“In the city with no soul, I just saw a white buffalo. What happens from here, only God and the Devil know.” - ME
Halearious and Balls! departed on a plane today. Boston-bound they were. The road trip was over, and I was back to where I’m at home - alone. This time, however, I’m in Los Angeles – a land of big hopes and broken dreams.
The funny thing is that I have neither of these. I didn’t move out to Los Angeles to conquer the world or to attain fame. I didn’t move out to Los Angeles to obtain massive amounts of money or find a wife, marry her, and put her on the mantelpiece. I’m not here to buy an expensive car and show everybody that I’m a "somebody."
I’m here for one reason and one reason only, because it’s where I’m supposed to be. Why I’m supposed to be here I’m not sure. Maybe it’s for music. Maybe it’s for film. Maybe it’s for words written on a white screen. Maybe it’s to live healthy. Maybe it’s to get back in shape.
I don’t really know, and I’m not too worried about it. For the first time in a long time, I’m at peace. I’m relaxed, and I feel like everything is in its right place. I wish Halearious and Balls! were still here. I wish I could call “time out” and keep everything just the way it was – perfect and fun – but that’s not how it works. All good things must come to an end, and all great things must be remembered forever – in photographs, in words, in stories told and told again, and in laughter lines etched around the eyes and mouth when we get old. This was a road trip that had a final destination, but never was meant to end. And, if I have anything to do with it, the road trip will last forever.
For me, the journey is just beginning.
While we were in the Grand Canyon, Halearious had lit a fire under my ass about finding an apartment. I knew she was right, but I was sure things were going to work out so I was a little less gung-ho. Regardless, I had been sending out emails setting up apartment showings for the first full day after we arrived, which turned out to be on Friday.
Having gotten in late Thursday night from Arizona, we awoke early for our apartment hunting duties. The majority of the apartments we were going to be looking at were around Venice.
When I closed my eyes and pictured my life in California, I saw the ocean. No need to fuck around then with the valley, or Hollywood, or any other bullshit. If I want the ocean, I go for Venice and / or Santa Monica. Bulls-eye. The rent is going to be higher, true, but just do it, because let us face it – the quality of life is going to be significantly higher. The tarot card reader had told me I was going places, and I was going places fast. I believe her. I’ll pay more for a higher quality of life (within limits of course).
It’s like eating organic. All of a sudden I can feel the groundswell of opinion in favor of eating organic and cutting out factory-farmed meat – pay more, get more, live longer. It’s a pretty simple equation. Hell, even Balls! could figure it out. (I jest Balls!.)
The first place I see is a mile from the beach. Quaint, cozy, homey, great light - I like this. The girl, Chris, I’d be living with seems chill, not crazy, and from the east coast - a definite plus. I don’t like fake and people from New York are anything but. It’s a good start. Chris is also in a period of transition. This is good. We’ll have a lot in common.
It’s downhill from there. Places are either nice and too expensive or priced nicely and too depressing.
I take the first place.
I’m not fucking around anymore. I came here with a plan. It may be written in pencil, but god-damn-it, it’s still a plan. I’ve been living on the road now for too long. It’s time to end the nomad chapter and find a place I can call home. Halearious agrees. I call and take the place.
We then cruise down Sunset Boulevard from West Hollywood to Santa Monica - my favorite drive in Los Angeles. Windows down, music on, eyes wide open, Halearious is taking in the sights. We cruise through the crowded streets of Hollywood and then we hit Beverly Hills.
“Halearious,” I ask, “can you feel it?” Asking her if she notices the immediate change in surroundings and zoning laws. She feels it.
We continue the cruise. All the while, Halearious is telling herself that she needs to make more money. And, she wants to see a famous person. I tell her to look to her left. I’m driving. She tells me she wants to meet a famous person that people know. I nod. Clarification duly noted.
We make it back to Palms just in time. We’re staying with Halearious’s college buddy Amanda J. Amanda J is amazing. She’s straight out of Worcester, MA (Wootown) and five years in Los Angeles hasn’t changed her. Well, she’s not drinking and not smoking weed, but this is a change for the better. Los Angeles hasn’t made her bitter; it hasn’t broken her spirit. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’ve never seen Amanda J so on top of her game. I’m excited. Los Angeles has worked for her. Maybe it can work for me.
