SoCal Is Where My Mind States, But It's Not (Quite) My State Of Mind
"Hey bro! BRO!!"
Pretend I don't hear him. Reverse a little.
"Bro!"
He keeps on yelling. Reverse a little more, let the guy in front of me pull his ass out of the middle of the intersection.
"BRO!!"
Roll down the passenger window, turn down the music.
"You don't have to be so rude, bro. We're in California."
"Okay."
"Seriously, bro, this is California. Calm down, bro."
Is this guy for real? "Okay."
"Seriously, just smoke some good weed and take it easy man."
Wow, this guy's totally for real. "Okay. I didn't know you wanted over, man." A pretty blatant lie. He didn't want to change lanes to turn, he just wanted over because somebody five cars in front of him was turning right, and he didn't want to wait four seconds. Which means I felt like scooting forward. Besides, we weren't going to make the light anyway. For a pothead, he's got a lead foot.
"No worries, man. Just gotta calm down, smoke some weed, take her easy. Two blocks that way."
Mental note to find out what's two blocks east of Sunset and Cahuenga. "Okay, man."
"Medicinal marijuana man, it's good for you."
I wish this guy lived in my building. "Yeah, okay."
"Seriously, it'll get you a girlfriend. It'll get you seven. That's what God says."
So God talks to Ted Haggard, Jerry Falwell, and this guy. Brilliant. "Good to know, bud."
"Just don't tell any of the women about the other ones. It helps with your vision, too."
Is that a dig? "Okay."
At the green light, he's off again, surfboard strapped to the roof of a black VW wagon lightened by dirt.
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