All Fancy-Like

It’s a foggy and crisp evening here in America’s Finest City (as opposed to America’s Finest Village, which is different) and I’m reminded of a dinner party in Hillcrest at the home of my gracious and lovely writing partner. What class, I thought. She was renting a lovely bungalow at the time and I was living in a crap 70s apartment. Her neighborhood was a little dodgy (okay, a lot dodgy) but my block in Pacific Beach was full of drunk college freshmen trying to untie the apron strings.

If you blink, you might have missed the intervening dozen years. Sure, she’s now in a, um, mid-century ranch style in another city, but I’m back in a crap 70s building. My new place has been fully Jed Clampettized® though—complete with ce-ment pond! It’s got purty brass fixtures and real fine swirly textures on the ceiling.

Fantastic.

Part of me says that I’m not supposed to be in this spot at this time in my life. Another part, the more rational part, has a clearer view. There’s a reason for this, I just don’t know what. Yet.

Your pal,

bob

P.S. You’re going to love the next installment, you’ll see.