My first day back from Nashville started off in an…interesting way.
Starting with my daily hike.
You know, the one that kills me, like doornail dead, and then I come back to life, griping the sink in front of the bathroom mirror saying wtf— like an episode of Russian Dolls?
Yeah, that hike.
Anyhow, I forced myself to do the hike on account of my dog who was whining like the little bitch she is, complaining about a week without exercise (my dream week), and my ever-expanding writer’s ass, who, if it could talk would ask for pie and then laugh diabolically while putting out a cigarette in the whipped cream.
So picture this, me and Ruby, all bundled up because it’s below seventy degrees in LA (positively arctic) dragging ourselves huffing and puffing (ok, just me) up the hill only to be passed by a guy in his pajamas wearing slippers no less.
Frat prank?
Bad Ambian trip?
Your guess is as good as mine.
He seemed oblivious, stomping down the hill, his spindly frame covered only in faded, red flannel and a matching bathrobe. Maybe it was a grunge flashback gone wrong. Only his therapist knows for sure. With the little evidence I had, all I could ascertain for certain was that all his fucks had been given.
Good for him.
A few heart attacks later, I saw a tween wearing a plastic, blow up crown, (which I vote should be mandatory hiking wear). Perhaps it was her birthday? I couldn’t tell because there were no balloons…or cake…which if you think about it should also be mandatory.
Who do I talk to about that?
Perhaps she was queen for a day. If I were queen for a day my first wish would NEVER be to go on that hike, (I’m thinking a front row seat at the most decadent breakfast buffet planet earth has to offer)—but to each her own.
Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Bill Murray? Yep, about two years ago I saw Bill Murray on the hike, down by the drinking fountain, looking as disheveled as you’d imagine he would look on a dirt path—on the side of a mountain—in the Valley. As if that weren’t Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole enough, he was wearing a Bill Murray t-shirt circa 1980, that by the looks of it he’d found in the trash.
That was some next level, random coolness on the cool meter. Like finding Waldo in real life, or the extra-large can of Pringles in the minibar.
Anyway, yesterday wasn’t in the same league as a Bill Murray sighting, but I have to tell you—it was a bit of a mind fuck.
I was still reeling from pajama guy and the blow up tween queen, when I was passed coming down the hill by two kids dressed in full rabbit costumes. And not your bullshit Target variety. These were full-on, head-to-toe rabbit get ups like the kind you’d see at Disneyland or Easterbunnyville or wherever people with an uncomfortable amount of commitment to dressing for holidays would get their costumes.
“Only in Hollywood,” a woman remarked as she ran by us, coughing up a lung.
Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a guy chain smoke his way around this hike? It was inspiring in a dark and twisted kind of way. But I digress…
Anyhow, that was my first day back in Lala Land from Normalsville. I alway take for granted how wonderfully weird we all are out here, until I’m reminded.
Damn, it’s good to be back.
Carry on,
xox
