I'm back from California, and I'm going to start waxing nostalgic about high school and how awesome my reunion was anytime now, but first I have to devote some time to describing the true circus sideshow that was my LA to New York flight yesterday. No lie, this journey spans twelve hours and involves an aborted takeoff, a mass exodus from the plane, Law and Order actor Richard Belzer, a dog, internet celebrity Justine Ezarik, myself, three drunk hookers (one of whom had an eye patch), and a pimp who for some reason was wearing medical scrubs.
I. Am not making. Any of this up.
Perhaps we've already covered the fact that Los Angeles hates me, and so when I enter its city limits there are traffic jams that exceed normal, and time grinds to a halt, and my building gets termites, and the city heats up to its hottest day ever, which just obviously means I should never go there ever again. It's too bad, too, because I have some nice friends who live in Los Angeles who are obviously not subject to the complete cosmic and magnetic aversion that I experience when I go there.
So: today. Laundry, bills, phonecalls, mail, and all the other things I neglected while I was off reminiscing in Palm Desert. Not work, though— I was working, even on the plane, even in the hotel, even while driving from the desert back to Los Angeles.
Tomorrow: a recap of a flight so absurd it belonged in a David Lynch film. I'm serious.