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Seal "Crazy" (<3) |
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Lambs (you know I'm obsessed with calling you Mariah Carey pet names),
If you put your ear to this entry, you can hear the ocean. Why? Because I'm in sweet-fucking California, y'all. Los Angeles, actually, drinking up the undying breeze and cruising around Beverly Hills like all of my Clueless idols. I think I'm sadly more of an Amber than a Cher... nonetheless, they're all legends to me.
God. It's been a week now, and let me tell you, each day has been better than the last. And thank the fucking lord, because day one was traumatic.
I dutifully coasted through O'Hare airport on Sunday the 17th, boarded my plane, and sat there in denial. I hadn't been west of Iowa since before college began. I hadn't flown on a plane since 1996. And that was a little different since Lee T. paid for the whole venture. Anyway, I sat in economy and talked with this girl who was flying to L.A. for an internship as an Oscar Meyer weiner-mobile driver. I wondered if she was on psychotropic drugs. She kept insisting the Oscar Meyer job application process was "long" and had "many stages," but I'm pretty sure she was taking hits off a crack pipe while my back was turned. Just stunning. After a headache of a time at the LA terminal, I took a shuttle van to my apartment, sharing seats with these two hoes from Dublin who "came to LA to get drunk." I could've sworn Dubliners had that activity back home. I arrived at the apartment, found my key, and sat there. There was no internet hook-up, no TV, and no one to talk to. Then came the crying.
You know you're having a good day when you call your mom three times and begin the conversations with, "I just called to say I'm having another meltdown."
But the days since that wretched first day have been enlightening, eye-opening, fun, and pretty awkward. I'm still gaining friends (though my cool-ass roommates FINALLY arrived yesterday, and that's been a world of difference). My job at The Advocate is awesome, mainly because I'm so involved with all the magazine's key players. The main editors all know me by name, and they won't forget either -- especially because at The Advocate bowling party, I beat everyone in the room. I bowled a 178, because I'm the son Gloria raised. I'm also set to write a review of Sinead O'Connor's new album for The Advocate's website, and that's enough for me to pee myself for a couple weeks. Granted, I have material published on the website everyday because that's my job -- I re-write wire stories pertaining to the GLBT demographic for the magazine website. It's sweet, time-consuming, and not too difficult.
I dropped by Hollywood after my bowling party, and let me tell you, I'm almost grossed out. Aside from the killer night life, Hollywood is, as we say, sketchy. For one, it smelled like intestines. Two, the Hollywood Walk of Fame is so bogus. Who fucking cares? Snapping a photo of a star on the ground is not the same thing as snapping a photo of an actual celebrity. But let me tell you, the place was more stormed with tourists than anything else I've ever seen. And I've seen the Target in Lemont, guys.
I saw Chelsea Handler from E! film her new show on the Walk of Fame. I thought she was Vanna White, if that's any indication of how big a fan I am.
I've sworn to both Jessica and Sarah that I'm not leaving California until I've befriended both Perez Hilton and Kathy Griffin. I'm prepared to bring them back to Lemont. My Armor-All duffel bag is pretty big, guys, I'm not worried.
I'll post some pictures soon, I hope. Then again, you never know with me. To quote both Patrick Swayze and Lumidee, I'm "like the wiiiind."
Got to get to work early-ish tomorrow... but I love you guys. Thanks for reading this dank old thing. It's like a high school yearbook continued too long up in here. To which I say, H.A.K.A.S., y'all.
"Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard" and Sheryl Crow's sweet lyrics, xoxo,
Louis
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