I’ve only been back in LA a short while, and after having been peaceful coffee-sipping artsy hippie girl on the Oregon beach for months, I’m already in sensory overload. I wake up this morning and find that the battle with the Empire is ON, by mid-afternoon I’m killing time at the Virgin Megastore zoning out with a set of headphones on watching a T-Rex DVD of Marc Bolan singing “Bang a Gong (Get it On),” shortly thereafter for random reasons I wind up at Fairfax High School and remember that the last time I was there I was drunk with “Bitch” scrawled across my back in black Sharpie and it wound up in Spin magazine (don’t ask), and I come home tonight to my poor neglected dogs to find out that Karl Rove is probably the muthafucka who outed Valerie Plame.
It’s not like we found proof positive that Rove was being back-doored by Jeff Gannon, but almost. If it’s true, I expect a Medal of Honor or a SCOTUS nomination by Monday.
I am gonna take the dogs on the biggest, gnarliest hike I can find tomorrow. We are just not accustomed to this kind of over-stimulation any more.