So apparently my "thing" is going down to LA for forty hours or less: the Los Angeles quickie, that's what I do. I feel so dirty. But it could be worse. At least it's not a succession of marriages to men fifteen years my junior or facility managing startup meth labs or sleeping with anyone associated with American Idol or something.
The sequel to last month's LA trip with Gayle will occur next Saturday, when Teddy and I are going to Secret Agent Jo's post-Paris party. Saturday morning we will take the swank silver Eclipse that you'd swear must be powered by our voices raised in song, hurtle down I-5 to the southland, pop in for SAJ's party that night, find somewhere to sleep, and then wend our way home on an as-yet undetermined route so we can avoid going up the Grapevine and having Teddy's ears go all wonky like they do every time they experience a major elevation change. Depending on how early we leave on Saturday and how late on Sunday, we just might have time to say a drive-by hello to those of you who live in the area. Rather than attempt to herd all you cats into a central convenient location, I figure the easiest thing is for each of you to just stand outside your apartment between the hours of 5 p.m. Saturday and 5 p.m. Sunday and wait for me. If I see you (you might consider making a sign for me on neon posterboard to make it easier), Teddy will wave and I will throw taffy, so it'll be worth your time and effort. I look forward to seeing you!