Why Are you here?

“Why are you here?”

That was the first question out of Don Beck’s mouth.

“I don’t believe you are just here for a visit.  You must be CIA.  Or a hooker.  Or a CIA hooker.”

Shit.  My cover as a feckless audio producer with an affinity for California has clearly been blown and my true identity as an undercover spy/call girl to the stars has been revealed.

Don’s is an excellent question, and one he has every reason to ask.  I blow in to town about every two months, demand to be fed, harass his son (in a good natured way, mind you) and gossip salaciously with his wife.  Then I pick up, wipe the gravy from my chin spilled from whatever high end restaurant he has squired the family to on my behest and vanish back to the North lands.

It is an excellent question and one that I ask myself every time I am strapped in to my economy seat pushing back for what is generally a minimum 8 hour travel day for a 56 hour visit.  A one to seven margin is not  good  in terms of vacation parcelling.  But I do it.  Because I love California?  I like it well enough, but there are other places on the map.  For the weather?  In July it is about the same or hotter in Toronto than Los Angeles.  Because I am a closet masochist?  Possible.  I will unpack that thought in therapy.  Because that’s where the Feds have sent me to seduce secrets out of high ranking studio executives?  Certainly, but I am sworn not to discuss matters of national security.

Really there are a number of answers.  I have a couple of very good friends who I lost for a while and found again, and I don’t want to lose them again (Hello, Anny and Jessica!). I find the aforementioned Mr Beck vastly entertaining, and it is unusual to meet someone whose command of the international swearing dictionary is greater than my own.   I have a godson to whom I have promised to give ongoing spiritual and maternal guidance  (though all evidence would point to such things being completely missing from my dubious acumen of skills).  He is person I quite like.  He’s shaping up to be a hella musician, and I am going to need someone to sponge off of in my twilight years.  I feel comfortable and familiar in LA and like there is a chapter of my life that I can’t quite finish.  I also get to swing from steak and chocolate lava cake on one day to whole grain macro dining in a single 24 hour span, courtesy of the awesome spectrum of company  I keep there.  It is dietary schizophrenia at its finest.   There is also this magnificent balcony at the apartment I often rent, and fresh lemon and loquat trees in abundance around it.

So at great personal expense and the opportunity to jet lag myself twice in the course of a single week, I go.

As an aside to Don, I DID notice him casually mentioning that he knew where to find the best sushi in LA, and I am going back for a seminar in September.  He doesn’t know it but we have a date.  I leave you with his parting words.

“See you soon.  It’s been nice feeding you”.

Indeed

 

 

 

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