movin' on up...
Gosh Bob Dylan damn, I gotta move at the end of this month.
My roommate is moving into an apartment/house of his own with his gf, who practically lives with us anyways now. It's like, "Adios, Chase. Nice to meetcha. Wouldn't want to beeya, boy-a."
Moving blows. I don't wanna move. I want to stay solitary. In one place. For a inordinate amount of time. I want to be Zack Morris and call a time-out and watch everyone stand mouths agape as I walk around and eat PB&J sandwiches at my non-rushed heart's content. As I finish the sandwiches and possibly wipe peanut jelly crummies on everyone's faces, I can arrange appendages in uncomfortable contortions and put on godawful music like a Celine Dion/Kenny G greatest hits boxed set. Or a Maroon 5 b-side sampler.
The best thing about finding a place to live in LA is that you better damn well like the place you pick. 'Cause you have long leases and traffic and possible bullets flying through your bathroom window as you take a shower. Yep, Los Angeles is one of the most populated cities in the world but sometimes it seems like Mayberry had more cops. Hell. The only Beverly Hills Cop I've ever seen is Axl Foley. And I haven't even seen him, technically, since 1987, 'cause you know you can't count part 3. This is disheartening to a kid that wanted to either be an astronaut or Eddie Murphy growing up. Imagine my lilly-white Baptist grandmother when I told her that.
But, yeah, I'm planning on loading my outhouse on wheels shown above and setting down somewhere over the Hills. Somewhere in North Hollywood, Sherman Oaks or Burbank, where you can hit a porn star or a WB star with a rock if you like that sort of thing. So if anyone knows of or has a rich parent/grandparent/cousin/friend/uncle/sugar-momma who has a huge house with a guest-house/yard, I will willingly be their semi-adopted child/grandchild/second-cousin/buddy/nephew/love-slave in exchange for some prime real estate and a hot shower.
I'm serious 'bout this. I gots needs, yo.