I'm moving to California
Yes, I'm back in Texas now, but I don't know for how long.  Why am I moving?  Okay, invent an imaginary state with everything I want in it, and you'd basically be describing California, otherwise known as an imaginary state.  Or more specifically:

Wherever else you are, it's still early in California.

They get to sleep in while the rest of the country gets everything up and running.  By the time morning arrives on the west coast, there's enough that's happened everywhere else to make the newspaper worth reading for more than the ads for escort services.  The plane ride out there felt like three hours, but when I got out of the airport, it turned out only an hour had passed!  The one on the way back took five hours.  Unbelievable, I know.  Next time I go out there, fuck it.  I'm not coming back!

I'm Goldilocks.

You know how much I hate cold?  You know how much I hate hot weather?  I'm miserable all year round in Texas.  According to all the tourist guides, the temperature in Long Beach 24/7/365 = 73.6 F.  I think it's about a tenth of a degree cooler when there's a breeze, but I already own a jacket, so I think I'll survive.

I hate rain.

Well, except for the fact that it's the only thing that keeps my electric bills closer to the black than the national debt.  In California, it never rains.  In fact, the weather is so nice, they don't care about shade.  Shade is just an impediment to working on their tans.  Everything from oaks to cactus grows here, but what do they plant instead?  Palm trees.  You know, the tallest, skinniest botanical analog of anorexia.

Gay marriage.

I think the above comments on the weather sufficiently outline my aversion to Massachusetts (in addition to the fact it's too hard to spell), so I'm not about to move there.  Admittedly, I'm not sure why I care about this issue.  I realize the ability for gay people I've never met to marry one another shouldn't affect me any more than the Midwestern rednecks who aren't affected by the same thing (and yet are disturbed to distraction by the thought of post-nuptial scrotum slapping against hairy ass), but it'd be a lot less angst on my mind.  I hadn't visited Cali before the ban was lifted to make an objective comparison, but I'm going to assume that'd be why everyone was so happy while I was there.  Or maybe it was the weather.  Or the beaches.  Or the "medical" marijuana.

The hills are alive with the sound of mylar wings.

You know how hard it is to try hang gliding in the majority of Texas?  There's nothing taller than levees in the DFW area, so there's no way to get up in the air without someone powered towing you.  In California, there's always something worth jumping off of within driving distance of anywhere flatter than Paris Hilton.

What's my favorite food again?

Oh, yeah.  Sushi.  Maybe it's because ninjas can hide in plain sight, but I didn't see enough Japanese people there to justify an ethnic demand for the stuff, so apparently everyone here shares my tastes in this regard.  Virtually every street corner has a small sushi restaurant.  In fact, whenever I got in the mood for some, I didn't bother with the GPS.  I just looked for the nearest street light because odds were Democratic electoral votes-to-one that I'd find a sushi place and probably a second one catty corner to it.

Hippy chicks and surfer girls.

I used to love goth girls, but these are my new obsessions.  It's like they never even made it to the '80s.  The novelty of birth control hasn't even worn off for them yet.  Granted, I'm an ass guy, and those flowey skirts really don't show off the curves I'm most interested in, but the little-titty girls make up for it by proudly displaying the bony sternum canvases they've spent months giving over to their favorite tattoo parlor artists.  And the surfer girls don't wear much of anything at all, obviously.

The primary modes of transportation in California are (in increasing order of popularity): Yellow Corvettes, skateboards, and hybrid cars.

I saw more of the latter in three days than I've seen in Texas in six months.  I think they passed some legislation that you can get one in exchange for cereal boxtops or something.  If you're likely to skip breakfast, odds are you'll have to settle for the skateboard.  You can tell which types those are because they're the folks who look like they didn't get up until noon anyway.

It's always Halloween.

Everywhere else in the world I have to wait for that one special day to come around.  Out here there's always someone dressed up... or in some state of undress.  I don't think anyone is even paying these people to show up; they're just costumed for the fun of it, whether you're talking about on the Sunset Strip or Venice Beach or, well, pretty much anywhere and everywhere.

Dominique lives here.

It took me almost a decade to go out and see her again, and that's bordering on my threshold for writing a Time-Travel episode about her.  Granted, I'll miss the rest of you when I move, but if you come out and visit, odds are pretty good you'll stay too.

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