sab

or, another damn song about LA. More me missing home.

or, as I pointed out to Shana once, "on the internet, nobody knows you're crying."

or, the fried chicken and collard greens at Red on Beverly Blvd.

or anything called "boulevard."

waking up at four in the afternoon and going to Lulu's, having a cheeseburger, reading Cryptonomicon. Calling SKL. going to a movie, not at the Beverly Center because the screens are too small. the Beverly Connection. it's cold. we're in scarves, even though it's 50 degrees, because it's winter, it's cold for LA. it's dark when we get out. we go cd shopping. get back in her Ford Explorer and find a place to get lobster at ten at night, because we want lobster.

I light Melissa Joan Hart's cigarette outside Benihana. World Without Sundays is playing at the Viper Room. I get home, EEC's at the door but I don't let him in. 99 cable channels and nothing's on.

working on Sunset, lunch at Red Rock. working at Sony, a PA brings in tacos. I stay till midnight.

parking in the impossible structures on the 3rd Street Promenade, buy a dictionary at Midnight Train. call SKL. we go to the movies, not at the Beverly Center because the screens are too small. back to Vermont, drinks at the Rustic after. drive home down Vermont, right on Beverly, past the cheap sushi place we never tried.

we found East Pasadena once. there's a great used bookstore there. I worked in North Hollywood, lunch at Jack in the Box, with Mel. driving home through Laurel Canyon, you can see the space shuttle from here. the green haze of the horizon, helicopters and smog. a sonic boom.

my first apartment, Hayworth, corner of Santa Monica. 3 am walk in slippers to 7-11 for sunflower seeds. breakfast at the French Quarter, coffee at Buzz. meet the new writing partner at El Coyote to work on the X-Files spec.

later.

and it's one more day up in the canyon, and it's one more night in Hollywood.

fuck you, Adam Duritz, for doing this to me, because this is just exactly what it feels like, driving down Beachwood past midnight, right on Franklin, left on Gower, right on 3rd.

HOME.

I want to go home, fuck me, I want to go home. I said "no regrets" to Jeff, ten years ago I said it, and since then, no regrets except this one.

I AM SO FUCKING NOT KIDDING.

the world only spins forward. I'm not getting any younger. And I don't know, I don't know if I can do it, any more days severed from my home, my life.

I had no idea. I mean, growing up, raised as a New Yorker. and when I got there, I said, "fucking California, a town without a season." but I didn't know, because the ennui there was nothing compared to what it is to be separated from that. what it is to be here, where it's just like home, just familiar, just like life except missing EVERYTHING that speaks to who I am.

yeah, so fuck you, Adam Duritz.

I saw the Counting Crows, at the Greek, with Anna. Live opened. we went to the Rustic after, and then Barefoot Lodge with these two guys we picked up in the parking lot, and the short one said, "so which one of you should I try to hit on?" and Anna looked at me and we laughed. he was an installation artist. I still have his card somewhere.

practically. Practically speaking, what would it take. a good...five thousand dollars to get out of New York. Maybe six, and that's if I flew and sold the car. and I'd have to buy a car.

ten thousand dollars if I wanted to drive, and be able to put a deposit on an apartment out there too.

and a job lined up. immediately.

jesus christ.

have you -- do you know what it feels like? Because when I was ten years old, I said, "I'm going to work in Hollywood when I grow up." I said, "I'm gonna be a star."

so close I couldn't see it, but I was never more right than I was then.

I have that song stuck in my head, from the Muppet Movie. I'm going to go back there someday.

(sounds so impossible, doesn't it? so fleeting, unlikely? the Voyager crew got home. But that was bittersweet, wasn't it? they didn't know, they hadn't known. the baby was born on board.)

ten thousand dollars. Fuck me.