Spring Cleaning

This month marks the two-year anniversary of my move to L.A. It's not only an occasion to look at that stack of nine boxes sitting in my bedroom and decide what to throw out, it's also an opportunity to go through my head and toss out the cobwebbed, useless junk that's accumulated.

So look out universe, I am opening the airlocks of my brain and purging the mental detritus back into space!

Hey Shakey's Pizza at 5321 Laurel Canyon Blvd, you had a delightfully nostalgic look, with that old 70's sign reminding passersby that you were also "Ye Olde Public House." It was a shamelessly nonsensical mix of not-quite-fast-food and Colonial American sensibilities that bordered on the Dada-esque. Then you went and "updated" your signage and storefront to some bland presentation and color scheme straight out of 1986. And not in a hip, ironic 1986 way. Nope. The safe, boring 1986. Shakey's -- boater hats or no boater hats -- I am done with you.

Dear "Who's Your Agent", we became fast friends -- a little too fast now that I think about it. You were always there, eager to please and ready to jump in and fill that awkward gap in the smalltalk. But now I see that you were just robbing me of power and security. You and your evil stepsisters "How Long Have You Been In LA" and "What Are You Working On Right Now" are the lowest form of conversational Hollywood butt-sniffing. The big dogs don't sniff butts, they kick them. I'm no big dog, but it's time to get rid of you "Who's Your Agent" -- you're leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

You've been a sturdy little warrior, Hamilton Beach Aroma Express, brewing pot after pot of hot water for tea. And don't worry, you're not going to the Goodwill with those t-shirts I never wear and the pants that don't fit. But I need some space, humble coffee pot. And more than that -- I need a lower electricity bill. So you're only going to be on when I'm actively brewing, none of this "leave a little water simmering for the next pot" crap. Because the next pot might be six hours away. And I don't want you to burn my apartment down. Don't worry, Hamilton Beach Aroma Express, we'll still be friends.

Hey E-mail, you've been a wonderful invention and allowed me to share more things, more efficiently. But somewhere along the line you seduced me into a slavishly one-sided relationship where I peck, peck, peck at your buttons like a pigeon in a Skinner box. From here on out, I'm not going to obsessively Check For New Mail or feel guilty about not reading every jellied globule of digital blubber that sticks to my Inbox. The student has become the master, E-mail, and I will reply when I see fit.

Oh, Sleeping On The Couch, you are so tempting. So convenient and accepting, with a great view of the television from your pillow-laden perch. In the summer I pretend I am Fox Mulder and don't even HAVE a bed! But the truth is, you prey on my laziness, Sleeping On The Couch. You make me leave the lights on until 4am, and disturb my deep REM, and give me a sore back. I'm always more tired than I think I am, Sleeping On The Couch, and the snug environs of my bed are only another ten feet away. I'm sure by the time I have walked those extra paces, I will have forgotten all about your deceptive allure.

This last one is difficult to lift, but I've reached my encumbrance limit, Things I Can't Control. You aren't so much heavy as you are incredibly awkward to handle, what with your Gigs You Don't Get and People Acting Like Dicks and Connections That Never Quite Materialize -- just to mention a few of your many wet and slimy tentacles. You're like trying to bench press three hundred feet of lubricated garden hose while standing on a spongecake. You're getting in the way of celebrating my victories, my friendships, and just generally getting on with my life. I'm not surrendering to you, Things I Can't Control -- I am giving you the finger and walking away.

-Tom, who should probably go through those nine boxes in the bedroom right about now. I can assure you: that will be a more difficult exercise.