...the posts are few and far between. That doesn't make them any less meaningful, right? Or any less packed with useless, inane information that you probably could have done without on this given night. No matter...read at your own risk.
The thought of counting sheep has implanted itself firmly in my cranium as of late, and I can't help but wonder about a few things here.
First, who started the whole movement on counting sheep as opposed to say, anything else on this earth? Well, I got to thinking. What I came up with is certainly the most unoriginal idea since the time my immobile roommate said to me "Yo dude, check this out. I came up with this way to get from my bed to the fridge. If I put one foot in front of the other really, really slowly, I can get there in like, three minutes. Sick, right?" Eek. I have most obviously been on writing hiatus for some time.
Digression: unoriginal idea. Yes, yes. A sheepherder must have devised this counting scheme as a way for him to rest his eyes in between herd relocation. I don't know, man. Imagine you're that dude, and all you do all fucking day is do your best to lead your flock of sheep to a new pasture to graze. Your life is sheep. You have more wool clothing than LL Bean, you most certainly have an extremely comfortable place to sleep and you may or may not have a vocabulary the has progressed beyond "baaah". On the bright side, you'd do fine in Boston if you're looking for a drink. Ahh, there it is. I made myself laugh, so I must be back on track. Anyway, what other scenario is this sheepherder going to surmise outside of counting these very sheep as a means to fall asleep? I get it, sheepherder. I do, I get it. I get it and I dig it. Make use of your surroundings.
To circle the wagons here (which are being pulled by sheep), I'll get back to the thought I've been having about counting sheep to fall asleep. What if the sheep have been drinking? Let me tell you something, if you lay down and make any concerted effort to count a bunch of drunken, wobbly, borderline derelict sheep, you're fucked. No sleep, drunk sheep.
The first sheep takes a path akin to the number 4, as if he were starting from the base of the number. As he approaches the fence, there's no recognition of any obstacle to get over, so he plows right into it. He falls hard, after a series of hard steps to one side and a few to the other. He's laying there in the pasture, laughing his wool off, and all the other sheep are saying shit like "Holy sheep man, #1 is fucking trashed." Eventually #1 gets up and has no idea where he is. He's still laughing, but he's starting to feel a bit queasy. He makes another pathetic attempt to will his way through the fence but the result is the same. From on his back, he feebly waves a hoof, indicating he's out. At this point, the hopeful sleeper surely has to take inventory and rethink his objects of count. If not, then we must see what happens next.
#2 makes his way out of the flock as if he were shoved out there by several sheep...turns out he was. He didn't want to go at all, due to the fact that he just woke up out of his black out from too much booze. His wool is shaved bare and his buddies turned it into socks, which are now on his hooves, snout and phallus...none of which can he reach. But up he staggers to the fence, lifts a hoof towards the bottom plank, looks back to the flock, pukes, falls into the fence and blacks out again. The fence is fucked, the flock is now split evenly between those who are laughing and those who are also puking and the hopeful sleeper is just shaking his head.
No sleep, drunk sheep.
You know, sheep are actually on par with cattle in terms of intelligence. They can recognize faces, answer to a name after a bit of time and be taught to know certain words to mean certain things. Sounds like a dog to me, right? That leads me to my next question: if sheep can pretty much offer the same as a dog and also provide you with wool for your fleeces, jackets, etc, why not keep them as pets? I realize they can weigh up to 350lbs and most likely not be trained to move their bowels at certain times, so I guess it's not that practical.
Another little fact about sheep is that they can be referred in terms of a flock, herd or mob. Yeah well, maybe to us humans those terms are interchangeable. Not to sheep, man. Up in eastern central California, I came upon a sheep who was willing to take some questions to validate my research. Here's what he told me when I asked where his flock was.
"My flock? Nah, man. I'm part of the herd. See that big-ass mess of sheep back there by the glen? Yeah, that one's mine. See, we're all pretty similar in the herd. Average builds, average wool and we don't generally conspire against the mob or the flock. The flock is to the east of my herd. Take a closer look, bro. They're all really skinny, they have their wool styled just the right way and they don't allow their wool to be turned into anything that they don't consider to be 'exquisite'. They think the herd is lame and they're afraid of the mob. Finally, you've got your mob over to the west of my herd. These fuckers are all 350lbs plus and they're mean. They're small only in numbers and they have more clout than either flock or herd. They do bad shit to both groups, but especially the flock. Last week, one of the flock was found over there in that valley with one of the mob, just going at it. Needless to say, both were immediately shaved and designated as "flobs". I'll say this, man. If there's one thing you don't want to be as a sheep, it's a flob."