Amanda J just got home from her morning shift at the restaurant. She’s ours for the rest of the night.
Well, technically, we’ll be sharing her with her boyfriend, Richie, but that’s okay because Riche is the man. He’s also from Wootown and is running shit in Los Angeles. He’s got a legit job for a video game developer and is about the nicest, most gracious person you could ever meet. He’s 6’4”, half white and half black. He dunks and loves “Punky Brewster.” By no means is he a cliché. He’ll make us laugh more in four days than anyone had hoped.
Amanda J and Richie have been kind enough to let, not only me and Halearious stay there, but also let Balls! stay there as well. Balls! flies in on Saturday morning from Boston. She was missing her best frond (friend in ra-tard Sarah Bareillis language) so she decided to come visit. She also knows a good time when she sees one and knows that all of us in Los Angeles is a “can’t miss” opportunity.
The early part of Friday afternoon is spent chilling in their apartment…chilling and relaxing playing some b-ball outside of school…oh wait. No. We weren’t playing b-ball. We were just chilling. (I just heard from two sources that Will Smith is legit gay. Like Tom Cruise gay. I didn’t see that one coming.)
We knew that at some point Friday night we were going to the Conga Room in downtown LA to hang out with Ron Artest and some other Lakers as Ron Artest was throwing a fundraiser for Haiti and also wanted to show off some rap skills. It turned out that one of my friends from High school had started a company, Stayclassy, and that company was kicking some serious ass around California and was organizing the party.
Contrary to what you may hear from my family, I don’t care about the Lakers. I was there for my buddy, Walsh. We were great friends and hadn’t hung out in too long. It was going to be a great time seeing him on the west coast, and I knew he’d be more than excited to have me on this side of the country.
Also in the mix, was my friend, MM. She was a born and bread Californian We had met in NYC through a mutual friend. She is a good spirit. Outgoing and super friendly, I knew she’d add a nice hue to the spectrum of the night. I was right.
MM rolled over to Amanda J’s place around 7PM.
She jumped right into the chill fest.
Somehow, however, the chill fest morphed into a time warp when Halearious pulled out the laptop and got onto Youtube. Because before you knew it, we were going down memory lane – listening to old girl groups like SWV, En Vogue, and a bunch of shit I didn’t know – kind of like a foggy memory lane.
To clarify, by we, I mean Halearious, Amanda J, and MM. Richie and I are drinking and Richie is playing video games.
We decide to roll to “Lakerville” around 11PM. We can’t be too early. I didn’t want to risk being thrown out for yelling at the Lakers.
There’s a line. Fuck. I hate lines. I know in this case it’s worth it, but I hate lines regardless.
We get into the Conga Room and the party is going nicely. Some unknown rappers are on the stage. There is a bar on the immediate left. You know where you can find us.
I go looking for my buddy. When I find him, he gives me a huge bear hug. One of us has been working out. One of us hasn’t. I’m in pain and out of breath. He introduces me to some of his friends and offers to buy me a drink. I tell him there’s no need. He’s already buying us all a shot. It’s good to have friends.
After we ingest the Jaeger-bombs, I go looking for the girls in order to bring them over to Walsh, but by the time I find them and bring them back Walsh has disappeared into the bathroom.
Shit. Now I have to pretend like I’m going to dance or something. What had happened. Luckily, nobody is in the mood to dance so we just chill and try and find out what’s going on at this place. Nobody we know is on stage, but the music is sounding tighter than expected. The drinks are uber expensive, but whatever, we’re having a good time.
Walsh comes back in the nick of time and saves us. Well at least me. Guys who are barley old enough to drink are pestering the girls.
MM grabs me and we evacuate to the patio. She wants to smoke. I’m happy to watch her. Halearious and Amanda J join us quickly as additional spectators.
They all inform me how important it is not to persist too long hitting on a girl if it’s obvious she’s not interested. I tell them I know this already. That was what I learned in my early twenties. Done and done.
