In my secret fantasies, not the ones involving being able to pull off blond hair (I have black hair)(black hair does not translate into a blond well)(and by “well” I mean that I looked like Bozo the Clown), I somehow manage to run away from my life, move to California and…do…something.
Maybe I’ll sell oranges by the freeway, a la Sublime’s My Ruca. Or I’ll actually start a hippie jam band, without the anthrax laden drums, though, because there’s nothing like fucking ANTHRAX to harsh your motherfucking BUZZ, man. I could even start to surf and live on the beach or something, even though walking is a challenge for me and surfing would certainly find me breaking something vital to my survival.
California has always been able to bring out the part of me that makes me simultaneously want to sell everything I own so that I can live off the land (while hoping that I had some natural talent for…something earthly, especially considering I consider “roughing it” staying at a hotel without room service) and strike it rich by being the Next Big Thing.
New York, conversely, made me feel like I had come home for the very first time when I visited. Even the sight of garbage bags all over the place didn’t stop me from swooning. New York, ah, New York.
But really, for now, I’m a Midwesterner. Land of, uh, The Tater Tot and The Mullet (all business up front and PARTY down the motherfucking back!) and all sorts of other middling things. It’s flat and it’s either a) ass hot or b) ass cold and there’s not a whole lot to say about it besides that.
I’ve lived in Chicago my whole life, which means I’m thoroughly enchanted by anywhere else. And I do mean anywhere. Drop me in the middle of the slums and I’d be all “dude, I bet I can get a kick ass wig! Or some awesome BBQ! Oh, please, take me to get a weave!”
We’re leaving for the airport in 15 minutes, and really, while I’m happy to leave 75 degree weather to slither back to the subzero-freeze-your-nipples-off-arctic, I’m not really. I only managed to see a fraction of my LA friends and I didn’t see a single transsexual prostitute. NOT ONE. EVEN AT THE BABY SHOWER.
But, I get to go home and see my children, who are going to be, no doubt, furious that I dared leave them.
I’m off to style my hair to make sure the paparazzi get my Good Side on my return trip home, and try and snag an In-n-Out Burger because really, who doesn’t want to have to poo buckets in the tiny airport bathroom.
Until we meet again, The Internet, bon voyage.
Oh, and I leave you with one question because I am curious: if you could ditch your life and start over, what would you do?