Here I sit in Santa Monica, two miles from the beach, in a motel room eating noodles off a knife for lack of a fork, making meatloaf sandwiches and drinking Sammy while huddled over my laptop eyes glued to ESPN Gamecast and listening to the WRKO internet feed that Major League Baseball makes your pay ten bucks for.
I think I might be missing out on the whole California-thing.
That’s OK by me. I swear the Christ the LA basin is the friggin’ twilight zone. No hotel in 75 miles has TBS on television. I find a Red Sox bar (Sonny Mclean’s from Still, We Believe to watch the game in but TBS takes a national dump and I decide it’s better to drive around at random and listen to XM than pay $5 a beer to watch Steve Harvey reruns. Once I got tired of that I resigned myself to the meatloaf and laptop plan. Hell, I bet I still spent less than I would have going out to supper.
I am so out of here tomorrow. I am going to see the coast. I am going north, hopefully into some country that’s a little less populated, in preparation for the big turn east. 11,500 miles gone, at least 3,500 to go.