I’m starting to get really homesick. Even though we are in the midst of one of the biggest career cliffhangers possible in the entertainment biz, I heard reports that my pumpkins in Columbia County have grown to the size of Volkswagens, and I just want to be there hitting golf balls at cows.
Every Tuesday I drive 35 miles to play basketball in the San Gabriel Valley, even though nobody there particularly knows me (or particularly likes me) but I keep going, because I love the sport and don’t know of any other game in these parts. I long for the Tuesday and Thursday games at Mulberry Street Garden where I can give a sweet pass to Dan Kois and pack the shit out of Lindsay Bowen.
We can see the ocean if we look down the street, and obviously the waters are lovely, but part of me wants to see the brown sludge of the Gowanus Canal lapping against the warehouses of Brooklyn. I miss my local pharmacist on 7th Avenue, where there aren’t any 6-foot blondes with giant plastic tits moaning about their managers on their cell phones.
Being a writer in Los Angeles, at many times, feels like being a caged racehorse. So many labyrinthine politics, so much being “on,” so much discussion of what you will write that I almost want to rent a houseboat, sail to Guam and write a tortured novel in a fiery burst of page-shredding graphomania. I’ll write all over the hull, all down the deck, scribble on all the sails, and expunge verbosity on the poop.
Yes, we’re so lucky to be in the game. It beats working construction, operating the cashier station at Hardee’s, and taking the toll on I-90. But sighing over a distant homeland is a universal emotion, and homesickness is an equal-opportunity employer.