So, what the hell have I been doing with myself? Those of you who follow the tedious ins and outs of my life -- prisoners, mental patients and relatives -- will know that I recently abandoned Tuscany, Italy for Irvine, California. Most of you thought: seriously? What the fuck is the matter with you, Reynolds? Are you out of your mind?

Well, the long and short of it is that there was too little parking, shopping and fast food in Italy. Also, too few Mexican restaurants. And no big box office supply stores. And then, there were the needs of the kids to consider. It would have been cruel to continue depriving the kids of theme parks, malls, bowling alleys, mini-golf and all the vast array of transient, false, plastic, soul-killing pleasures that Southern California has in abundance.

Also, I had work to do. And while the Italians are really great at . . . um . . . at . . . um . . . I'm going to say, inhabiting picturesque ruins left behind by Romans, Popes and Brunelleschis . . . they kind of sucked when it came to things like making sure my internet stayed on.

Italy: great place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Unless you were retired. Which I'm not. And why am I not retired? Because I managed to piss away a fairly sizable amount of money back in the 90's. Seriously, if those of you who already kind of can't stand me knew just how much I had basically thrown away with both hands, you'd really hate me.

And now back to the narrative. Which was . . . hmmmmm . . .

Okay, well, let's start back here: I'm in Irvine. Sweet Jesus, I'm in Irvine. Irvine! Isn't that a guy who owns a deli? I was in Pelago -- which sounds like a skin disease -- and suddenly felt the urge to relocate to Irvine. Is it some kind of curse? Why can I not live in a place that sounds cool? I was living in the 600 year-old stone guardhouse of the castello Nippozzano looking out over vineyards, olive trees and wild freaking boars, and now I rent a house that smells of ant-poison in the boringest place on earth and, when the atmospheric conditions are right, enjoy the sweet sounds of the 405.

One thing is for sure: I'm done with North Carolina. We sold the Chapel Hill house. It closed today. The check is in my account. And nine, count 'em, nine people are evidently inhabiting the house formerly occupied by the four of us. My ex-neighbors are so going to hate us. Oh, my God, are they going to hate us.

Of course they don't know where we are. Ah hah hah ha!

But guess what? We sold a house in this market. We got hammered, but we sold it and I am out from under that 4 g's a month. I'm using the proceeds to pay the IRS, Amex, Visa and Mastercard. I will then be debt-free. 100% debtless. Plus enough left over to take the family to one of Southern California's many family-style restaurants. Perhaps The Trough. Or Funnelbees. Or The Pukin' Pig.

Okay, I made those names up. We'll probably go to Claim Jumper because at Claim Jumper they 1) Don't care if your kids are brats, and 2) Serve portions measured not by the ounce, not by the pound, but by the Escalade. A single order of anything at Claim Jumper will feed Sierra Leone for a week. You can go to Claim Jumper, order just one kid's meal and six or eight martinis and handle the needs of a family of four.

Here's what's weird: I'm happy. I know. It makes no sense. First of all, look who I have to spend most of my time with: me. Would you be happy spending all day long with me? No! No rational person would. And yet, I am kinda pleased. And I'm not even drunk. Yet. But I have some fast-ass internet, I love the Gelson's market (tag line: "You Thought Ralph's Was Expensive?"), I'm thinking of getting an Audi A-6, which will never of course replace my late, lamented, beloved, sainted S-500, but which should be enough to let me hold my own on the 405, and I have a second series to write which involves, get this my fellow nerds: creating a language!

I am making up words, contemplating an Audi, debt-free, not in any really serious trouble with the IRS, in possession of both Ashton Maduros and Macanudo Golds, watching Xena on DVD every night with my daughter, plotting world domination with my son, enjoying the fact that my wife is still hot at 52, and sucking on a bottle of Maker's Mark. (Knob Creek carries too many associations, mostly from last week in New York with an editor/agent who shall remain nameless.)

You realize what this means? Tumor, earthquake, heart attack or freak mudslide. I'd stay clear of me if I was you.

This entry was posted by Michael Reynolds, on Saturday, December 20, 2008. You can leave your response.