Re-entry

After a month abroad, one needs a period of adjustment. The re-entry experience began on the flight back where I took time to read the ARC (advanced reader copy) of my own book, OCD, THE DUDE, AND ME. Here I am:

I look like I am sleeping. No, my book did not put me to sleep! I am just super tired from having hauled an over-sized, overweight suitcase through the rain in London, down stairs in the tube station--pausing to frantically fling the thing open to find my deodorant and apply it publicly in the King's Cross/St. Pancras station because I thought maybe I forgot to apply deodorant and the recurring thought of smelling bad on the plane was too much for me to handle (OCD, me? No, I am sure I've just read a lot about it...where was I... oh yeah...)--lifting it on to three trains, and running to and fro with it so as to not miss the three aforementioned trains. MADNESS...so, yeah, I look a little beat up there. When not reading my book, I took more time to pause and think about things I would miss about London, and the barf bag on the plane rendered me wistful because of the charming humor. The magic of London is it can leave you smiling about barf. Their Chamber of Commerce or equivalent should use that for bumper stickers! (Btw, read the small print lines at the bottom of the bag.) I didn't actually use the bag; I just like to read anything with words on it that is in my vicinity.

When I got back to the United States, I ceremoniously changed that little flag in the upper right corner of my computer from the British one to the American one and was glad I had an evening of entertainment planned to fill up the hole that leaving London left. (Lovely alliteration) I went to see my friend Stefan Marks's solo show.

There is Stefan, singing beautiful songs and reading childhood journal entries and love letters he received in junior high. Apparently, Stefan was THE catch back then; not much has changed--you're welcome, Stefan. So, his solo show was sublime...even though it wasn't solo:

Look at those guys: The Four Postmen. Even though there are just three of them. Well, really, there are five of them. They are soulful and talented and their music heals with laughter and substance; it was just what I needed to feel grounded and ready to re-enter life in LA. Also, thank goodness I know Matt, so I knew where to turn for a good traffic school (besttrafficschool.com) because I got the biggest 1984-Big Brother-is-watching-me ticket, which was hardly my fault, but I am trying to abide, so I just paid the thing and started buying canned food because my bank account was dramatically drained. (More effective alliteration) Do not ask me about this ticket. Any of you. I have vowed to no longer discuss it because I have obsessed about it too long, was filled with self-loathing, and made a deal with God that I would keep quiet about it and abide it as long as She saw fit to make sure my presidential candidate got elected. (Note to God: I am not "discussing" the ticket; I haven't opened my mouth about it since I made that deal. This is called "blogging," which does not resemble a "discussion": it is way more one-sided, self-absorb and incapable of listening. I know You, of all beings, understand the nuances and rules of my deal makings. You made me this way.)