale was last week. Survivor is over. The Riches only has 2 more episodes. My only hope is the new pirate survivor show that starts next week. It had better be good. The lack of good TV depresses me. That this depresses me distresses me. By next Thursday I'll be so desperate I won't care if the pirate show is good. I'll just be thankful it isn't Cops or I Love Lucy.
My family aren't like addicted to pain-killers, but I swear as soon as you say my _____ hurts, up pops a family member with a handy bottle of ibuprofen--do you want an aleve? ...no. I'll just hurt, until it passes...it's just pain. Can't something just hurt, and you go about your life? No, for people who have 'made it,' who have reached a stage in life where they have detergent for every conceivable clothing stain, there can be no hurt.
Who are you now?
My headphones are lying on the desk next to me. I can hear faint music. It's "The Red Shoes." I haven't listened to that in a long time. I'm not putting my headphones on.
There is not one clean bowl in the whole house. Baseball is on TV. I can't bring myself to do dishes.
I've hit a dead stop.