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2005-05-24

Leaving LA is always so hard for me. My most visionary friends live here—people whose lives are devoted to doing something enormous, people who will die knowing they've deeply affected some part this world, or at least they've tried their hardest.

I woke up in a friend's California king bed. They call them that because they're big. Really big. California is the third largest state in the United States—dwarfed only by Texas and Alaska. And, who wants to live in those place? California is about the size of Sweden. It takes about 12 hours to drive across it, from north to south. The point is that it's big. Really big.

This bed I slept in was a California king. But, they were probably being humble when they named it that. Three of us slept in it. Yet, even with that many people—and I slept in the middle—I felt as far from everything, as aloe, as a little boy playing in the silent fields near Modesto, or a wanderer in the endless deserts near Mojave. I could travel for hours and hours and still not see another soul.

This is what it's like to sleep on a California king bed. Only with sheets and pillows—lot's of them.

I woke up to a cat. Now, it's not that I hate cats. It's just that, well, ok, I hate them, I really do. My childhood pet cat defecated on my favorite comic book. My other childhood pet cat urinated and defecated in my shoes on more than one occasion. And, I have spent my life afflicted by cat allergies. So, this animal which was so desperately trying to ruin my life was also inadvertently trying to rape my sinuses at every single moment or every day. And night. I spent countless days staying home from school, sneezing, itching my eyes, and so afflicted by allergies that I couldn't leave my bed. I remember sneezing and wiping by nose so many times that the skin around my nostrils would wear off. All that would remain was this bloody, nose–shaped mess—sans skin.

So, I'm not exactly excited to see any cats. Except for ones being mechanically eviscerated by Geiger–esque post–apocalyptic contraptions with whirling blades and twisted, scary networks of gun metal hoses and pipes that convert the horrible beasts into vapor and pill–sized pieces of sterilized cat solids that we'd burn as fuel. Although, I'm not sure cats actually deserve that sort of treatment. From the damage they inflicted on my—and continue to do—I'm not sure I'd want to waste my cool, futuristic contraption on them. They ruined my childhood. Why should I reward them with a glorious evisceration in my sleek, ominous, black doom machine?


There is only one kind of good cat, and that is a cat which is very near death, yet still is barely alive and suffering and miserable enough to make for a comical photo opportunity. Like this lovely animal, which has a tube surgically implanted through its face so as to let its evil cat pus flow freely. Its face is like a walking, shedding, meowing lube dispenser!

So, I did what anybody smart would do. I pushed the cat off the bed with my foot—which was safely protected from cat infection by layers of blankets and sheets—I drank the vodka that was next to the bed, and fell back asleep. It was 10 AM. I'd only been sleeping for a few hours.

Last night was a long night. Glenn and Jessika and Arlette and Dr. Sin were up until who knows when redefining the word debauchery, talking revolution, and basking in the personalities of people we simply adored.

I feel so lucky, or fortunate, rather. I get to spend so much of my life surrounded by people who are inspiring, beautiful, interesting, challenging, hilarious, and fun. Sometimes it occurs to me that there are people who spend their lives so alone—never finding anyone who they can relate to. I've been so blessed with the presence of people that compel me to be a better person—people who I look up to as heroes, people who push me as peers.

It's a good, good life. Even with the occasional cats here and there, I can't really complain. But it's funny that I still do.


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