As some of you faithful readers know, I finished up with school in December and have since moved on to other things, like poverty and unsatisfying jobs. Anyway I'd like to take a few moments to give my last goodbyes to various locations on the campus of my alma mater.
To the library: Thank you for providing a quiet, soporific atmosphere. Without your placid milieu my circadian rhythms would certainly have been thrown askew.
To the dining hall: Thank you for everything. I know sometimes things were rough between us, like the time I spit out the Hawaiian Chicken or all those times when I said nasty, cruel things about the meatloaf. And I know I bailed out on you many nights to go eat at the Pita House or Zaxby's or Chicora Alley, but I always came back to you. Those restaurants were just culinary flings, I never truly loved any of them. Over the years, you've become a part of me. Literally, I mean. My digestive system broke down the foods you gave me and absorbed the nutrients, fueling my cell production. The chicken broccoli bake has made me who I am today. Of course, I don't want to ruin the mood or anything, but in the future, as I eat food elsewhere and my cells reproduce themselves, eventually I will be composed of entirely new cells, none of which will have been fueled by Dining Common food. So I guess you won't be part of me forever. Still, thanks for the times you've given me--the memories are all in my mind. Now that we've come to the end of our rainbow...well, never mind.
To my dormitory room: I hate you. I hope you're ravished by a fire.
To the science building: See my parting words to the library.
To my office: I'm sorry for constantly leaving you in a state of fire hazard, what with the scented candles burning right next to the thousands of papers, bills, quizzes, and notes littering every flat surface in the office. I'm also sorry for being so cold and distant and repeatedly refusing to come visit you during my scheduled office hours. Please don't take it personally. I hope that the last 7 hours straightening and cleaning out the office has been good bonding time for us.
Well, that's it. It certainly provided a sense of closure to get that all off my chest.
So here I am in L.A., lounging in my brother's hotel room as Amy Winehouse serenades me over the speakers. She's saying something about rehab right now. I am bored. Chris's roommate Brandon suggested the abusurdity of that, being bored in L.A. And he's probably right. The Roxy and the Whisky-a-Go-Go are a couple blocks from here. The former has hosted such acts as Nirvana, Guns 'N Roses, and Janes Addiction. The latter once had The Doors as their house band and housed some of the first performances by Oasis, Led Zeppelin, and The Who. Sunset Sound Studios is also on this street.
So Brandon is probably right. It's crazy to be bored here but I am because I just moved into the Western Hemisphere a week ago and don't have a job yet and thus lack money and thus am incapable of splurging my hard-earned wages on hip attire, concert tickets, food, etc. So I stay bored.
Let this be a lesson to any of you who want to travel. Air fare and youth hostels cost money. Lots of money, you hear? You think you're just going to save up your cash and go to Norway and have fun? Well what about if when you get back your brother is on some popular television show and he flies you out to L.A. to watch him sing and you have several days in the city and you want to go do stuff but lack the financial wherewithal to do so because you spent it all on lutefisk and Norwegian bus tickets? What will you do then? I hope all you readers out there, particularly those afflicted with insatiable wanderlust, heed this cautionary tale.
Last night I went to a party for all the people connected to the show. I had vowed to never solicit photos from celebrities, but when I saw Jerry Springer I couldn't resist. Actually, I didn't exactly recognize him, but when someone pointed him out I knew a picture had to be taken. I considered shaking his hand and thanking him for remembering that we Americans like, no, we have a right to mindless entertainment. You know, what with all these educational shows and issue-oriented crime dramas runnning rampant, it's nice to know that there is still programming that kill brains cells rather than stimulating them.
Nearly everything here is immortalized in song. I suspect that my traveling companions are gradually growing to hate riding in the car with me, as a single glance at a map or a street sign starts me singing:
"...until the sun comes up on the SAN-TA MON-I-CA BOU-LE-VARD!"
"And I'd like to take a minute just sit right there, I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called..."
"BEVERYLY HILLS!! That's where I wanna BE! (Livin' in Beverly). BEVERLY HILLS--"
Jon. Quiet please.
Right. Sorry.
[a short period of time elapses as Jon scans the map]
"in the citaaaaaay, the city of Compton, we keep it rockin'--"
JON.
Sorry.
[more time elapses as Jon fixes his gaze on the passing scenery]
"Now let me welcome everybody to the wild wild West, a state..." Oh yeah. Sorry again. No, you're right. I do this constantly. Oh, absolutely. It needs to stop. No more singing, Scout's honor.
Since I'm bored and broke in a hotel room off Sunset Boulevard, I checked Wikipedia to see if there's a list of songs that reference the streets or regions of L.A. There is none. At least not yet...