You haven't heard from me in some time. La Blogda is all about people behaving badly, and I've lived that the last few months. I was even one of them, but then again, I always was.
Last time I posted---back in October---I had flown to LA from Vegas and saw Springsteen at the Sports Arena. Now I live in LA, and last week I saw Springsteen again, this time in Anaheim at the Honda Center. My life is completely different from that October night. I used to live in a nice house in Las Vegas. In the evenings, I sat by the pool drinking wine and listening to music. I worked hard all day (more or less), and then I came home. I wrote a lot more than I do now. I didn't really like living in Vegas, but I have to admit, I liked the comfort of my life. I didn't have to do those daily, mundane things like take out the trash, pump gas into my car, write checks to pay bills, or even wash dishes by hand.
But that all changed. The great thing about Nevada is that it is easy and cheap to get a divorce. But the thing about divorce is that you don't just divorce a person. You divorce a life.
So I now live in West Hollywood in an apartment that was built in 1939. My landlord is an ancient little man who likes to vacation in Key West. He's so cheap he insists on doing all repairs himself: from wiring to plumbing to unfortunately, painting the walls. There are paint drippings in the oddest places, and don't even get me started on the caulking he did. Poor man, every time he climbs my stairs, huffing and panting, I have my fingers poised on speed dial for 911 in case he has a stroke.
A famous actor lives down the street from me. He walks his French Bulldog and he looks scared every time we pass each other, like I'm stalking him Really, I'm just trying to get to the gym. My street is lined with large, shady trees that remind me of any town in the Deep South, except when I look up the block, I see the Hollywood Hills and its 50s style homes. Betty Davis lived across the street from my apartment in her younger, er, more alive, days. In my Vegas home you could plug in appliances and sparks would not fly from the socket. In my LA apartment, every time I plug in my phone recharger I cross my fingers that I won't end up like a Texas inmate on Death Row.
I think that pretty much sums up my life. It used to be that sparks didn't fly and I felt safe. Now, sparks fly and I know I'm not safe. Some days I like that. Some days I feel like Gary Gilmore. One thing hasn't changed, though. I may not sit by the pool, drink wine and listen to music---scratch that, I don't sit by the pool. The rest remains the same.
Oh, and for a touch of the old La Blogda: Hillary should be the next president and I still hate W.
