And a Bucket of Fried Chicken

We live across the street from a KFC/Taco Bell combo.  Because sometimes you can't decide whether you want Popcorn Chicken or a Spicy Cheesy Grande Supreme Taco.... or both.  Luckily I have only succumbed to this desire once, and I ordered one taco off of the "fresco" menu.  Why do people think that because something is listed on a menu labeled as "fresh" written in Spanish, that its healthier?  It is neither fresh nor healthy when coming from a fast food chain such as this.  And judging by the amount of large cockroaches I see roaming the streets nearby, I can cross sanitary off its list of attributes.  That taco however, was amazing...doused in hot sauce sporting some hilarious quip on its tiny packet.


There is a stretch limo parked outside my house right at this very moment, and the person I'm assuming to be the driver has also succumbed to his KFC/Taco Bell desires.  He purchased himself a bucket of chicken.  How many calories are in this bucket of chicken I cannot guess, nor can I assume there to be much nutritional value allotted to such a bucket, but that is obviously of no concern to Limo Driver.  He got in the back seat to eat his bucket, I'm guessing because the windows are tinted back there and he didn't want anyone to see him eating an entire bucket of fried chicken himself.  But I know, Limo Driver, I know your secret.  I know you have grease on your chin and wiped your fingers on your pants.


Do you remember the days when a limo was enough of a status symbol that it didn't need to be doubled in length?  Unless you're carting around 12 people, is a stretch limo really necessary?  Or maybe you need that much space between yourself and your driver because he has bad fried chicken gas and you'd rather not smell it.  


I've come to the conclusion that Dexter makes me look like a nicer person.  Whenever I'm outside with Dexter, wherever we go, everyone wants to talk to me and tell me things about their life they probably wouldn't be telling other random strangers.  They want to show me things they own and give me advice about how to live my life.  Dexter is my alter-ego.  He is adorable and extroverted and overly friendly.  He wants to say hello to everyone he sees and will thrust himself in their path to do so.  He stops to smell the roses and sniffs the air as if hope is the scent being carried in the breeze.  Dexter would eat an entire bucket of chicken with fury and show no remorse.  He has no regrets.


Upon further inspection, I've decided that Man With Chicken Bucket is not the driver at all, but someone who is too embarrassed to give in to his KFC dreams in his own neighborhood.  Secrets cannot be kept from someone who works from home.

The End and the Beginning

Well, Jesse and I got married. It was amazing. By far the most surreal day of my life thus far, I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad we have over 500 photos to remember the day that flew past and refused to end. I am now legally bound to the one person I can bear the company of every day of my life, and I plan to enjoy his company for the next 1oo years, wherever we may be.

Now that we are really adults, husband and wife with a little furry family, we decided the next step was to relocate to southern california, where the sun always shines and the glitz and glamour is totally hidden beneath the pile of garbage on the corner, crawling with cockroaches and a stray cat, who lays peacefully underneath a parked truck, bearing a permanent snarl and reddish eyes. Tiny barking Chihuahuas race back and forth behind chain-link fences, bearing their miniature teeth and barking at Dexter as we walk past, sniffing out the neighborhood. Physically fit men wearing snug-fitting activewear strut to the gym in pairs and size up the competition behind dark sunglasses. It seems that 99% of the people in Los Angeles are between the ages of 25 and 38, the young and old are sprinkled about behind closed doors and tan faces.

We moved to Echo Park. Technically Los Angeles, Echo Park is one of those hipster neighborhoods occupied in general by poor hispanic families and people like me. Whatever I am. Directly across the street is the neighborhood handyman, Victor, his son, also Victor, is probably 9 years old and likes to tell me all about the neighborhood animals and visit with Dexter, but Dexter knows better than to trust someone with such small hands. Victor's family has a yard sale every Saturday, enticing the passersby with junk that Mr. Victor has picked up during the week or collected from new tenants moving in who don't want the stuff that was left behind. Next door to the Victor family live the hipster rock n' rollers who provide me with endless entertainment. I have no idea who actually lives there, there used to be a white fluffy dog who I haven't seen in a while, but I am guaranteed to see some skinny guy wearing dirty black jeans that appear to have been painted on, no shirt, although maybe an open black vest, and long greasy hair. It's not just that his hair is greasy, it's more like his entire body is just dirty and the grease from having not showered in however many days sticks to him in the hot L.A. sun. There is also a girl, who I would assume to be kinda pretty if I could get close enough to really see, but that's of no interest to me. It's her stupid trendy hipster outfits that humor me the most, such as high-waisted bellbottoms paired with a big floppy sun hat and sunglasses... at midnight on a Tuesday. I get to watch them hang around with their friends who stop by and smoke cigarettes and strum on the guitar or tap a tambourine while Dexter farts around in the yard. They used to have a couch on the front porch, the maroon velveteen type that resides on every front porch of anyone who ever lived in a house during college, but that disappeared a week ago and I can't stop thinking about what reason they could possibly have for getting rid of it.

Los Angeles is proving to be pretty awesome, I'm learning all sorts of things about human nature and the way people live who aren't me. The food so far is amazing, the people Dexter forces us to meet on our walks are proving to be great acquaintances, and every where we go my thoughts are reaffirmed that I love it here.

I would still classify myself as restless, pushy and optimistic; I'm reminded of my nature on a regular basis. My intentions are to impose my thoughts, beliefs, and L.A. findings on you, my reader, whenever I can find the words.