While sitting in the clinic office Friday afternoon, frantically typing on my iBook in order to get some serious work done, I chatted on and off with a few of the girls around me. “You know, I haven’t even bought my books this semester,” I said. “I need to, but with so much else in life to spend money on, I just can’t afford my books right now.”

(Truth be told, I’m not entirely keen to purchase my textbooks. Every semester, I fall for the bluff from the teachers that you MUST have all your books in order to make it in the class. I bite the bullet and shell out the hundreds of dollars in textbooks for each class. I then lug them to campus with me every single day because I know how important they are. Only I never use them. And I still learn. And my grades remain pretty good. In addition to this inconvenient factor, textbooks for grad school have gotten out of hand. I’m taking only two classes this semester, and between the two classes, I’m supposed to have SEVEN textbooks. Which, in the modern university market, translates to something like $600. And that’s a conservative estimate. Fuck.)

“I just moved, too, so not only am I super broke, I don’t have any furniture in my living room,” I continued. “But you know, I think I’m going to go to IKEA this weekend. Obviously, I can’t buy anything, but I can dream. YOU CAN’T KEEP ME FROM DREAMING.”

By “can’t buy anything,” I really meant I couldn’t buy anything unless I encountered a deal so good that there was no way to leave the place WITHOUT buying it. Up to now, the only place for me to sit down at home has been my desk chair, which is only comfortable for so long, i.e. until I reach the point at which my butt needs a full-body massage. I’ve been itching to get a couch, but Craigslist has proven fruitless thus far, and I can’t quite afford a new one just yet. So when the IKEA voice directed me to the middle section of the self-serve warehouse floor to a plain yet comfy-looking armchair on sale, I only barely managed not to squeal in delight and football tackle the nearest sample chair.

Enter the delightful POÄNG chair (I’m not sure how to pronounce the brand name; I guess at it and it comes out sounding like “pwang”, which while amusing, I’m fairly certain is wrong), part of IKEA’s “Seize the Days” Sale. A chair for $59 instead of $89 automatically deserved my attention, and when I sat in the thing, one of the IKEA employees had to talk me down and convince me to stand up in order let another customer try it out, because I was not budging.

Thrilled is only the tip of the iceberg. I could barely make the purchase because I kept staring at the box in the shopping cart, and I suffered some pretty serious separation anxiety when I had to leave my new chair at the front of the building so I could get my car and bring it to the loading area. Now that we’re home and I’ve put my fabulous chair together, I’ve been hard-pressed even to get up for a drink of water because it’s just so damn comfortable.

Saturday, I made my reluctant, yet still triumphant, return to Los Angeles. I kept note of everything that happened along the way, just for fun. Here’s how it plays out, in real time.

Prologue

Perhaps the reluctance to fully pack comes from the fact that I am not yet ready to say goodbye. Packing everything completely signals that it’s time to go, and for all there is to look forward to, I know how much I’ll miss those small everyday things I’d gotten spoiled with on a daily basis over the summer. Time bests me, and with a heavy heart, I accept that the memories remain, and more will be made, all in good time.

Chapter 11:35am, Mountain Standard TIme

The metal detector beeps as I walk through security at the airport. A high-strung TSA employee orders me to move back and then try again. I oblige, and this time I get through without the glaring beep beep beep. I move forward to await my bag, computer, and lunch. A man stares intently at his computer screen, scrunching his face up in what could be constipation, except it occurs to me that he is concentrating deeply on the orange, blue, white, and yellow images before him. After a solid minute, he lifts up my Whole Foods bag, gives me a suspicious look, and asks if this is mine. I reply in the affirmative, and he proceeds to open it up and remove the children’s meal I had purchased for half an hour before. Apple juice, 6.7 ounces. Apple sauce, unknown amount, but certainly more than 3 ounces. Both are contraband, and because I opt not to have to wait another twenty minutes to repeat the process, they are confiscated.

Chapter 1:30pm, Mountain Standard Time

I board the plane to Phoenix. Despite being in the second herd of passengers, the plane is quite full. I head toward the back in the hopes of finding an empty row with an available aisle or window seats. I spy an empty row, but upon my arrival I discover a child seat in place next to the window. I wait, and a mother approaches with her infant daughter. She smiles and says I’m welcome to sit next to them. The next hour or so is spent chatting amicably and playing with her thirteen-month-old. This surprises me, but very pleasantly so.