We break.
Saturday is an exciting morning because Balls! flies in from Boston. Halearious and Amanda J go get her. Richie is cooking breakfast for when they come home. I’m doing nothing useful. Surprised I love LA?
We say our hellos when she arrives. We eat. The rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing. We’re all on their sectional couch and telling stories. Reliving times spent at Umass Amherst. I relate stories when applicable. It’s a seamless afternoon. Amanda J has to leave for work.
Our plan after she leaves is to reconnect with some of Halearious’s Mansfield friends. Dan is a relatively new resident of California, and like myself, has settled in Venice. Unlike me, he lives with his girlfriend, Melissa. She’s awesome. Halearious’s other friend, Mikey has traveled up to LA from San Diego. I guess Halearious getting out of Boston is big news for her friends. Mikey is mad chill. Real shy. Especially with the ladies. Reminds me of myself, really.
We all get together for a beer at Dan’s house. We play catch-up and then it’s off to the Canal Club for dinner. The canal club is mainly a sushi joint, but their appetizers are eclectic, and even have a Mexican influence. Halfway through the meal, we start to wonder whether our sushi chef is Japanese or Mexican. Doesn’t really matter. The food is really good either way, but we are wondering. We can’t really tell.
Reminds me of the Mexican restaurants in Brooklyn that are owned by Chinese people. Cuisine is fusing in ways I doubt anyone expected.
We get sushi and vegetable tacos. It’s all good. The beer isn’t tasting too good. I can’t drink beer tonight.
They convince me to get a Sake bomb. I’m reluctant, but we’ve begun the thirtieth b-day celebration. I can’t resist.
When it comes to the bill, Mikey brings his “A-game” and pays more than is due. This is what I’m used to on my bday dinner. At college, this is how we treated our friends. I have to guilt Halearious and Balls! into paying more than they’re due. Actually, I think I throw in for Halearious since she is nearing the end of her funds. No big deal. Pay it forward, I say.
We walk across the street to James Beach. A bar that has been featured in “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and maybe even “I Love You, Man.” I’m given the lowdown on it: it’s a great place to go cougar hunting. Within five minutes, I can see what they mean.
We stay for a drink (treated by Halearious and Balls!) and then it’s on to West Hollywood to celebrate for my birthday.
When I had visited LA a few years ago, there was a certain bar that I loved. It was called “Winston’s.” It was awesome. Well known, but they had no marquee above it. It was like a secret that only cool people knew about. I knew about it because a cool friend brought me there, and he was basically a local. When we went there we had a blast. I had never talked to so many cute girls in my life. They came up and talked to me. It was amazing. I’ll never forget it.
I figured I was turning thirty, and thought maybe lightning would strike twice. It didn’t.
We paid a ridiculously high amount for the cab. Turns out W. Hollywood isn’t close to Venice at all. The total paid was $50. When we get out there is a sign above the door. It says, “Winston’s.” I know we’re fucked. “Oh well,” I think, “We’ll have a good time no matter where we are.” We have to talk our way in – lots of parties or some BS. Halearious tells them that she and Balls! are small so don’t count for much. The “Door Asshole” likes this, and lets us in. The place is dead. I know it’ll fill up; it always does, but c’mon, make me look cool or something. We just paid $50 to get here.
People start to roll in just in time. We’re a few drinks deep and chatting it up. My friend Jordan rolls in. He’s an old friend I met in South Africa, and spent a year there with. Been a while since I’ve seen him last, and I think it was at Winston’s. It’s great to see him. I introduce him to Halearious who he’s never met. They exchange pleasantries. He hits the bar. Before he goes he asks me, “How drunk do you want to get? Really drunk or just kinda drunk?” It’s good to have friends that know you well. I say, “Kinda drunk.” He buys only himself a drink. I like this.
We settle into Winston’s. It’s not as cool as it once was. The girls aren’t as cute and aren’t as numerous. Jordan informs me that Winston’s is past its heyday. I tell him I figured when I saw the sign. He laughs and agrees.
