I Tell Myself That Every Day

Today I walked down Larchmont, stuck in the middle of the massive crowd at the annual Larchmont Family Fest. It was a sea of strollers, dogs, couples, and babies.

I don't own a stroller. I don't have a dog. I don't have a baby. I have 2 cats. I'm only part of a couple part of the time.

But I didn't exactly feel out of place there. The middle class/upper middle class middle L.A. elite are just people, like you or I or my neighbors with their unique affinity for the live recordings of the 1970s band America (speaking of which, I HAVE been in the desert on a horse with no name and I HAVE spent time on the Ventura Highway. I've lived those songs.)

Okay, it wasn't a horse. It was - and I'm being honest here - a camel.

It may not have been in the Egyptian desert. It may have been in a New Jersey petting zoo. I'll contact family for confirmation.

Fuck Ventura.

Anyway, back to the family fest and the shrill endless whir of the monied family dynamic. I just wanted to get through the crowd, to get a bagel, and find an indoor seat at Peet's. That's all I wanted.

I got what I wanted.

I finished the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, with one mistake. In 22 minutes. My record is still 19:50. My zero mistake record is somewhere around 30 minutes. And I forgot for a second that I lived alone with 2 cats, a surly cat man on the top of a special hill. Yes, I want to push a child in a stroller down the street on a Sunday. It's a cliche but an okay one.

So, I don't really have what I want. Still, I sit on my couch, Seymour clinging to my side like a 20-pound piece of purring ham. I had a really good bagel earlier. I have a good parking space. Things are good.

(And last night I heard a story, the greatest true story I've ever heard. Wow. I'd write about it here but I think I might save it for something big.)