I’m going out of town this weekend. I know, I know, you’re thinking when does he not go out of town. The truth of the matter is, more often than I’m willing to admit to myself. Except that by typing that, I am acknowledging the fact, thus an admission has been made, and so my guilt is assuaged. I don’t feel bad about leaving Los Angeles, though I always figure out about twelve hours out why I don’t like leaving my hometown for too long. I am not a homebody per se, but I do like staying in a general radius that’s approximately equal to my apartment plus a block and a half in all directions. That gives me a wonderful coffee shop, a 7-11, a hair salon, and a movie studio. Pretty much all I need. Roommates do the grocery shopping, so I’m set for food.
I was gathering my CDs together for a trip playlist, and I realized, with mounting horror, that I have more country music than I realized. Technically, I can justify it. Most of it is actually more accurately considered bluegrass. Unlike Nashville country music, that bastard child of Elvis and Dolly Parton, the country music I enjoy ranges from Ralph Stanley, who is about as old-school American as you can get, to Kasey Chambers, who is an Aussie and has a rich, sultry voice that’s one part apple grove two parts vodka martini straight up. Mmmm, me like Australian country. But then there’s Alison Krauss and Union Station, and for my money, she’s got the most amazing voice in all of musicdom. If Alison’s an angel, though, Gillian Welch, technically more folk than country, is the voice of wisdom and sagacity, plaintive and expressing more sadness and regret than any woman should, yet somehow, it doesn’t seem wrong or too tragic when she sings that way. You get the feeling she’s looking at you through the lyrics and saying “Life as expressed this way is just the surface of a pond. Look underwater and you’ll see it’s a lot deeper and more profound.” I’d also add there’s a lot more fish too, but that might cheapen the message.
So I’m heading up to Northern California to see friends and loved ones, which I assume is at least partial code for drinking lots of wine, since it’s smack in the middle of Napa and Sonoma, though I’m not entirely convinced one can be in two valleys at the same time. I’m going to try, however. Might even get a Sideways-esque tour in, though not with the lovelorn habits of the inimitable Paul Giamatti. I like to think that though I lack the wine expertise, I know what I’m doing when it comes to relatio—
Oh, who am I fooling? I’m a complete numbskull when it comes to relationships. I fly by the seat of my pants. Women are a mystery, wonderful and blanketed in allure, difficult to resist even when you’re sober. I constantly question my own input into my relationship with Emily, who is kind enough to tell me that I’m perfect for her. So I’ll drink a glass or two to her this weekend, and hope I continue to remain so.
So I’m off to the great blue and green and orange North country. I expect it will be somewhat like the Iberian peninsula, except with fewer Spaniards and more Hispanics. I imagine seeing clouds there, like serious cumulous clouds, not the watery cloud cover that flies in from the ocean and sits over Culver City sometimes like pea soup. With grape vines stretching further than the west or east, and the promise of something like freedom.
It won’t last too long, because I always remember I love my little block and a half radius. It’s just how I am, I guess. The nice thing is, people do make the journey and the leaving worthwhile. They say it’s not the place, it’s the people. I’m inclined to think that’s true.
Sorry for the light posting this week, but it was either the novel or the blog. Since the blog is never finished, I figured I’d be okay. Have a great weekend, I’ll see you Monday.