Shortly thereafter, Halearious rolls up and says to Jordan “So, I hear you’re a douche bag with the ladies.” I’m floored. I can’t believe it. I immediately say “It wasn’t me.” Jordan knows better. “It was either you or Simon, because you’re the only two along the trip who knows me.” Maybe it was me. I had told Halearious how I was disappointed that Jordan had cheated on one of his ex-girlfriends – one of whom I was particularly fond of, and thought was going to be “it” for Jordan. But you see, I had told Halearious this in secrecy and never thought she would say something like this to him. I forgot that Halearious had recently been screwed over by a douche bag and is still in the healing process – even a year later. Time heals all wounds; it’s just that some take longer to heal. Halearious is still healing.
I found out later that that was the old Jordan. He is now in a steady relationship with a former girlfriend whom he has now gained some perspective on, and realizes that he had it great and wants it again. He is really dedicated. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m happy for him.
He’s still a great wingman though, and is shortly chatting up some ladies for me to talk to. As soon as they hear it’s my thirtieth b-day they’re game to celebrate with us. We’re dancing and chatting it up. I think they know I’m a relic or something and are happy to hang out with us for the night.
I’m definitely kind of drunk when one of the girls asks me to take a picture of them. I happily oblige. It’s a new camera. Has a touch screen for taking pictures. I don’t like this. I take three horrible pictures. The last two of which the flash doesn’t even work. On the fourth try, the camera pops out of my hand, hits the ground, bounces off the ground, and when it finally comes to rest, someone steps on it. I’m grabbing it as fast as possible. I’m thinking I broke it and will be buying her a new camera for a birthday present to myself. I give her the camera back and play it off like it’s no big deal. She says she wants to take a picture of me and her two friends. We all know it’s a check to see how bad I fucked it up. I hold my breath. She pressed down the button. I wait for a flash. Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Flash. Hell yeah. I’m off the hook. Picture taken. God does love me. I’m sure of it. One of the girls whispers to me, “You’re breathing a little easier now.” I couldn’t agree more, and we’re laughing.
At 1:13AM, I make my exit from the dance fest. I’m kinda drunk, but not too drunk. The girls pick me up for the cab ride home. At around midnight, they had snuck off with their friends for some food. Turns out we didn’t eat enough at the Canal Club.
Fifty dollars later we’re back in Venice. Halearious has been drinking responsibly. She’s going to drive us home.
It’s at this point that I get the drunk munchies. All those empty vodka and soda calories are working.
I tell Halearious. We look for a place that is open as we drive down Venice Blvd. I see yellow lights and the place looks alive. It’s Fatburger. I’ve heard about this from Amanda J and Richie. They’ve got a sick mother fucking turkey-burger. We’re pulling in and I’m stoked.
I order. I wait drunkenly. I’m in amazement of the menu. You can order burgers as if they’re French fries – they come in sizes. I got a medium (5 ounces). It goes up to an XXL, which is in 24 ounces. Seriously? Shit. No wonder America is so fat.
I get my burger and head to the car. It is everything that Amanda J and Ritchie had describe. I’m in heaven. Even Halearious knows this. She recounts it the next day to Amanda J and Ritchie.
We park and hike it home. Street parking is totally full. We have to park a few blocks away. Amanda J awakes and lets us in. We hit the rack.
Sunday morning comes early for me. I’m up earlier than either Halearious or Balls! is happy with, but I can’t help it. The loft where I’m sleeping has got to be a hundred degrees or some shit. I’m in a full sweat. I’m hung-over and sweating. I need to brush my teeth and move some shit around. I need water. I’m up and making noise.
Soon, Richie and Amada J are up. They’re sober and bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Richie is off to buy some coffee. Balls! is off to Amanda’s bed. It’s dark in there. Turns out Balls! had been up for 24 straight hours with the flight and all the previous night. She still hasn’t recovered.
Coffee arrives. I’m working through the hangover. Balls! is working through the jet lag. Halearious is working through Youtube movies.
I’m thirty. We’re all working through this together.
