Los Angeles: An Epic Battle through Space and Time

Video, Ben? Pictures? Yeah, right. That's not for me. Let's journey back to a time before there were cameras. Before there were "blogs." Before there were people. That is where we'll begin.

Okay, that time is pretty boring, actually. Let's fast-forward a little. To a time when there were trains. To a time when two strapping fellows -- our protagonists -- boarded the 29 Capital Limited to Chicago.

Now we're back on track. (That's some train humor. Get used to it. It's the only kind of humor I'm trained in.)

It's come to my attention that people visit this blog for two reasons: 1) a semi-accurate account of our cross-country trip and 2) facsimile 19th century French erotica. Well, okay, so three reasons if you count the finely crafted grammar. And it's this third point I would like to address. You see, dear reader, Ben barely scraped by in school, passing his grammar course with a D-. Like that counts. And, every day, he's worse and worse. It started with simple errors in parallelism, then grew to ambiguous pronouns, culminating with comma splices, sentence fragments, and sentences ending with prepositions. It's sloppy writing, Ben. Sloppy!

And to think: this is my traveling companion for 30 days. 30 days!

But I digress. Let's get back on track! (Even funnier the second time around? Probably. Probably.)

The journey from Chicago to Los Angeles. One detail I'd like to add that Ben omitted: Jason, the train's fuck-up child. We never met Jason, we don't know what he looks like, we don't know where he lives. What we do know is that his parents think "that kid's hopeless." (This is an actual quote from his actual mother.) Poor, poor Jason. Ben's opinion of Jason: "Jason sucks big time. I don't even like Jason." It's true, it's true.

And then we arrived in Los Angeles. How it happened, when -- no one quite remembers. Legend says the 3 Southwest Chief arrived on a sunny Wednesday morning at 7:30, but we all know legends are bullshit.

Now, allegedly there's some video on the internet of me playing guitar, inspired from our journey. Whether this is fact or fiction, I'm not one to judge. Perhaps it was filmed (passive voice, I know [Dr. Jean Cash would cut off my arm (a JMU English majors joke!)]) on a Hollywood sound stage, or maybe in a secret government bunker, or maybe in one of Ben's cousins' apartment. Who knows.

What I can say: I'm inspired. I-N-S-P-I-R-E-D. The hippies, the love, the barefootedness. This is Los Angeles! This is so fucking rad! This is the way to live......................

Or is it? Margaritas at sunset on the beach. Oversized portions of pasta. Roaming the USC campus and stumbling upon the filming of a KFC commercial (complete with a skateboarder carrying a full box of fried chicken). Chicago deep-dish pizza in L.A. Walking in off the street to catch the end of a Thursday night sermon at a super-mega-church. A live taping of "Real Time with Bill Maher." Walks on the beach. Touring CalArts, then walking down beaten paths. Hit-or-miss sketch comedy shows.

No thanks. Like this is living. Maybe it works for the heathens here in L.A. But for myself, I'll pass.

Portland, save me from the utter ennui I've suffered since stepping upon this accursed terra.



--Where are the jokes, Mr. Funnyman? An future exposé presented by Ben in 9 installments.