Ok, so here's what happened: I called the airline and asked for a ticket to travel from Los Angeles to Washington D.C. on Tuesday, June 21. On that day, I arrived at the airport with approximately 500 lbs. of luggage, my little dog, and the haggard expression of someone who was up all night trying to reduce the sheer volume of junk she needed to lug to a mere 500 lbs, and was told that, in fact, they had booked me for the same flight on Wednesday, June 22. AWESOME! My advice to you: read the damned e-ticket confirmation mail for correctness.
I shuttled it back to a streetcorner in my former neighborhood, since, at this point, I am officially homeless and don't have an address, dropped my junk off with my brother, burst into tears, and then went to get some coffee and chocolate to soothe my ruffled feelings. In the end, it wasn't so bad. I recovered, got some sleep, and my very kind brother drove me to the airport again the next day, and now I'm sitting in a lovely cafe in lovely Washington D.C. writing the first of many messages from the road, which will probably not be all that funny or entertaining, and my include the odd observation about Trent Reznor, so be prepared to hear all about it.
My flight was awesome, like always. I love that feeling of being in-between places, and having nothing to do but wait. I listened to my iPod, and more importantly, read another totally retarded article about da Brode, this time in Risen Magazine, which is beautiful and glossy, and featured a very entertaining little account of life on the road by Blink 182 fratmonkey Mark Hoppus -- who seems like a charming individual even if his band is not my favorite -- and positively gorgeous photography of da Brode, who looks all painted and emotional in every picture. In this episode in the ongoing trainwreck that is his PR, I have to say that he, himself, was significantly less retarded than the writer, who asked him questions like "What is the purpose of your life?" (WTF?!) and wrote the article like s/he wanted to make out with him real bad.
But, back to my flight. I had a window seat; and especially enjoyed the desert, dun-colored and speckled with the shadows of clouds, and the contrast between nature's forms and man-made ones: little rivulets where water has drawn its path across the dry earth, and rocky ridges rising out of the flats, next to the perfect rectangles of crops growing in that inhospitable landscape, and the straight lines and perpendicular intersections of roads. Beautiful.
Yesterday I spent some very happy hours with my Dad and his wife, Susan, my beloved friend Mr. Matt Ambrose, and my mom. I took some photos, and ate ridiculously scrumptious food while letting the fact that I am homeless, unemployed, and ON MY WAY TO PRAGUE sink into my surprisingly impassive brain. It hasn't hit me yet.
To all my London friends: I will be in your 'hood on the evening of July 3rd. I can't wait to hug you. Special message to Steve Hughes: Please e-mail me your phone number! It's a long story, but I got a new computer, and deleted my entire e-mail file and address book from my old one, like a big fucking genius. I will be miserable if I don't see you, so please be in touch.
I know this has been a rambling and discorganized update. I am a skatterbrain!