We’ve got a sick day of bike riding and hiking planned. God has given us a gift: it’s wrapped in a 70-degree, smog free, picture perfect day.
Balls! is up. Coffee is down. We’re all changed and ready to go. I’m in shorts above the knees, and a hooded sweatshirt. Anyone who will call, text, or read facebook will know this.
It’s February 28th.
Thirty years ago I was born on a freezing cold day. I’ve heard the story 29 times. They day my mom walked out of the hospital the weather was so cold that the vase shattered in her hands. Can you imagine what my poor conscious must have thought? Nine months of a nice cozy womb. Some crazy birth process. Something stuck up my nose, my chord that was the key to my survival was cut, a piece of skin attached to a very sensitive area cut off, and worst of all - I’m carried out into freezing fucking biting cold weather. Welcome to life. “What the fuck,” must’ve been in my conscious very early. It’s a godsend that we can’t remember this. I’m sure if we could that I would have blocked it out early.
I have had one previous birthday celebrated with summer-like conditions. It was when I turned twenty-one in Cape Town, South Africa. It was an amazing birthday. Celebrated with new friends, a bathtub full of bear, all the while, Table Mountain was ablaze. We could see this from our sick Victorian house where we’d be staying from the next sixth months. As we braai’d (South African for BBQ’d), we were listening to the Grateful Dead’s “Fire on the Mountain.” That was a sick birthday. I felt special that day.
It would turn out that my thirtieth, and second celebrated birthday in summer-like conditions would be pretty sick too. But this time, it would be more mellow and no drinking involved. I was okay with that.
We started out on bikes in an orderly fashion. The bike that I had trekked 4,000 miles attached to the back of my car had new air in the tires and was ready to go. We were in single line formation heading down Overland St. and on our way towards the bike path that would lead us along the Los Angeles river (debate whether it’s an actual river, or just a runoff path) to the beach in Marina Del Ray, and then north towards Venice and Santa Monica. Richie and I have serious road bikes that allow us to race ahead. The ladies are cruising. Richie and I stop periodically allowing the girls to catch up and then race ahead once again. Beautiful day.
You can tell we’re getting closer to the beach as the wind picks up and the seagulls become more ubiquitous. Before you know it, four of five miles into the bike ride, Marina Del Ray’s harbor is on our right and the water is near.
Richie and I pull over and wait for the girls. When they arrive five minutes later, Halearious is so dehydrated that’s all we can talk about. She’s on the verge of asking a stranger for water. We convince her to get back on her bike and we’ll go get some. It’s a short ride away.
We back track it a bit towards Marina Del Ray’s center and grab Halearious some water. As we wait, there is a salsa show being played. I love the Latin culture that is ever present in California.
We re-hydrate and we’re off towards Venice Beach and lunch. I’m getting inundated with texts and phone calls along the way. I’m talking to people as we ride, and telling them about the outfit. Since all calls are coming from the colder East coast, where it’s overcast and cold, they’re loving it – or hating it – but still, I’m loving it.
We decide it’s time to eat, and as we pull in along the beach towards a few restaurants, a guy tells us to come in and have a beer – the US and Canada have gone into overtime for the gold medal. I had totally forgotten they were playing. I do watch as we eat, but they lose – they only part of the day that disappoints. The food is good and the bathroom line is long. I take my time in the bathroom working it all out, and when I come out the next guy in line says, “Is it snowing in there?” A thinly veiled reference to cocaine, also known as snow, blow, powder, etc. I play along as if I had been doing blow in the bathroom. “Oh, hell yeah,” I retort. He laughs and walks into the bathroom. Halearious is right after him in line and says, “You sure took your time in there.” I respond, “Activia,” singing the theme song for the bowel-helping yogurt. She looks at me in disgust. I laugh and walk away.
Back on the bikes.
When we do finally make it to the bike path along the beach I think we’re in Venice. We pull off. It’s time for Halearious to meet the Pacific during the day. We did stop in Santa Monica at the beach our first night in California. We took 10W all the way to the beach. She saw the ocean from afar, and then we headed to Amanda J’s house. She wastes no time today. Shoes are off, followed by her socks, and she walks into the water. We watch from a safe distance – about a hundred feet back. I imagine the introduction goes as follows:
Halearious: Hi. I’m Haylee Hone-knee. I have gi-knee.
