Welp, I’ve started using the word, “welp.” It could be fallout from the drastic life changing decision we just made, or it could be the early effects of regional accent syndrome, the parlance of our new precinct permeating our parietal lobes, post haste. You see, we are leaving Los Angeles.
After 10 years in this fine city, mainly chilling in the Hollywood area, I am picking up stakes and moving to a far away land:
The San Fernando Valley.
My daughter digs the old school rap.
We’ve been told to play music for her which in this house, believe me, is not a problem. Her mother is practically a walking Disney album and may actually be the real Little Mermaid. I cannot sing, but I’m a federally licensed commercial broadcaster, which means I feel entitled to steal music off the internet.
Anyway, we’ve been through a wide assortment of genres and nothing moves her like old school beats. She likes Eric B and Rakim, she grooves on some Doug E. Fresh, and sheds a tear for ‘Pac. Sinatra, Zeppelin, Elvis… they matter not. This kid likes beats and drooling. Nothing more. She even tends to favor West Coast over East Coast, which blows my mind. I can barely tell the difference, and I speak roughly the same language the rappers do. How the hell is she figuring it out?
It’s more clear to me now than ever that she is a Native Californian, and there’s nothing I can do about it. While I will always be a South Sider, she will always be a California Girl. Lately, the Redhead and I have been talking of moving, because fuck Hollywood. Seriously, this place sucks. Choppers and drag races all night long… it’s madness, I tellz ya. But move where? I hate the 818. That’s where people go to have kids and picket fences and shit. You know: Squaresville. Do we willingly make our daughter a (gasp!) Valley Girl?
Yeah, probably.
Friday night was so good, it killed all of Saturday. It left Sunday limping severely. It brought me to Monday feeling less rested than when Friday began. It was a sneak attack that almost left me down for the count, stranded in a foreign land. Almost.
Instead, I rose to the challenge. I peeled myself off of a couch at 2:32 in the morning and did what needed to be done. I left. I got up and out. I entered the streets of Hollywood intending to walk the 3 miles home through treacherous territory, battling ruffians and scallywags alike.
