Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 11: California Dreamin'

11 
California Dreamin'

===========DANNY==========

She was standin' by the water / Oh, the Moon was growin' hotter

Neon Signs lit up The Night

Turn it Down / Your Music's Too Loud

So we Ran from the Crowd

They're gonna call us liars

When we say /

We Caught a Spark Brighter than those Broken Lighters

I wrote down in my Lyric Book and started strumming through the chords I liked; listening for the internal melody of the words hidden within the music. Then, all of a sudden, Mom came barging into my room.

"Can you sing and play that again? What you just played?" she asked (and was met with a blunt no).

Mom loved when I played guitar. But knew I hated having an audience. She would embarrassingly stand outside my door while I practiced and then start applauding when I finished. The thought of performing in front of anybody made me super uncomfortable and self-conscious, so Mom didn't nag the idea very often. But today she nagged.

"How do you ever plan on becoming a famous rock star if you can't even sing for your mom?"

"Mom, please don't ever use the term rock star. They call me that at work, and it's annoying. And exactly, I'd be playing for a bunch of random people who voluntarily bought tickets. Not my mother intruding while I write."

"Are you writing about Mary?"

Mom, at times, was just as much—if not more—immature than I was. I took off my sock and threw it at her. Before it could hit her, Mom shielded herself by tugging back the door, and then picked up my sock and threw it back at me. Bulls-eye right in the head.

"Remember, I was an athlete in my prime. Anyway, before you attacked me, I was coming to tell you that I'm going to drop some stuff off that I'm giving away to the Gagliardis', and then I'm going to the post office to ship some stuff to California. Want to come?"

"The Gagliardi's house smells funky."

"It doesn't smell—it doesn't smell that funky."

I told her I was in a good writing flow and didn't want to interrupt my vibe, and that I was going to hang out with Mary soon. Mom graciously reminded me to call the Los Angeles College of Music, and then continued to harass me about writing about Mary, so I threw my other sock and she evaded it again by closing the door on time. And of course, the minute Mom left, I lost the good writing flow I'd been in.

"Froo Froo!" Mary inexplicably answered the phone when I called her a couple hours later to confirm our "hangout" that evening. I didn't really know what response Froo Froo called for, so I improvised.

"G'day, Mildred!"

Mildred sounds like the type of chick who would call someone Froo Froo. Mary rebutted that it was cute of her and that I should like that she called me Froo Froo. Which I felt was pretty ironic, because the conjoined words of Froo and Froo made me feel like a spoiled British poodle. And nothing about that is cute.

"Watcha doin', sugah?"

"Are you high?"

"On life. Yeah. Whaddup, foo'?"

I guess the abbreviation of "fool" was a step up from Froo².

"Just writing some stuff on my guitar. Yourself?" I didn't bother tacking on some slang because I knew it would sound awful.