Pacific Ocean: Yo. I’m chill.
Halearious is still four years old in my head.
Balls! is quick to follow. Amanda J is next. Richie and I hang back and chill, watching the girls interact. They walk in the water, do kart wheels, pose for pictures as I photograph. I head down next. It’s time to get my feet wet. I’ve been in the Pacific before so it’s just a re-acquaintance. We’ve both changed, but we’re both still fundamentally the same. The Pacific is calling me. “C’mon Groundswell. Get in the water. You’re thirty. It’s your birthday. Make it special. I’m billions of years old. Everyday is special.” I hold off. Tempted, but practical. It’s time to get back on our bikes.
We head north towards Venice. Pull off at a sunglass stand. Halearious needs new cheap sunglasses. None found. I take some cool pictures of her shopping. All the pictures are focused on her reflection in the ten-foot wide mirror along the boardwalk.
Minutes later, we’re back on the bikes and taking in the scenes. The medicinal marijuana houses are a sight to be seen. Come on in. Let us check you out. Get a card. Bam. Done and done. We just roll by.
We see tons of fellow bikers, roller bladders, and the legendary Sunday drum circle on Venice beach. All the while, the earth is spinning about itself and the sun is heading further west as we head further east.
There is this place along Venice Beach where roller skaters congregate and dance. It’s not like a nightclub dance where people get drunk and dance. It’s like choreographed dances to music. I can’t believe it. We watch it in amazement. I’m not sure what to think. I still haven’t processed it entirely. To each their own, I guess – just not our cup of tea.
We reach Santa Monica with about 45 minutes of sunset left. We set up shop there. Halearious’s ass is sore from her uncomfortable bike seat. Richie offers to hike it back to the house and get the car so we don’t have to ride home. We’re okay with this as long as he’s back in time for the sunset. He will be.
We just hang out on the grass, watching people enjoy the beach and the bike path. We’re having a serious photo session with each other and with strangers as the watch the sunset.
We get some great shots.
I couldn’t be more relaxed as the sun nestles itself along the Pacific Ocean. I’m thirty years old. I’ve finished thirty years traveling on earth around the sun. This is one of the trillionth-plus sunsets that have happened. I love it for what it is – beautiful, amazing, calming. I have no trouble finding meaning in meaningless.
Richie gets back in time for the sunset with Amanda J’s Pathfinder. As we begin to pack the car, we realize there is no way all five bikes are going to fit in the back with all five passengers. I volunteer to ride back. Richie does as well.
We begin our cruise. It’s getting dark. In California, you need to have bike lights on your bike if you intend to ride at night. I don’t. This is the first I’ve ever heard of the news. We make a go for it. I feel like a kid again riding around the neighborhood at night. It’s as if mom has called us home and the siblings sent Ritchie and I to find out what she wants. A great delay tactic, but it was always dinner or time to come home. We knew. We also knew that we wanted to stay out later.
We make it home with no major incidents. Ritchie’s chain falls of twice, but no big deal. We’re not pulled over.
It was a great day.
We all shower and grab something quick to eat. Richie comes out of the shower wearing a blue corn mask. I guess it’s a weekly ritual that he swears by. We’re all intrigued and are down to try. One by one Halearious, Kristin, and Amanda J shower, and put on a mud mask. I was the last to shower. When I open the door from the bathroom, I see a brown face running at me and screaming and jumping in excitement. It’s Haley and she says I can’t come out yet. They’re surprising me. Three minutes later, in just my towel, they’re singing me “Happy Birthday” and presenting me with a cake lit up with candles. I’m very appreciative and surprised. I didn’t see cake in my future.
Next up: a movie on their projector and some popcorn. The movie selected is “The Box.” It is terrible. There seems to be a Scientology aspect to it. Cameron Diaz is horrible with her overdone southern accent. It’s just bad. It’s like a Stanley Kubrick film gone wrong. No thanks. We go to bed.