Chapter 2:45pm, Pacific Standard Time

After running into a friend I made last semester, I board the plane to Burbank. This time, I secure a window seat in the second to last row of the plane. A haggard old man approaches and decides to take the seat between me and the 6′5″ hulk on the end. This old man is probably pushing 90, and his slightly curved frame makes him appear shorter than he probably is. His hair is white and cut extremely short. He sits down and promptly places his elbows on the arm rests, never to move them for the entire hour and a half flight. He removes from his shirt pocket a book. Judging by its size, I peg it as one of those travel books that shows the highlights of different places. Judging by its red and busy cover, I wonder if it is erotica. I look over his shoulder and see words that talk about Mass and Jesus. So much for first impressions.

Chapter 4:23pm, Pacific Standard Time

My landlord picks me up and drives me back to my new home. My heart races for the next forty minutes as we tear through the streets at 50 and 60 miles per hour, despite the heavy traffic. Relief washes over me as we finally arrive. I reflect on how I’ve never had motion sickness, but that ride certainly could have induced it.

Chapter 5:30pm, Pacific Standard Time

I begin to unpack, happy at least that the traveling is over. I see light glint from the floor. I do not expect this, and then I see the light scurry underneath my bed. I spy more as I look around the carpet. Crickets, it seems. Unbeknownst to me, crickets are pretty common in Los Angeles. Robert informs me that they’re a sign of good luck. This helps, but I still prefer to see them outside.

Epilogue

Fish tacos were the one thing I missed about LA. I have no food in the house, so I go out and get fish tacos. I call my friend and we decide to go hang out, eat, and then go to a pub for beer and live music. We meet odd new people, including one self-proclaimed Casanova who, for every sentence you spoke, would want to bump fists. Then he asked my friend on a date and was devastated when she said “NO, BITCH!”*

The End.

*She was quite a bit more subtle than I just made her out to be.

While catching up on some news this evening, I stumbled upon this great story from Bakersfield, a mere 100 miles from my little corner of Los Angeles.

Evidently, Mommy placed a little too much trust in little Johnny, who presumably decided to take matters into his own hands by getting his mother arrested for counterfeiting.

The news fails to expound on how the boy contacted said authorities. For instance, I imagine a 911 call might not have been taken seriously, so I like to think that the kid had no intention of giving his mom away. Rather, he was probably like, “My mommy doesn’t have a job, but it’s okay because she’s got a computer so she just prints some money anytime she needs to buy something.” And while he thought it was Mommy’s special friend he was sharing this with, it turned out it was a real policeman. Oopsy.

This picture is about a month old, but since I took it right before I jumped on a plane and headed back to Albuquerque, I feel justified in its taking a while to surface and for me to post it.

It seems that the east coast and the west coast have churches that are in cahoots. This sign hails from Northridge, California, on Balboa Street.

What better way to commemorate the Fourth of July than by doing a list of four things that may or may not be related to the holiday? Nothing, that’s what.

• I’m adjusting pretty well to my new place, especially the part when I can cook all I want and use my kitchen properly. My humble abode hardly feels like a place in the city, given that there’s tall trees all around, and that my landlord is a contractor and thus the place is full of partially-constructed materials. I seem to be sharing my space with a few insect populations, namely small spiders here and there, and at least for the first couple of days, some sugar ants. The sugar ants took a liking to my iMac, which now has fingerprints all over the monitor because I had to squish the little things as they crawled across the screen. I don’t mind these critters for two reasons: 1) They’re not Black Widows. My ex-roommate never sprayed for bugs, and her garage became home to several of the little beasts. I noticed them when I went to retrieve some boxes I had stored in the garage. I decided to leave said boxes behind, however, for obvious reasons. and 2) They’re not stinging arthropods that drop from the ceiling into the kitchen sink.

• I find it fascinating how many people think that July 4 is the day the United States gained independence from England, rather than what it actually is: the day the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress. The document wasn’t actually officially transcribed until July 19, and it wasn’t actually signed by anyone until August 2, 1776. (See a more completely chronology here.) And then another seven years or so of fighting took place before the States were actually fully free.

• I’m not sure how many readers I have in California, but here’s a shout-out to all of you fine folks: it’s probably a good idea to go easy this year on the fireworks. Because we’ve got 1,500 fires burning around the state, I vote we don’t add any more to that number, and leave the fireworks shows to the pros. If you’re in the Los Angeles area, maybe consider hitting the Rose Bowl, Disneyland, Fisherman’s Village, Exposition Park, or another venue. Check out a list of some of the festivities.

• Though I searched for a party to crash for the big day, none has come my way. It’s just as well, really. I imagine that LA traffic on July 4 is bound to be pretty damn shitty. As of now, my plan is to sport a fabulous festive shirt, relax at home for most of the day, and maybe enjoy the pool in the evening. Who knows, I may even mix up a margarita or two for myself, too.

