(dol/dull)drums

Seasonal affective disorder, thank you very much. It was a gorgeous SoCal winter day - clear, not warm but not cold nor even terribly cool, blue skies, a hint of the weakness of winter sunlight. So, seasonal, my friends, is relative. Dropped YCT's car off for repairs, walked to the LA subway (past one section of the writer's strike. I honked going and cheered coming. I may well cross the street going, tomorrow, and engage the striking writers more directly. Organized labor is hot.), and took the fricking subway in LA from the Valley to Hollywood. For a buck twenty five, paid by debit card, turnstile free, 8 minute wait for a 6 minute ride. Who knew? I had no fucking idea. Stopped for breakfast in Hollywood, took the leisurely option of the hour-long walk home, enjoying the 'Jim Henson's Studios now occupies Charlie Chaplin's Studios?' (And has Kermit always been on that roof?) moments alongside a few alleys, crack addicts, and the mysterious running homeless guy I've seen _much_ further west, but also earlier in the day. Homie is the Forrest Gump of the homeless, dirty, smelly, and physically disabled crowd of distance runners.

blah blah blah. I'm boring myself. No major crises, but a bad case of the blahs. Perhaps because there's so much to do. Or, so much I haven't done. I drink, numb, rinse, repeat. Waiting for an old friend and I to manage to actually toss back some jars. In a recent conversation, he described England as "[my] promised land." Interestingly apt. And departure of colleague/friend (referenced below, somewhere) has had many a knock-on effect, and shall have many a knock-on more. Both locally, and, intriguingly, bi-coastally. Hmmm. Bored with my own writing - without romantic drama, what is there?

If you're really bored, go check out http://awkwardthingsisaytogirls.com/. Start at the beginning. I have so many better stories than this guy, yet his tale is all too familiar at the same time.