I’m a Californian

I’ve lived in the state of California for a year in a week or so from now. Just don’t tell the DMV.
I don’t know the exact date, because the only thing that gives me a sense of time is my blog, and I tried making an entry as I sped across the United States, but my keyboard was plugged into a sweater I had jammed under the brake because that was the last inch of space I had left in my car.
I could probably think of some poetic and meaningful way to put it, but I don’t think anything can top the thought I just had.
One of our first nights here, we heard helicopters circling around the Valley, seemingly back and forth over our neighborhood, for a couple hours. I frantically switched on the TV and tried to figure out what the local stations were. I was sure there was going to be coverage of a high-speed car chase or a fugitive on the loose, but the only news stations I could track down were covering the breaking news of a Human Interest Piece on tofu farmers or some crap.
Over the last year, helicopters circling overhead have become like the sweet lull of an ocean breeze on an exotic island, the soft chirping of crickets on a warm summer night in the south, or the blaring of sirens and “EY, I’M WALKIN’ HERE” during the late nights in New York.
I felt like a true local when I heard a helicopter a few minutes ago and, instead of fearing for my safety, I thought, “If that damn thing gets the neighbor dog barking and I can’t sleep, I’m opening up their gate, and he can chase the damn thing until he falls off the Hollywood sign.”
Home Sweet Home.

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