Step aside, Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers, you too. I lost ten pounds in one day. All by getting a haircut. The last week has proven to me exactly why long hair will never work for me; ergo I could never make it as a hair metal rock star. Because what happens when my hair gets long it becomes a magnet for pollen (hello, allergies!), and at that an unruly magnet that curls and furls everywhere.

Forgive the poor quality of this segue (and the poor quality of this entry), but speaking of hair metal, I took a trip down to LA Connection Comedy Theater Friday night. While there, I got to see two improv troupes perform: Stranger Than Fiction and 2 Drink Minimum.

The poorly thought up hair metal reference goes out to Stranger Than Fiction’s very awesome sketch about two guys who always express emotions “the only way they know how–through song”. The players are a band called Phöenyx, and they sing songs they create on the spot per suggestions from audience members.

My only complaint about my evening was that during 2 Drink Minimum’s performance, a certain nameless audience member just about killed my sense of smell with his excessive use of cologne. Because of this, I’ve developed a new rule of life (aimed at heterosexual cologne-wearing males, in this case, but it can apply to anyone): if your cologne trumps the shit out of your date’s perfume, you should not get any action that evening.

That said, the theater is a fantastic time and is an LA institution, so if you live in LA, get over there and check it out. And if you’re visiting LA, or planning on visitng, be sure to add it to your list of places to go. Do it.

If you’ve ever wondered if it was possible for getting lost to become an art form, let me now put your wonder to rest. It is indeed possible. But I’ve killed all the competition and proven myself to be the world’s leading expert for getting lost. It can only be done by first knowing exactly where you’re going, and then fucking it up beyond belief. I give you, a masterpiece:

Plan: Meet friends for breakfast at 10:00 am in West Hollywood.

Action:

• 9:30 - Review directions to the Farmer’s Market and print them.
• 9:34 - Text friends to let them know I’m on my way.
• 9:40 - Leave house and begin the drive.
• 9:55 - Call friends to inform them I’m running a tad late.
• 9:58 - Miss exit off freeway I was supposed to take.
• 10:00 - Take the next exit and attempt to use intuition to get back on track.
• 10:07 - Intuition fails. Turn around.
• 10:09 - Ask directions from random stranger on the street. No help.
• 10:12 - Forced to turn right onto unfamiliar road. Now officially lost.
• 10:14 - Pull over and break out the Thompson Guide.
• 10:18 - Get lost in Thompson Guide. Friend calls, but doesn’t have a clue where I am based on the cross streets I mention.
• 10:23 - Bravely try driving back toward destination. Fingers crossed.
• 10:30 - Finally get on the right track.
• 10:40 - Still driving toward destination
• 10:45 - Finally arrive. Yay.
• 10:46 - Pull into parking lot only to find it’s full.
• 10:50 - Exit parking lot after waiting in line for four minutes to do so.
• 10:52 - Wait in line to enter secondary parking lot.
• 10:56 - Finally get parking ticket stub and go park.
• 10:57 - Attempt to exit car only to find white SUV driven by woman with too much plastic surgery parked too close to you. Flinch at sight of her, but ask politely that she not park like an asshole. Please.
• 10:59 - Exit car and enter Farmer’s Market.
• 11:04 - Enjoy wandering around, and enter The Grove by accident.
• 11:07 - Realize that I’m so not where I’m supposed to be.
• 11:10 - Turn around and head back to the more food-related area.
• 11:13 - Finally arrive at destination. It’s about damn time.

I have in the past indicated that I am directionally challenged, but I’ve now taken this to a whole new level. I’m talking major league baseball professional level, sans any line drives. Circles, homes. It’s all about the circles.

Without bothering to get into any spoilers, I feel I must point out that I’m going to miss some of the drama I’ve come to love on Step It Up and Dance. What can I say, I love it when the contestants whine, especially to the judges, because invariably they get beaten the fuck down. It’s a delicious experience.

One of the things I love about that show is that it’s filmed right here in LA, which means that when they include little clips on the air of surrounding scenery, I jump out of my chair and shout things like “hey I’ve seen that up close!” or “I was just there last week!” Mostly, this excitement only strikes when I see the Capitol Records building; it reminds me of the first time I saw it, and I was like “Dude, it’s the Capitol Records building.”

Wednesday, unfortunately, brought sad tidings for that area. A building recently burned down at the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. It strikes me especially hard because only a month ago, I was standing at that very corner with my partner, and we stood there for a bit and tried to remember exactly why that spot is so famous. (Turns out it’s a corner that historically had bars and clubs that used to be frequented by big name Hollywood stars, and they all used to hang out at that corner or something.)

The fire destroyed mostly just that corner. Fortunately, it happened in the early hours of the morning, and the rest of the block was okay. A relief, since no one was hurt, and also since the Pantages Theater is practically right there. LA, despite the traffic and the many negative aspects people are quick to point out, has a lot of history, and much to be proud of. Hopefully nothing like this happens again, if at all.

