We’ve been a little quiet for the last couple of days. Trying to get our bearings in this hulking city/county known as Los Angeles. It is a city so enormous that it sprawls halfway down the California coast without apology. It is so large that we need to map out our entire route before even leaving our starting point or we’ll be lost forever in its gaping maw. It’s a city so huge, a Red Lobster ‘just around the corner’ involves 35 kilometres (22 miles) of eight lane freeways.
It’s a city of strange things: trendy Mexican pubs serving double Patron Tequila margaritas (2 for 1 = slightly hungover); pet turtles creeping along the tile of the In N’ Out Burger; botoxed libidos in UGG boot finery parading down Sunset Blvd; Wannabe Gene Simmons, Barney the Dinosaur, & Edward Scissorhands parading around on Hollywood Blvd working for tips; miles of empty white beaches with snakelike asphalt paths cut through them; REAL* Christmas Trees (Home Depot couldn’t spare a parking spot for its tree shoppers); kamikaze drivers thwarting traffic in Mercedes and Porches while nearly peeling off Walter’s bumper; and another weird thing: there is a high percentage of Californians who have a limp. They favour their right leg and walk with a cane. Loan sharks? Or something in the water? This is too common to dismiss, people! Stay tuned.
It is a city of good people: tonight we had the honour and privilege of having a couple drinks with the Dornys. Now Aidan’s only three, so he stuck to hot chocolate and was dancing up and down the walls with glee. And the twins (Gwen and Delaney) were on baby formula. Papa Luke (who incidentally can’t stand the smell of one-hour-old formula) drank some old malt scotch with us, and entertained our ears with stories of design perfection, parenthood, and things to sidetrack us while in LA. Lovely Marlo, a dynamic teacher, mother, and vernacularist (yeah, I made that up) had me in jitters about some of the aspects of parenthood, but did a good job of selling the neat stuff (aka ‘that time Aiden licked the butter’) with her keen sense of humour and sharp wit. Rusty hasn’t been feeling so hot, so she just licked our hands and shed a little. Nice puppy.
These cool kids, the Dornys, also let us steal their electricity, gave us a place to park, kept our mail for us, and offered us a bed by the Christmas tree! We wanna send out a huge thank you to you, our LA friends. As we mentioned before, we don’t have the pleasure of real conversation often, and you made this night better than any Johnny Depp impersonator I could think of (and I really think he’s the cat’s ass). PS— I told Aidan to bring in the garden hose, turn it on, and dance around, because you love that rain so much.
There are more LA adventures awaiting just around the corner. Only 22 miles to the next one, I hear.
*I have this theory about Christmas Trees. I think people who never get snow nor heart stopping cold weather are enamoured with real Christmas trees. It’s some strange way to capture the essence of winter without having the stupid snow. The reason this is true is because so many Canadians buy plastic trees; nothing fresh about winter. No reason to go out into the cold to buy a real one. Just put up that old plastic one again and straighten the top bough with the demented angel on it. That'll suffice.
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