Secret Agent Fred and I have journeyed down south to Los Angeles. Leaving San Francisco is not something I ever consider lightly, but Fred has started yet another round of chemo and was looking for a distraction.
We were scheduled to hit the road at noon, so I set my alarm for last minute o'clock. It startled me when it went off and I thought "What the hell is THAT? Do I have something to do today?" Fortunately, before I could roll over and fall back asleep, I remembered our travel plans. Oh, mrpeenee, you are just a card
The airport was exactly what it always is: frantically rushing to squeeze through the most stressful part of the trip immediately followed by sitting around being bored, with a $6 bag of Skittles.
We are snuggled in at a sweet little hotel I like in West Hollywood, the gay ghetto of LA. At one time, Fred and I would have been out terrorizing the queer bars, but now we have settled for ice cream from room service.
Plans are vague (what a surprise for the two of us) except to hang out with friends who have the questionable taste to live here. Fred and I made some cheap talk about museum visiting. We'll see.
Also, every time I type something that starts with a "t" my auto correct immediately jumps to the conclusion that I am writing about tacos. I will take that as a sign and plan on Mexican food while we're here. As if that is a surprise.