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…after setting foot in Los Angeles did some guy come up to me and be SUSPICIOUS.

A six-hour-plus flight that included a stop-off in Denver to refuel WTF which meant I hadn’t had a cigarette in eleventy thousand hours and my head was pounding and I was frantically searching for my ride and this dude stops me and says, all friendly-like, “I love your haircut where are you from?” HANDSHAKE WILL NOT LET GO OF MY HAND.

Now, being a Californian, I figured he obviously had one of four things in mind:

1) He wanted to fuck me (he was old white and bald, which is some kind of unholy trinity; if only he’d been fat)
2) He thought I was some Axl-fresh-off-the-bus hayseed and was trying to hustle me
3) He wanted to put me in the MOVIES
4) He wanted to take me to the San Fernando Valley and put me in THOSE KIND OF MOVIES

Anyway I said all brusque-like, not even thinking, “I’m from New York I’m sorry I’m BUSY.” I guess I’ve become a douchebag New Yorker in my five years away. When I’m in New York, I’m from California; when I’m in California, I’m from New York.

But whatever I just had a DOUBLE DOUBLE ANIMAL STYLE FROM IN-N-OUT so I’m good.