Sometimes I get restless on school nights. It happens frequently this time of year. If you, dear reader, enjoy mathematics or logic, think of it this way: my total amount of motivation (M) is inversely proportional to how much work (W) there is to do. (Translation just in case you hate math and/or logic: the more work there is to do, the less motivation I have to do it.)

I generally refer to this phase as “burn out,” because after fourteen weeks of the grueling and exhausting task that is avoiding homework, I’m totally beat. As a graduate student, I’ve done this enough times that I’ve figured out a sort of system to get me through the semester. For instance, having gotten some of my work done today, I decided that I could leave the house for a short this evening.

I should have taken the “play first, then work” approach, because by the time I left the house, it was 8:40 pm. A time, I thought, that was perfect to hit a few stores to walk around a bit and maybe do some shopping (and simultaneously missing some of the earlier crowds). I thought wrong, evidently, because everything in this part of LA closes practically as soon as the sun sets. Nine o’clock rolls around and suddenly doors are barred and gruff security guards warn you that you’d better be either exiting the premises or else going to wait in line for the release of the new video game you’ve never even heard of at that one shop in the mall where there’s a mass of people huddled together chattering excitedly and holding signs and wearing t-shirts to show their “true fan” dedication.

The whole time I just kept saying to myself, over and over, “Wait just a second. This is L.A. This is fucking L.A.!” As if saying that would make me snap out of the dream that had taken me back to a version of L.A. circa 1952 that, in addition to the general stores lining the dirt road, had stores that sold violent video games to those who would willingly stand in line for hours just so they could be among the first in the world to play it. At midnight. But dammit, they were going to close that store at 9 and make those loyal patrons stand there outside the store until midnight, at which time they’d let them in only to a specific spot, and then they’d make them purchase the thing right away before sending them the fuck home so they could close down again and be done with it.

Seriously, L.A. You’re supposed to be all big and grown up, homes. And, you’re supposed to be alive and kicking whenever I want you to be, dammit. I’m so disappointed in you right now.

It’s not every day you get to see a show that can captivate and thrill you to the point of no return, as was the case for me tonight. Since finding out my first week here (in January) that Wicked was playing (its second run in LA, but the first since I’ve been here, obviously) at LA’s historic Pantages Theater, we’ve had tickets to see the show.

And damn. They were worth every penny. Having spent my youth never actually seeing shows (the musical genes only shine in the gay one in the family), and then also being in Albuquerque, no show ran for more than eight days, or two weeks if we were lucky. So it was (and in some ways still is) difficult for me to fathom the fact that Wicked, here, was set to run from February through June, but that they were pushing it to run all the way through January of next year. How do you sustain audiences? How do you maintain interest? And the answer is: put on the most amazing production you’ll ever see in your entire life.

I’ll try to sum up what it’s like to see Wicked in two words: FUCKING INCREDIBLE. (Note: that first word is necessary because no other word in the English language can function as such a powerful adverb.) Aside from times when I’m sick, I’ve never breathed so much through my mouth in my entire life. My jaw simply refused to say put, opting instead to drop in incredulity about twice a minute.

The LA cast is amazing. A powerful ensemble traverses the stage throughout the show in a variety of roles. A live orchestra fills the place effortlessly. Characters flit about an elaborately decorated stage full of killer sets and lit by lights that, let’s face it, may as well be magic. And through it all, a delightfully girly Galinda (”GAH-LINDA”) (played by Megan Hilty) antagonizes a brilliantly honest and bitter Elphaba (played by Caissie Levy, who has one of the most amazing voices I’ve ever heard sing). The two witches played wonderfully off one another, and had the show gone on all night, I doubt very much that I would have noticed.

What’s great about Wicked is that first and foremost, it’s a fantastic story. Then, as a musical, the music is catchy, the lyrics are smart, and the sets are breath-taking. The Clock of the TIme Dragon? Awesome. The bridge outside? Beautiful. The school grounds? Perfect. Elphaba’s castle-esque Wicked Witch Hideout*? Genius.

And costumes! My god, COSTUMES!!! Lovely, the lot of them. Having only listened to the soundtrack and read about one-third of the book (I’m still going on it, and will finish fairly soon, I’m sure), it was a treat to see it brought to life so spectacularly. I was so pulled in to the show that I may as well have been sitting on stage hanging out with everyone there. Is it any wonder, then, that as we left the theater when it was over, I waved the theater goodbye and promised to see it again soon? Yeah, didn’t think so.

*I’m not sure if it’s a “lair” or “castle.” It always looked dungeon-y to me, or else castle-like.