It's amazing how much I probably don't know about sheep. Or anything else, for that matter.
I'm supposed to report on Venice here. It's getting warmer. I went to the beach yesterday and tried out the ocean. It was cold, but not terrible. The waves were big and it was refreshing as hell. Recently my rental car was tagged by some dude in a gang...with a key...in two spots. I have insurance on it, but I wonder what the implications might be if I come upon a rival of this gang and they see my tattooed car. I'm attempting a beard for the next week or so and it's not going well. I've merely a moustache and heavy itching. That's really the long and short of French in Venice of recent times.
I can, and I wool.
3.11.2009
1.12.2009
High (mi)Stakes Poker
They say that the game of poker can push a gambler to his mental limits. They say that this game can exploit a man's every weakness; you're never as vulnerable as you are when you have absolutely nothing to win with, yet you find yourself strongly standing your ground. The emotional ebbs and flows of the game will come at you gradually and then all at once, drop you from the highest plain down into the loneliest valley. So much for gradual.
I've been sitting in this poker tournament for a long time now...through several dozen table changes and the occasional reprieve to center myself, I've sat next to and across from probably a few hundred people. Some I've actually been able to make a connection with and some just didn't appreciate the way I play. At the current table, the player to my left was unusually connected to me and vice versa. At one point, we were actually able to read the other's cards and know whether to check, raise or fold. We both went up big over a short time, then leveled off for a much longer time. Then I got a little antsy and pushed all my chips in based on a false read. I can't say that I truly knew what the down cards were to my left, but I convinced myself that I knew. I convinced myself that it was the right play. The next three seconds of the game elapsed over the course of a hundred years to my disbelieving eyes. I made the wrong read.
I made the wrong fucking read...again...but I had never had to pay such a high price as I just had. I remained in the game since I had covered the player to my left, but it was scarcely enough to make any kind of push; at least for a while. What I had done on that one hand was give the impression that I had bluffed at it. All of the trust I had built with the player to my left was long gone because a failed bluff reeks of deception. It's a very uncomfortable and often times emasculating feeling - to suddenly be at the mercy of a player because you were called out on a bluff. And to further the mental and emotional beating of the scenario, you're completely and utterly controlled by that player's insurmountable chip lead.
It's been a marathon tournament that I've been playing in. Talk about ebbs and flows...I've bought back in several times, having been lucky enough to be backed by a very generous and understanding financier. That doesn't mean that every buy-back doesn't yank at my core of being. I win a little, lose a lot, win a little more, lose everything...then come back in with the fresh pangs of that last loss. But you can't just blanket yourself with all that sorrow and think that you have a fucking fighting chance of winning hands. The many mentors and teachers of the game that I've studied under tell me that I can't just put the blanket away. I can't just ball it up and toss it into the corner, just in case I want to use it again. No, they want me to douse the thing in kerosene and drop a match on it. I'm starting to see their point, I suppose. I haven't burned the blanket yet, but I have put it way the fuck under the bed, in a box with a lock. I want to eat the key, but I know that I'd be fishing that thing out of the toilet sooner or later. Maybe I'll burn it someday soon.
I've just changed tables again, but the tournament is whittling itself down...albeit it slowly. That player that I once had the connection with now sits at a table within view. I have to angle my head like a swan itching his belly to see that table, but I have to look over occasionally. Sometimes I get a look back, sometimes I don't. I see other players nearby that played with me, against me, for me. That comforts me until I realize that no one at this table is out for anyone but himself. I'll have to forge new partnerships and perhaps I'll get that stack back up to where it was. There's a glimmer of confidence that I'll end up at the final table and if the poker gods are as predictable as I optimistically hope they are, I'll be heads up with that player who sat to my left for that long stretch. Heads up for all that fucking money.
I've been sitting in this poker tournament for a long time now...through several dozen table changes and the occasional reprieve to center myself, I've sat next to and across from probably a few hundred people. Some I've actually been able to make a connection with and some just didn't appreciate the way I play. At the current table, the player to my left was unusually connected to me and vice versa. At one point, we were actually able to read the other's cards and know whether to check, raise or fold. We both went up big over a short time, then leveled off for a much longer time. Then I got a little antsy and pushed all my chips in based on a false read. I can't say that I truly knew what the down cards were to my left, but I convinced myself that I knew. I convinced myself that it was the right play. The next three seconds of the game elapsed over the course of a hundred years to my disbelieving eyes. I made the wrong read.
