“When I think of home, I think of a place…” although, unlike her, I don’t live in Kansas nor do I have to click my heels to go home...willingly. It’s funny to think that as an L.A. native I have yet to appreciate my own hometown. For me, I’ve spent 22 years wandering probably one-fifth of the Valley and I still can't locate where you can find helotes in the mid-afternoon. I haven’t started my list of “Secret Places No One Can Ever Find Me in This Metropolitan” or “Favorite Tea Spots.” I can’t even name my favorite club! I think that’s only because I think every spot I’ve been to is the same, just with a different outfit,inebriated memory and reason to party.
On a lighter note..
I wish during a part of my life I owned a tree house in my very own backyard. Nothing Swiss Family Robinson-ish, maybe more like Brennan Huff and Dale Doback’s lap of luxury, but instead of the late 1970, early 1980s classic porn I’d have midget porn in my bookcases in alphabetical order according to who's on the cover and Nike shoe boxes as the pillars of the windows and doors and furniture made of clouds shapes.
Or maybe I'll borrow Lucy Whitmore's idea and build it out of waffles, inedible of course, because I hate ants.
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