Home?

There's no point bathing the Blue Lady here. She gets downright dirty by the next day in LA's smoke - an obscene, familiar gray halo that greets you as you approach the city from the outskirts, soon to engulf you in its twister of dust. It's frustrating, and yet in some way, I feel closer to home than in any other US city I have inhabited.

The north is phasing out gradually and the word "home" is only able to conjure up this mess of a city with its scarred highways and traffic jams during unearthly hours. With companions equally laid back and novel unparalleled laziness, I don't have urges to make the Blue Lady run up with me anymore. Gluttons rolling in penury, we know where you can find the 10% student discount, or when the kitchens of the buffets close. Who said you needed motorcycles to find zen! Ask the Blue Lady as I lean back ultra-low and traverse the backstreets under a warm sun.

#308 is nice and welcoming as we hurry up the protected stairway to escape LA's unpredictable icy winds in the evenings - basking under the sun all day from its perch so high, engulfing me in the large black cushion on the futon as Antonioni and Kubrick display their art. The pool below sparkles its blueness sometimes under that sun, tempting us to dive the three floors into its cool depth, but sloth is not something that should be thus underestimated. However, the trunks are at least within view, just in case, some day, on some impulse, we jump.

Hollywood

I am here and LA reminds me a lot of Bombay - the evil skyscrapers still leaving a piece of the sky to reach out to, the horrendous traffic, the proximity to the ocean and yet miles away from it, hell even the weather and of course the film industry with its beautiful people, and not that beautiful on the inside crap that beauty contest winners subscribe to, but pure physical charm that you can get a front seat view of at any Starbucks or participating locations: "Hello. Give me all your money for a 'tall' analgesic (no pun intended) and a chocolate dipped atom and feast your eyes on your beautiful fellow suckers."

Almost all Indian restaurants in the area are owned by Bangladeshis. They lure you in with names like Madhuban Tandav or something very creative like Bollywood Cafe 1 and Bollywood Cafe 2. You go in expecting some obscene non-eastern Indian accent and then they buflax you with their eastern charm. The food's a wee bit pricey, but simple, non-rich and yet tasty. The W would have freaked out here, in a good way.

I am shooting my "mis-en-scene" this weekend. I was thinking of being the high fart intellectual and leaving it at that and letting you guys figure it out using Wiki, and then I felt sorry and I like to reward loyalty (some of you have been reading this junk for a while), but then a college buddy just messaged me from seven seas away and since he knows me longer, he takes priority. Plus, Agastya's waiting too - the last eigthy or so pages - like a high speed burn on the last leg of a five hour drive. So I am not even proof reading this post.