I made the wrong fucking read...again...but I had never had to pay such a high price as I just had. I remained in the game since I had covered the player to my left, but it was scarcely enough to make any kind of push; at least for a while. What I had done on that one hand was give the impression that I had bluffed at it. All of the trust I had built with the player to my left was long gone because a failed bluff reeks of deception. It's a very uncomfortable and often times emasculating feeling - to suddenly be at the mercy of a player because you were called out on a bluff. And to further the mental and emotional beating of the scenario, you're completely and utterly controlled by that player's insurmountable chip lead.
It's been a marathon tournament that I've been playing in. Talk about ebbs and flows...I've bought back in several times, having been lucky enough to be backed by a very generous and understanding financier. That doesn't mean that every buy-back doesn't yank at my core of being. I win a little, lose a lot, win a little more, lose everything...then come back in with the fresh pangs of that last loss. But you can't just blanket yourself with all that sorrow and think that you have a fucking fighting chance of winning hands. The many mentors and teachers of the game that I've studied under tell me that I can't just put the blanket away. I can't just ball it up and toss it into the corner, just in case I want to use it again. No, they want me to douse the thing in kerosene and drop a match on it. I'm starting to see their point, I suppose. I haven't burned the blanket yet, but I have put it way the fuck under the bed, in a box with a lock. I want to eat the key, but I know that I'd be fishing that thing out of the toilet sooner or later. Maybe I'll burn it someday soon.
I've just changed tables again, but the tournament is whittling itself down...albeit it slowly. That player that I once had the connection with now sits at a table within view. I have to angle my head like a swan itching his belly to see that table, but I have to look over occasionally. Sometimes I get a look back, sometimes I don't. I see other players nearby that played with me, against me, for me. That comforts me until I realize that no one at this table is out for anyone but himself. I'll have to forge new partnerships and perhaps I'll get that stack back up to where it was. There's a glimmer of confidence that I'll end up at the final table and if the poker gods are as predictable as I optimistically hope they are, I'll be heads up with that player who sat to my left for that long stretch. Heads up for all that fucking money.
1.04.2009
The Sun Isn't Always Warm
If you write at all with any frequency, you surely know what it's like to want to write something but you can't. I'm horribly guilty of this but I am duly guilty of not being able to write simply because there's so much shit piled up in there that I get buried and I can't even move my fingers.
I've been trying to define my life in LA to myself for the last several weeks. I've never lived outside of Massachusetts until six months ago, but I had been living with this burning desire to live in California since I was 16. I apparently was waiting for a real reason to make such an uprooting move, thus it took me 13 years to go through with the transplant. I knew what California was when I was 16. It was sunshine, sand, surfing and it was indelible on my sixteen-year-old mind. That same fantastical thinking stuck with me until I moved here, which made the anticipation of finally being here a cyclone of nervous excitement. That subsided over the course of a month or two.
There's only a few anticipatory times in one's life that I can think of at this very second that might always deliver forethought results. The first is Christmas when you're young enough to still truly wonder if Santa is real (forgive my unintentional ignorance of other religions here). You wonder what might be under that tree but you still have a pretty good idea. But more often than not, the realization matches the anticipation in terms of intensity. Another might be report card day (for better or worse, but in my case almost always worse) or maybe the day you propose to someone. I also link anxiety to these occasions, which might well have been better served as a precursor.
As previously stated, I haven't lived in many different places (2). But I feel safe in assuming that it doesn't matter for shit where you are, it matters what your state of mind is and what solaces you have within your reach. Moving is always a big deal, sure. Uprooting is an entirely different story altogether. You get to a new place with all your anticipatory excitement...you glow for awhile and you might carry some sense of false arrogance or stature because you're "from (insert city name here)". It's your defense mechanism for the fear of not being from wherever the hell you are. All of that quickly fades because you begin to realize that none of these people care that you're new in this city; that you're from that place and you do whatever it is you do. Well, no...unless you're somebody and in that case you can rapidly move into entirely new circles with zero obstacles. But that novelty of being in this great, new place wears off quicker than I ever imagined it would. Aesthetics are a barrel of fucking monkeys, man. A giant barrel of monkeys. Maybe the girl is gorgeous but if that's all she is, I give you perhaps a day and a half until you run for the hills. Maybe that suit looks like it was made specifically for you alone, but once you get in the office and realize no one gives a flying fuck about your duds, you recall that it's still work. And it blows. That was a bad example, I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could...wait...
