I stood outside the lobby, mad dialing to find a friendly couch in
L.A. and figure out how to get to the train station via the bus (not as
easy as it sounds… getting by on public transportation in Orange County
is akin to buying a television in Soviet Russia). Rob Roberge passed me
once again on the way to his car.
“Need a ride somewhere?”
“Only if you’re going to L.A.”
did, he was, so we went. A major act of faith on both parts, given we
had to ask each others’ names again as we hit the freeway. Idle banter
ensued, of the SoCal variety…
…"I grew up around here.”
“Yeah, where?” [Rob asked]
I told him.
“My wife, Gayle, grew up there, too,” he said.
“What’s her last name?”
He told me.
Holy shrinking planet, Batman.
years ago. Rum and Coke. Someone’s back yard party in the summer. A
band tearing through their set in order to finish before 10:00 p.m.,
when OC’s finest drop their doughnuts and start swinging…