Where to begin . . .
There's too much.
Suffice to say, Rasputina was a great show, but I got my car towed in the meantime, and I now owe Trisa around a hundred bucks. We wandered around, frightened that my car'd been stolen before we finally figured out that we'd parked in some silly private parking area that only welcomed giggling young men who ineffectiually kicked at each other (it's true, I saw them).
Paradoxically, I do feel a lot more comfortable driving around L.A. now. Or at least that part of town, which I believe is actually Hollywood. I knew we'd be better off if I didn't bring any directions. Yahoo! maps gave a frilly, over-complicated route when all we needed to do was take 5 to 10 to La Cienega to Santa Monica. And done. No tricky intersections, no nonsense. Well, except that there wasn't apparently any good parking.
Yesterday also marked the first occasion where I sent a short story to a magazine (Azimovs). I confidently expect a rejection, but at least I'm not afraid of the mailbox anymore.
I'm broke 'cause I gave all my money to Trisa who, poor thing, had to be at class at 7am--just two hours after we arrived back in San Diego. She had a big test thing and I wish her luck. And sleep.
"I doused a friendly venture with a hard-faced, three word gesture." -Morrissey