Warm weather is a farce. Ironically, I'd kill for the heating system I had in my previous apartment. I wake up in the morning staring at 59 degrees on my alarm clock screen. My nose could serve as an ice cube. My point is that warm weather can't make you happy if you're not happy about most other stuff. Neither can a good chiropractor, a really good sub or a sunset into a mountain just beyond the edge of the sea. These are just add-ons or enhancers that can also serve as the opposite once you start to understand their meanings. Most of the time they go completely unnoticed simply because of their iridescence.
I don't know how often we carry thoughts derived from childhood well into adulthood but there's a very tangible loss of innocence when that happens. I wanted to feel California for what it meant to me when I was 16 but that stinks of severe naivety. I carried the excitement of a teenager into an extremely effectual event of life, then I felt the loss as a an overly emotional and analytical adult. I think it best not to allow oneself to let this happen. Except that it's impossible...which creates some quandaries.
The Pacific Coast is a beautiful location; a very aesthetic place. But it's still just a place. LA is just a city. Venice is just an area. It's you that make these into memorable places...romantic cities...meaningful areas.
This blog entry has been brought to you by Heineken, painfully introspective music and solitude. Want to help? Simply visit www.helpfrench.com. Cash or check only. Sorry, no COD's.
I've been trying to define my life in LA to myself for the last several weeks. I've never lived outside of Massachusetts until six months ago, but I had been living with this burning desire to live in California since I was 16. I apparently was waiting for a real reason to make such an uprooting move, thus it took me 13 years to go through with the transplant. I knew what California was when I was 16. It was sunshine, sand, surfing and it was indelible on my sixteen-year-old mind. That same fantastical thinking stuck with me until I moved here, which made the anticipation of finally being here a cyclone of nervous excitement. That subsided over the course of a month or two.
There's only a few anticipatory times in one's life that I can think of at this very second that might always deliver forethought results. The first is Christmas when you're young enough to still truly wonder if Santa is real (forgive my unintentional ignorance of other religions here). You wonder what might be under that tree but you still have a pretty good idea. But more often than not, the realization matches the anticipation in terms of intensity. Another might be report card day (for better or worse, but in my case almost always worse) or maybe the day you propose to someone. I also link anxiety to these occasions, which might well have been better served as a precursor.
As previously stated, I haven't lived in many different places (2). But I feel safe in assuming that it doesn't matter for shit where you are, it matters what your state of mind is and what solaces you have within your reach. Moving is always a big deal, sure. Uprooting is an entirely different story altogether. You get to a new place with all your anticipatory excitement...you glow for awhile and you might carry some sense of false arrogance or stature because you're "from (insert city name here)". It's your defense mechanism for the fear of not being from wherever the hell you are. All of that quickly fades because you begin to realize that none of these people care that you're new in this city; that you're from that place and you do whatever it is you do. Well, no...unless you're somebody and in that case you can rapidly move into entirely new circles with zero obstacles. But that novelty of being in this great, new place wears off quicker than I ever imagined it would. Aesthetics are a barrel of fucking monkeys, man. A giant barrel of monkeys. Maybe the girl is gorgeous but if that's all she is, I give you perhaps a day and a half until you run for the hills. Maybe that suit looks like it was made specifically for you alone, but once you get in the office and realize no one gives a flying fuck about your duds, you recall that it's still work. And it blows. That was a bad example, I'm sorry. I'd take it back if I could...wait...
Warm weather is a farce. Ironically, I'd kill for the heating system I had in my previous apartment. I wake up in the morning staring at 59 degrees on my alarm clock screen. My nose could serve as an ice cube. My point is that warm weather can't make you happy if you're not happy about most other stuff. Neither can a good chiropractor, a really good sub or a sunset into a mountain just beyond the edge of the sea. These are just add-ons or enhancers that can also serve as the opposite once you start to understand their meanings. Most of the time they go completely unnoticed simply because of their iridescence.
