I'm back in California. I live in Winnetka, a small city wedged north of LA. Let me tell you about my neighborhood and all the friends I have here.

HOUSE TO THE LEFT:
Mrs. Wheeler: An 85-year-old former school teacher. Every few weeks an ambulance shows up and the EMTs restart her heart.

Dave Wheeler: Mrs. Wheeler's 55-year-old autistic son. Dave's hobbies include taking the neighbors' newspapers, taking the neighbors' mail, staring out of his windows into our windows, and wearing very large cowboy hats. He's harmless, but quirky.

Keen-AN (the "an" is said with a Jamaican accent): Former student of Mrs. Wheeler. Keen-AN's wife left him and he lost his job, so he moved in with his old school teacher a couple months ago. He spends his days chain smoking and listening to rap music in the backyard. Other hobbies include trying to get me and my roommates to drink with him, shouting things like "make it be quiet!" during periods of perfect silence, and being intensely creepy.

HOUSE TO THE RIGHT:
Staci: A huge lesbian stuntwoman who plays on a pro woman football team. Occasionally, she and her girlfriend get into fights in the front yard and beat each other up. I go to her house sometimes to play her piano, which incidentally is a full step flat.

TWO HOUSES TO THE RIGHT:
Bob: Bob is a Vietnam vet who's motto is "If in doubt, nuke it!" His house is in foreclosure, and we're pretty sure he uses his garage as a weapons cache.

ACROSS:
The Brazilian Immigrants: They keep to themselves, unless you street park in front of their house. Then the mother comes out and threatens to kill you.

OTHER DISTINCTIVE HOUSES:
The Meth House: The meth house is occupied by a set of elusive low-lives. Every so often there is an explosion or a police raid.

Police House: This police house monitors the meth lab house. I think they should take Bob's approach and just nuke it.

The batterying-rammed house: We call it this because six months ago a man killed his entire family and took hostages. What did the police do? They negotiated for eight hours, sent in two swat officers who were promptly shot, unloaded tanks of tear gas (which forced the entire neighborhood to stay inside for hours) and then plowed down the house with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR batterying ram tanks.

It may be scary to go outside after dark, but I'm a writer, and where else would I get material this great? Besides...I'm moving in nine weeks so the clock is ticking for me to complete these character studies!

So here's the deal. My eyes are very light blue. It runs in the family. I was at the grocery store yesterday when the cashier noticed my eyes.

"Your eyes are a freaky color," he said.

"I guess so," I said, not quite sure whether a 'thank-you' was appropriate in this case.

"Did you know blue eyes are a birth defect?" said the cashier, whose name tag read "Chris."

"No, but better that than six fingers on each hand, right?" I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Really," said Chris seriously. "People with blue eyes like yours are in danger."

This piqued my interest.

"How so?" I asked.

"The sun rays reflect off the color and burn holes in your eyes." Chris explained. "I have a friend with blue eyes and it's so bad she can't even go outdoors. Sad."

I tried not to laugh, as I realized he was serious.

"I have a pretty good pair of sunglasses," I assured him.

Then came my favorite part of the entire conversation. Chris looked at me and simply said:
"I like to travel."

"Good luck with that," I said, took my bags and left before I started laughing.

So, if you see me walking around with a cane, don't worry, the sun just reflected off my eye color and burned holes in them. No need to panic.

Oh, and I like to travel, too.

Today I tried playing my violin, accordion and keyboard simultaneously.

It didn't work out too well. My bow can't reach the violin strings because the accordion blocks it, I can't play the key side of the accordion because my hand has to hold my violin bow, and my toes don't separate enough to get a melody out on my keyboard.

In a fit of rabid frustration I threw down my instruments (actually I laid them down gently, because they're expensive--but my attitude was that of one throwing down an instrument) and decided in addition to not having enough hands to achieve the whole play-three-instruments-at-one-time thing, that I was simply too stupid, fat and ugly to achieve anything brilliant.

Then I ate a cookie (boycotting healthy food right now), saw something shiny, and forgot about the whole thing. Until now. Stupid...