Vacation, Please?

Santa Monica is Manhattan's wannabe younger sister. It used to be filled with this old-tyme charm, but now it's just another Banana Republic after another Guess? after another Sephora. And yet, the mindless wander its wiped streets and the pitiful beg from the sidewalks. Signs held high, "Homeless, need food; drugs; blah" as if we're moronic and not just uncaring, as we stride by you and your cardboard announcement.

And seriously, the lady growled at herself, and then with her hand, not unlike the Trump-viper, formed a claw at some invisible foe, invisible to us anyway, as we strode many feet away. Her growl was fierce, like that of a Pomeranian, in fact her hair also reminded me of that small pooch.

So I tread my mighty steps, the first time in forever without music attached to my ears. I could hear the tinny off-key sound of the Star Wars theme blaring from another performer looking for his/her next big break. Hollywood -- the city of creativity where nothing really gets created.

It just dredges up the old and pushes it's marketing goals as if it is new. And we're cornfed it, chomp, chomp, chomp. 'Yeah, that there shore is a good'un' we mutter under the dynamic lights of the projection screen.

To tell you the truth, after the retreat this weekend, I found myself nearly exuberant inside. Just happy to be. Even a postponed date and a patronization session with one called friend, didn't put a damper on my chipper spirit. I do hope this holds up under the baking arid sun in Laughlin, Nevada; which I should mention is just a mere Wednesday and Thursday away from here.

And amidst my reverie, I am beginning to practice my "brit slang," as London looms just 2 weeks, ahh 14 days, that's it folks, fourteen sets of 24 hours, away. Do be polite. Do not bugger anyone over. Do cash in a lot of quid. Do not have a row with anyone. And that said, I feel so much closer to December. --

"525, 600 minutes...525,000 moments how do you measure a year?" -RENT!