Please Happy

When I got home from Austin, there was a thin letter waiting for me from a fellowship I had been counting on to take me to The Next Level. I sat at the kitchen table watching the future I had pictured myself in fade and fall away (like Marty’s hand in Back to the Future when it looks like George McFly and Lorraine won’t end up together at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance after all).

I didn’t want to be hugged or talked to or told that I was going to Make It despite this. That my excellence would eventually be noticed. I wanted to sit in the shittiness of it. And sulk.

Then, Jake, from the other side of the room where I made him sit, suggested this:

J: Maybe you should listen to Pink Floyd.

Me: What?

J: When my friends and I all got our first college rejection letters, we went and sat in the dark together and listened to The Wall.

I thought it was kind of a dumb idea, actually. First of all, he and his friends are really smart and all ended up at Ivy League schools. Second of all, the only Pink Floyd album I like is Dark Side of the Moon. Third of all, I wanted to be miserable.

But, I did it.

In the light. With an iPod and speakers.

Mother.mp3

And, the future continued to crumble in front of me. The well-laid path from fellowship to career to family to happy world travels of journalism and discovery fell away and away, leaving the airy space of the unknown while Pink Floyd screamed and played through two entire Walls.

On Thursday in the pouring rain, a guy peed right in front of my car while I was sitting in it. I saw his penis. And I took a picture.

Same day, the Supreme Court decided that the federal government can no longer ban campaign contributions by corporations. How corporate money will change American politics (more than it has?) remains to be seen.

Maybe the dude on Olive Street in L.A. was protesting the high court ruling. Or, maybe the rain sparked an urge. Or maybe he just had to go.

They’re spreading.

I can smell and see them from town, but without a car, haven’t yet ventured up there.

Once I move into my new place, I’ll see if any humans or kitties need refuge.

Got this in my Inbox yesterday from someecards:

Found this on the Internet. Thanks to Dan B.

Timelapse – Los Angeles Wildfire from Dan B. on Vimeo.

My sister was driving my car when she got smashed from behind by a Dodge Ram. She’s OK, but we’re worried that she may suffer future ouchies from this, which is especially bad because she depends on her body for work. She’s a dancer.

As I said in the last post, her accident is a perfect metaphor for Jackson Hole to Los Angeles. But, it’s not a sign that I should move back. My friend E says this city has a way of telling us “Just so you know, this isn’t going to be easy.”

Her boyfriend witnessed someone getting shot in the back at 10 a.m. on a busy street. And, while E’s mom thinks that means he should get outta town, he’s now even more motivated to make it work here, and accept the craziness of this place.

I think my sister had the same reaction. And, despite the car accident, the traffic tickets, the heat, the hours in front of the computer while she was here, Anna and I had a wonderful time together. And, I think everyone I love should move here.

Here’s the pic she included in a group email to the fam. It’s called Ice Pack Quarterback.

Everything is OK, everyone is OK. Details later, but this is The Most Perfect metaphor for the transition from Jackson Hole to Los Angeles.

This is the only pic I have from my first day in L.A.

Let’s just say, I’m not in Jackson Hole any more.

After renting a movie from a beautiful woman in black named Moon and getting a z-pack and a blood test from a doc in Beverly Hills, we headed to Santa Monica. I wanted to experience something, like the mountains, that would make me feel small. Make me feel like The Nature still existed. Found the ocean.

Walked on scorching sand to join the masses in the water. Floated in the ocean, listened to the underwater crackles. Did somersaults into oncoming waves. I have missed the sea.

As we walked back to shore, I felt something slice my foot. Like a sneaky diver with a knife, or a giant crab with razor claws or a bottom-dwelling jelly fish with Bics for tentacles. I could barely walk back to my clothes pile.

Pulled on the skirt quick (I swam in my thong, which got no weird looks from the equally skimpily-clad crowd, but didn’t want to hobble across the beach in buttless panties) and limped to a lifeguard stand. There, Chappy, the lifeguard with the Masters in Communication and MBA doctored my toe. As he irrigated and bandaged, he told us how he met his fiance on eHarmony. He said this was the way to go after years of one-nighters with girls from exotic locales.

“You just don’t meet the woman of your dreams on this beach,” he said. “You hook up and they go back to their home country. Then you become friends on Facebook.”

Hobbled back to the car, and for the next two hours, wailed and sobbed and shook from the pain in my … big toe. Thought of Kelsey, who just last week sat for six hours with a broken arm in the mountains waiting for rescue. Thought of giving birth. Thought of tearing my ACL (big toe hurt way worse), chewed on my shirt, on ice. Curled in a ball, squeezed my foot. Squeezed J’s hand, pulled my hair. Wondered how much it would cost for an immediate flight from LAX to JAC. Would have gone to the Emergency Room, were it not for the major traffic jam. Took six advil, packed the toe in ice. Made it back to West Hollywood and fell asleep.

Surprised that mugging or carjacking wasn’t included in the sickness/injury/Baywatch/gothic chick package of the day. Maybe tomorrow.