Monday. It’s good to not wake up hung-over. I’m excited. I realize I have no reason to drink for a long time. Sobriety for a good long while. I just want to be healthy and today is a great day to start.
We start the day like most in California. Lazily. We get motivated for a drive to Malibu along the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). We just have to be back by 4PM so that Amanda J can get to work in time.
The drive is nice and relaxing. The houses and the money that is in Los Angeles blow us all away. Halearious is still on her quest to see someone famous.
We get hungry. Hit up “Neptune’s Net” for some good seafood. Most of it is fried, but it’s all good.
After lunch we walk across the PCH to check some of the surfers. We just relax and watch the waves roll in.
We drive back to Amanda J’s. Relaxed. It’s been another good day.
Amada goes off to work and we move my stuff into my new apartment. It’s nice to have a new home with a cool roommate and only a mile from the beach. My life is starting to take shape. I’ve been on the road too long. I just want some of my own space again.
The girls do most of the moving as I get caught in conversation with my roommate and our neighbor, a very nice woman from Canada.
Back at Amanda J’s we get ready for dinner. The plan is to have some Japanese food and then head to Amanda J’s work for a drink.
It is accomplished nearly flawlessly. I’m driving because I’m not drinking. Halearious, Balls!, and Richie are drinking and catching a nice buzz. It’s fun to watch. We get to Amanda J’s work just in time before close. There are some cute girl customers and workers. I like this place.
While there, it turns into trivia night between us. Starts out with us asking Halearious and Balls! sports trivia and then morphs into shows we watched as kids growing up. This is when we learn Ritchie is a huge “Punky Brewster” fan. It turns out Halearious is pretty good at trivia. They go at it. I watch. I can’t remember any of this shit. Not sure how they can either.
We head back home and call it an early night. Halearious and Balls! are flying back the next day. We’ll get up and chill, hit In ‘N Out one last time and drop them off.
This is exactly what happens.
As Halearious and I say goodbye to each other, we can’t believe that the road trip is over. So much has happened, so much has been said, so much has been eaten, drank, shit out, so much has been laughed at, so much has been seen, over 4,000 miles have been driven, and here we are in the blink of an eye at LAX saying goodbye. We both know it’s not goodbye forever. It’s just goodbye to the road trip.
Balls! and Halearious walk into the airport. Amanda J and I get back into the car.
This is now home. I had been picturing this since before I left: The drive back when Halearious was on her way back east and I was here for good.
I don’t get sad until I leave Amanda J’s with the rest of my stuff and head to my new apartment. Now it’s for real. I’m on my on now.
If you’ve ever moved away from home, you know the feeling – that loneliness that settles into your chest. I’ve been here before – when I went to Paraguay when I was seventeen; when I went to South Africa in college – I know that I need to keep myself busy and it will all work itself out.
I begin by unpacking and moving in, and then I’m off for a bike ride, and then to the grocery store, and then I head to Abbot Kinney for a music show that I was invited to by a girl singer / songwriter I briefly met in New York. (You’ve got to love facebook.)
I watch her perform and dig her songs. She’s got an angelic voice that at points borders on operatic. She wins over the large crowd that is here for the headliner – White Buffalo.
Based on the size of the crowd, and general attractiveness of the ladies, I decide to stay for White Buffalo, and I’m glad I did.
White Buffalo is the stage name of a guy named Jake. A drummer and bassists join him on stage. They play rocking country and roots music. It’s exactly where I am musically. I’m surprised to find it so effortlessly in Los Angeles.
White Buffalo is tall – probably 6’4”- heavyset, long hair and a substantial beard. He reminds me of Jeff Bridges in “Crazy Heart,” but younger. He’s got a great stage presence, passionate, and humorous between songs.
His voice reminded me of Eddie Vedder combined with Richie Havens when he gets passionate. I’m very impressed. I stay around until midnight before it’s time for me to walk home and go to bed.
I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see White Buffalo.
Hell, I live in the city with no soul and I’ve seen a White Buffalo. When it comes, you should know you've hit the edge of the world.
- Groundswell
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