I don't know how often we carry thoughts derived from childhood well into adulthood but there's a very tangible loss of innocence when that happens. I wanted to feel California for what it meant to me when I was 16 but that stinks of severe naivety. I carried the excitement of a teenager into an extremely effectual event of life, then I felt the loss as a an overly emotional and analytical adult. I think it best not to allow oneself to let this happen. Except that it's impossible...which creates some quandaries.
The Pacific Coast is a beautiful location; a very aesthetic place. But it's still just a place. LA is just a city. Venice is just an area. It's you that make these into memorable places...romantic cities...meaningful areas.
This blog entry has been brought to you by Heineken, painfully introspective music and solitude. Want to help? Simply visit www.helpfrench.com. Cash or check only. Sorry, no COD's.
12.20.2008
White, Discussion...
Welcome home
Snow falling...falling
Chilled bones, duck boots high fashion
California? What?
12.12.2008
Christmas in July
I remember this family vacation way back when...we were at the Federal Reserve in DC I think, but I could be wrong about that. Anyway, they had a million-dollar bill on display in a glass case and my father inquired about when they might be giving these denominations away. The guide or whatever he was replied "next time it snows in July". I don't know what real pertinence this has to this particular entry, but I have had a hard time getting used to seeing holiday decorations when it's 70 degrees and sunny.
Our neighbors have a red bow on their doors and a fully decorated Christmas tree right in their front window. The novelty of the constant comfortable weather out here has not worn off yet, so I still step out of the apartment every morning and feel a sense of disorientation due to the climate. I look at my watch to remind myself that it is indeed the middle of fucking December, and then I shake my head and kind of roll my eyes. It's become my customary reaction. Coupling this disorientation associated with the weather and the festiveness of the neighborhood sometimes sends me into some kind of confused-yet-elated tailspin.
I was driving over to Santa Monica the other day and I passed a Christmas tree lot in a parking lot. Ok, that's fine. Then I saw some dude hoisting a tree up onto his Jeep, in shorts and a tee. I just can't get used to that type of shit, man. For me, it doesn't seem right and all I can think of are those Corona commercials that come out around this time of year. You know the ones with the palm tree all lit up? I think it even says 'Feliz Navidad', which I think loosely translates to "Felix Navy Dad". I know that all of this confusion over what's really a holiday season and why in the sam hell I am still wearing my flip-flops in December is merely a consequence of living in New England for the last 28.5 years. Sadly, I won't realize the tepidness of an LA Christmas, since I will rerouted back to Boston for the next few weeks. I guess I'll have to wait until next year to be one-hundred percent positive that it won't be a white Christmas.
Our neighbors have a red bow on their doors and a fully decorated Christmas tree right in their front window. The novelty of the constant comfortable weather out here has not worn off yet, so I still step out of the apartment every morning and feel a sense of disorientation due to the climate. I look at my watch to remind myself that it is indeed the middle of fucking December, and then I shake my head and kind of roll my eyes. It's become my customary reaction. Coupling this disorientation associated with the weather and the festiveness of the neighborhood sometimes sends me into some kind of confused-yet-elated tailspin.
I was driving over to Santa Monica the other day and I passed a Christmas tree lot in a parking lot. Ok, that's fine. Then I saw some dude hoisting a tree up onto his Jeep, in shorts and a tee. I just can't get used to that type of shit, man. For me, it doesn't seem right and all I can think of are those Corona commercials that come out around this time of year. You know the ones with the palm tree all lit up? I think it even says 'Feliz Navidad', which I think loosely translates to "Felix Navy Dad". I know that all of this confusion over what's really a holiday season and why in the sam hell I am still wearing my flip-flops in December is merely a consequence of living in New England for the last 28.5 years. Sadly, I won't realize the tepidness of an LA Christmas, since I will rerouted back to Boston for the next few weeks. I guess I'll have to wait until next year to be one-hundred percent positive that it won't be a white Christmas.
12.10.2008
Life With Colin
I've once again relocated...this time within the state of California, down the road apiece from the formerness of the Palisades. My attempt with this particular blog is to keep the reader (you) abreast of my daily life as opposed to my cranial malfunctions as discussed in It's All French
To Me. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been having my share of maladies and criminal thoughts alike but my capacity for getting in down on paper has been falling short.
