So here I am in LA, with the whole day to myself while Outpost31 is at work. What to do? “WATCH TEEVEE” you scream, and that’s what I did, but it was important for me to get off my fat ass and get some exercise, so I went for a walk. This was a mistake. Let me explain.
I have no sense of direction. None. I have no idea where I am at any given moment, driving is a nightmare because the Kia doesn’t have GPS, I get turned around and backwards and back to front all the time and I TRY, I really do, but those people who can just take in their surroundings and know where they are? I have no concept of that talent. I am more likely to give up, collapse, and sit on the curb crying until someone picks me up. So let me tell you what happened when I went for a walk yesterday.
I leave the apartment, carefully locking the door and immediately going down the wrong set of stairs not to the street, but to the parking garage. Noticing my folly when I was in a concrete prison instead of the Los Angeles sunshine, I turned around, skittering back up the stairs and back down the proper set of stairs to the street.
There I was. On the street. Just me and my enormous bag, containing everything and anything I could possibly need, including a bag of sour gummi worms, you know. For fortitude. I briefly considered going left or right and chose left, trotting off in my awesome sneakers that have velcro closings and have flames on the sides. This was a mistake. The sneakers are meant for looking adorable, not for walking, and soon I had walked OUT of the right sneaker, and was standing on the back of the shoe like it was a clog, tripping and turning my ankle at every dip in the sidewalk because of course these are PLATFORM sneakers and I can’t walk in anything that isn’t a flip flop and why didn’t I bring flip flops? I’m a moron.
So I turned around in the middle of the sidewalk and trounced back the other way. Walked all the way back to the apartment, and crossed the street to the other side, wherein I ran into a hole in the wall place called The Oyster House. Seeing that they had a bar, and suddenly parched, I decided that it was time for a Diet Coke. And goddammit, I was going to go into this ratty bar to do so.
WHY? Why would I go into a bar to get a diet coke? Because it was 3 pm, and anyone hanging out in a bar at 3 pm is the kind of person I want to meet. Because I make friends wherever I go. So I flung open the door, trounced in in my janked up shoe, and sat at the bar. The bartender, who looked like Rick Springfield, got me my Diet Coke and I sat there, swinging my legs and drinking my drink, taking in my surroundings. There were five people in the bar, plus the bartender and the cook. All five were draped dramatically over their drinks, looking morose. I decided to chat up NotRick Springfield.
HI! I said. He greeted me, asked me how I was, I shared too much (I have a tendency to share too much, it’s something I’m working on) and said I was visiting from the East Coast, and we chatted for a while about NYC, Mississippi (he was from there), and LA. I said that I was staying with my boyfriend who works in the industry, and he nodded, saying “This is LA. Everyone’s in the industry”. I asked if he was, and he told me, shocker, that he was an actor, but at 51 years of age, he was probably past his prime.
“But you look like Rick Springfield!” I shouted.
“I know” he said, “but the industry is tough”.
I ordered another Diet Coke.
….To be continued