It looks the same, the sky, the ground, the trees, ok not really the trees, but it looks the same from inside the glass. But then I was outside. And it was different. It was cold.
Now the problem is that it really wasn’t cold. It was forty-eight degrees. Forty eight degrees in the Midwest in the Spring means that you wear shorts, irrationally but in celebration of the end of the sh*t that is Winter. And yes I capitalize the seasons because they are significant.
I have become a California wuss. I pulled my hands into my sleeves when I should be throwing a football around. The orange beauty of the Fall leaves meant nothing because I hurried my gait and couldn’t appreciate them. My blood has thinned, as I was warned. Or maybe my skin is thinner, I am certainly no longer thick-skinned. All I know is that it’s embarrassing to my former self who is snarling at me from some other time-space where the wind chill is twenty degrees below zero and it really is cold.
Here’s the thing, I didn’t think about it. I knew on the flight from Los Angeles to Chicago the temperature would drop. I was prepared with a sweater for the car ride. But that’s it. I didn’t go outside. I went from the airport to the car to the house. Until the next day. When I wanted to go for a run. That’s when it hit.
The pretty day from inside the glass was so deceptive that I almost wanted to don shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what I usually wear. That’s what I wore two days ago when I was a spoiled brat Southern Californian. That’s what I’ll wear when I go back.
Here’s my fear. That I won’t toughen up in two weeks. That I’ll go back and take it for granted that it’s eighty degrees and sunny in November. That I’ll complain when it drops to sixty and I need a sweatshirt at night. That I’m actually going to turn into one of them that thinks there are seasons in Los Angeles. That I’ll believe that the occasional sprinkling is actually rain. And that when it does truly drop to the forties in the middle of the night I’ll believe that it’s Winter. It’s not. It’s winter.
Nope, won’t let it happen. I can handle this, I spent over forty years living through it. It’s only dropping to thirty-five tonight, where’d I put those electric socks?
How to Get Rid of the California Drought
*credit for half the idea goes to my mom in Illinois
Every election I think that I should learn about all the facts, all the candidates, all that they stand for; so that I can make intelligent decisions in the voting booth. And then something good shows up in my Hulu queue.
I think the problem is that I wait until too close to the election. And at that point, the ridiculousness of the campaigns, with negative tactics and silly quotes, have made me want to puke. Or as my dad says, move to Norway. Is it really going to matter if I vote? If I don’t, will the country really change? I am going to vote, I do feel the responsibility, but I really just know who I’m voting for as President. The rest is just too much to learn and I’ve got work to do.
Here in California, they have a lot of propositions, many of them very interesting, and it seems like your vote really can count. Because they are determined by the number of votes and not the fact that the people elect the electorates to the electoral college and then they party like crazy because that’s what you do in college. I think that’s how it works; I learned in seventh grade and I was drooling in my head over pretty girls in class.
The trouble with the propositions is that they call them “props.” Being a magician since I was ten years old, the word prop refers to the box or bag that makes something disappear. So every time I see a commercial for a “prop” I think about the box that used to make my bunny appear. Since he had to sit in the secret compartment for forty minutes until the end of the show, I was always worried that I’d open the box and the rabbit wouldn’t be alive. The kids would scream and cry and I would be banned from the magic circuit by PETA and I’d become a mime, because the devastation would be too much for me and I would never want to speak again. I’d have to move to France because that’s the only place that really likes mimes and I’d end up smoking cigarettes and eating too many really cheesy dishes and then I’d be a fat mime and non one wants to see a fat mime so I’d just be the only white-face homeless person.
Where was I? Oh yeah voting. So maybe I should vote. I know who I want to vote for for President but I think I’ll do the rest like a multiple choice test that you haven’t studied for: Democrat. Republican. Republican. Republican. Democrat. Democrat. etc.
I’m just kidding. I don’t know if your vote really counts or if government can really change no matter who gets elected; it seems like a big machine that can’t really be re-wired. But I do believe that the real change that can happen in the world does have to come from each man and woman looking in the mirror and so maybe if we all take this election a little more serious that will inspire us to work for what we can each do as individuals. Hey I’m a writer and a performer. I’m a dreamer.
I had planned on writing this morning about how California is a tease, that there are not the bikini clad, boobs a bouncin’ in slow motion, that we came to know on such stellar television programming as Baywatch, or any movie or TV show for that matter that showed the California coast or the often used Venice boardwalk where you would always see blondes in short-shorts and roller blades. I was going to warn the young men of this country to keep that bus ticket and stay in Paducah, it’s all a myth and the amount of over-weight women vs thin women I’ve seen in my 2 1/2 years here have been 4, 278 to 1 (I counted.)
But then they sent in a ringer! The California Tourism Board, like the FBI and Target, must be mining blogs like mine that reach over 38 people and swooped in to stop any attempt at tarnish. They sent the absolute most flawless woman to get a snack at the same time I was getting coffee. I have no idea if absolute most flawless woman is grammatically correct because I just start thinking about what she looked like and my brain goes “but-a boo-blist”, which is what I would have said to her if my mouth would have opened. She was wearing an engagement ring, something I can spot approximately 3/4 of a mile away, so I didn’t say anything, but, and I’m sorry to objectify, but I could not stop staring. But she was being paid so it was part of the job. Of course I’m a clever man, being a sleight-of-hand artist, so she had no idea that my eyes could not stop the walk up the most amazing, unblemished, free of any cellulite legs wrapped in disgustingly snug shorts. And I say disgusting because we can not be helped! How can you wear that at 7:30am and expect any male to be able to assemble any thought of decency, especially if you top it off with a very thin tank top and big boobs with those little things in the middle saying “howdy.” You dare to wear a top like that when it’s in the 70s and you step into air conditioning and you can take your “hey, I’m up here” and well, again, we can’t be helped! We don’t try to be disgusting, we just have no control. Of course in this woman’s case, , beautiful eyes, her face was absolutely gorgeous, not a pimple had ever even tried to plant itself on those cheeks and hair pulled back in a ponytail. Of course, it was blonde.
So the Tourism Board has won. I can’t think of anything but great looking women in California now. I thought for a second, okay fourteen, that maybe those breasts weren’t real. I tried to find out by reaching for cream and sugar which I do not use, but nary an arm hair made contact. I actually don’t think they were fake. I think those Tourist guys are on the top of their game. They searched through my past, found anything I’ve ever mentioned about the type of woman I like and found the perfect height, perfect toned body, perfect outfit and paid the woman big bucks for me not to spread any bad publicity to my tens of readers. You’ve won this round California. I’m headed to the beach.