They Call This a Housekeeping Post

Those mamma-jammin' google map embeds in the itinerary post are bogging down the blog's load time. Nobody wants a bogged blog.

I tried hacking the html to add those "Read More!" links that shorten a post. But that was before I realized that, unlike some Davids (I'm looking at you, Portillo), I don't know html. A little linkage here, some hex codes there, sure. But not this.

Rather than edit the post, I'm gonna curb the number of posts on the front page for now. Just a heads up for you few, noble readers.

Fellow Dave, Duchovny

With all my time going to mapping out the move, I haven't given much time to mapping out the Dexter spec.

It's not an easy show to plot out, especially in spec form, 'cause it's a show that blends single episode plots with season arcs. The real bitch of it is that the best parts usually deal with the season long stuff. That makes it a challenge to write a stand-alone story. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for a slick writing challenge. Just not now.

If I'm gonna get anything written right now (aside from this blog), I need something easy. Even with a criminology class under my belt, Dexter is not easy. But Hank Moody is.

Californication (a bad title I'll shorten to 'Forny' for fewer keystrokes) is that new Showtime series about a pissy one-hit wunder-author. I mistakenly said the show was plotless, but it's really just plodding. I was always on the fence about it 'cause it had great, sharp, bantering dialogue (and tits galore), but it never felt like it went anywhere. But it does. Just really, really slowly.

Each of the last three Forny episodes have had 16 scenes. You can give or take a scene based on personal definitions, but that's pretty consistent. And 16 just feels light to me. Compare that to a quick show like 30 Rock that manages to cut in almost twice that number of scenes. Or even to something more similar, like Entourage, which clocks in with closer to 20 scenes.

My batshit crazy theory is that the writers Tom Kapinos and Gina Fattore, who came from Dawson's Creek, figured they used to write ~32 scenes per hour and did the math to get to 16. I say it's a batshit crazy theory 'cause I've never watched Dawson's Creek and have no idea how many scenes it averaged.

What's worse is that those 16 scenes are pretty loosely grouped into a story. There was an episode where the entire B story had just 2 scenes. That's hardly a story. That's barely even a running thread. That's a callback.

I mention all this not to badmouth the show. After all, I obviously keep watching it. I may even develop a man crush for David Duchovny. I mention it, 'cause I think I can write it. Dialogue is my strength, and plot-- my kryptonite. (Maybe not kryptonite, but it's definitely not my yellow sun.) What's more, the less time I have to spend mapping out plot, the quicker I get to writing those "sharp," "crackling," "biting" Hank Moody quips.

Dexter, you know I love you, but we never said we were exclusive.

The Only Way I'd Join a Gym

I'm not in agony, but I've been agonizing.

The prospect of entering LA County limits without an apartment is both intimidating and highly probable. I'm hardly dumb enough (wait for it, I'll get there) to think I won't find someplace. Yet there's a distinct anxiety about driving in with a car full of a crap and having nowhere to unload it.

I've got options. There're always options. Limitless options. There are enough open ended scenarios to cripple an agoraphobe. The problem is getting to the best one.

One plan: I secure an apartment with month-to-month lease in advance of my arrival, sight unseen. Move to better location after confirming that the apartment sucks.

Two plan: I overcome my pathological fear of imposing on people, abuse my familial ties with my cousin, and squat as his place until long term accommodations are procured.

Three plan: I secure a week's stay at a low-cost hotel, and begin hurried apartment search in person.

Four: Live in car, put stuff in storage, join gym for shower use.

I already called a few landlords today, checking if it'd be possible to get a studio before I leave. They were all perplexed by the concept of me renting an apartment without seeing the apartment. Clearly, they must have assumed I was organizing some hideaway for a terror cell, or shooting some porn flick about a terror cell. There's probably a pun to be made here about sleeper cells.

In case that wasn't clear, the first option no longer seems viable. And neither does the second, without scoring some second hand Xanax. Option three seems the most legit, but the fourth is definitely the most cost effective.

Living in my car would be great. I could spin it as being "adventurous," "quirky," and "homeless." Well, not homeless. My home would just be smaller and more mobile than most.
And you can't deny-- the commute from work would be amazing.

I Am Not a Paid Advertiser, But I Should Be

One of the first things I noticed -and subsequently mocked- about my Camry was that it had a tape deck. Seriously, '05 model and you're still running out a tape deck? Where's the 8-track, underneath the dash? (And there's a flipdown turntable in the backseat, but watch out-- it skips.) But that tape deck has suddenly become one of the beautiful quirks that makes the car awesome.

For the low-lowly-low price of nine-ninety-nine, I bought a cassette adapter. This slick gadget originally came out so hep cats back in the day could play their spankin' new discmen on their car systems. This same slick gadget is back and better than ever with the rise of mp3 players.

Apple puts out its own device for the iPod, the FM transmitter. It's pretty cool transmitting your playlist to the radio. But, as my friend noted, it's entirely useless inside any major metropolis because of all the radio interference. And in lunges the cassette adapter for another surge of relevance.

No static, less quality loss, and -not for nothin'- it has a sweet auto-retracting cable that keeps cable clutter to the minimum. Excellent purchase. Could not be happier.

Testimonial over.

Drive Quick and Get Dirty

Here's a quick and dirty route mock up.

Leg One: Seattle to Vancouver
There's family in Vancouver, i.e. free lodging. It's a pretty short run down to the Oregon border, which oughta make for a gentle afternoon start.


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Leg Two: Down the Oregon Coast
101 hugs the ocean pretty well, which should make for some nice driving - certainly a hell of a lot better than I-5. We'll probably need to stop somewhere between Vancouver and the first California stop. Gold Beach is probably as good as any other touristy beach town.


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Leg Three: To Santa Rosa
There's family lodging in Santa Rosa, too. Clearly I can't choose where family lives (else I'd have far more Hawaiian relatives), but Santa Rosa isn't exactly in the best position. It kinda scissors into the journey too far south to allow one long run from Vancouver, but it's not far enough down to make the LA run any easier. It IS right be San Francisco, though, and more importantly that sweet fucking suspension bridge. Technological Marvel! Maybe we'll see a suicide!


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Leg Four: From Golden Gate to Hollywood and Vine
Hugging the coastline rather than cruising down I-5 is gonna add another 3 hours to the drive. But I'd sure as shit rather cruise past Big Sur and beautiful sandy beaches rather than "make good time." With the long drive, we could possibly time it so we coast into town with the sun setting just behind us.


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