So here I sit within the expanse of Los Angeles, specifically in the Venice Beach locale. I'm 1.5 miles from the boardwalk of Venice and all of its mischievious offerings...gay rollerbladers, roided musclemen and sidewalk performers with a penchant for the peculiar.
I have a roommate...he's an interesting fellow to say the least. As the title mentions, his name is Colin and he wears scarves in 65 degree weather. If you've been keeping up avec moi, you know this already. Scattered about our humble pad are pieces of art contributed by his dad, Steve. Steve works with wax, thus he's a huge proponent of the Karate Kid, Part I. I happen to glean some sort of inspiration from this art because he employs lots of birds...crows most typically from what I've seen. In my opinion, the crow is inexcusably underappreciated by mankind. It caws, for fuck's sake. Hasn't anyone read the Deep Thought by Jack Handey that goes "the bird is calling my name, thought Caw."? Incredible work there. By the way, what is the difference between a crow and a raven? Is there any?
So Colin is from Southern California...San Diego specifically. He says things like "gotta check out the gnarly surf today, bro. I hear Huntington has totally glassy shit, clean as fuck. Gnarbucklers, bro. Rad shit." I come back with something like, "Yeah, sounds uh, sounds good, man. I gotta see if I can find a bar with the C's game, so you enjoy your gnar...gnarbingers or whatever." His colloquialisms might cause me to spiral into a rash of Bostonianisms such as wicked, or pissah. I fear this...I think we all do.
Vcnice is a cool place, though. I've been in and around some of the little neighborhoods here via my jogging feet and it seems to me that it's predominantly rentals. We live almost directly behind Venice High, which scares me when I jog by it. Something about a derelict gang of high schoolers on skateboards chiding and yelling things about my black tube socks...I'm sure they're all nice kids, though. I'm just sure of it.
Much more to come of the intricacies of living in this portion of Los Angeles...I am reminded daily of how fucking big this city is. I do miss the ability to trapse across the entire expanse of a city in less than 2 hours. Here, you're looking at a minimum of maybe 20 hours and chances are you're going to be murdered at some point along the way. Bad neighborhoods and all...they got those here too...lots of them.
A bientot, mes amis.
To Me. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been having my share of maladies and criminal thoughts alike but my capacity for getting in down on paper has been falling short.
So here I sit within the expanse of Los Angeles, specifically in the Venice Beach locale. I'm 1.5 miles from the boardwalk of Venice and all of its mischievious offerings...gay rollerbladers, roided musclemen and sidewalk performers with a penchant for the peculiar.
I have a roommate...he's an interesting fellow to say the least. As the title mentions, his name is Colin and he wears scarves in 65 degree weather. If you've been keeping up avec moi, you know this already. Scattered about our humble pad are pieces of art contributed by his dad, Steve. Steve works with wax, thus he's a huge proponent of the Karate Kid, Part I. I happen to glean some sort of inspiration from this art because he employs lots of birds...crows most typically from what I've seen. In my opinion, the crow is inexcusably underappreciated by mankind. It caws, for fuck's sake. Hasn't anyone read the Deep Thought by Jack Handey that goes "the bird is calling my name, thought Caw."? Incredible work there. By the way, what is the difference between a crow and a raven? Is there any?
So Colin is from Southern California...San Diego specifically. He says things like "gotta check out the gnarly surf today, bro. I hear Huntington has totally glassy shit, clean as fuck. Gnarbucklers, bro. Rad shit." I come back with something like, "Yeah, sounds uh, sounds good, man. I gotta see if I can find a bar with the C's game, so you enjoy your gnar...gnarbingers or whatever." His colloquialisms might cause me to spiral into a rash of Bostonianisms such as wicked, or pissah. I fear this...I think we all do.
Vcnice is a cool place, though. I've been in and around some of the little neighborhoods here via my jogging feet and it seems to me that it's predominantly rentals. We live almost directly behind Venice High, which scares me when I jog by it. Something about a derelict gang of high schoolers on skateboards chiding and yelling things about my black tube socks...I'm sure they're all nice kids, though. I'm just sure of it.
Much more to come of the intricacies of living in this portion of Los Angeles...I am reminded daily of how fucking big this city is. I do miss the ability to trapse across the entire expanse of a city in less than 2 hours. Here, you're looking at a minimum of maybe 20 hours and chances are you're going to be murdered at some point along the way. Bad neighborhoods and all...they got those here too...lots of them.
A bientot, mes amis.
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