The Martians are Me

I pretty frequently use a Ray Bradbury story as a metaphor for my move to LA.  In this story, a team of Earth astronauts land on Mars on a mission to find out what happened to the first mission, who all just disappeared.  They meet some lovely Martians and settle in and really don't find anything untoward.. or any explanation, for that matter.  And the big reveal is that the lovely aliens ARE the previous mission.  Somehow from eating the food, breathing the air and drinking the water, the humans are transformed into aliens.  But it happens so gradually that they don't realize it and then, once they are more Martian than Earthling, they just completely forget about having been human in the first place. 

So, I tasked some of my friends with monitoring me for sudden desire to spray tan or not eat anything but horse asthma pills.

However, I've started to slip already in other ways.  I actually caught myself thinking "I should go buy some of those skinny, tapered-leg jeans so I can tuck them INTO my boots." *shudder*  I mean, my boots are hot, but that's one step closer to Uggs and a miniskirt.

More damningly, I've just started a screenwriting class.  That was one of my big complaints about my previous visits here - everyone is a screenwriter.  Literally everywhere I went, I'd overhear the guy at the next table - or even the next gas pump - droning on about his little project.  And now, I am one of them.  Fortunately, I have a day job, so I haven't gotten to the point of sitting in Starbucks at 2 pm with my laptop.  That's my small comfort.

Sadly, I didn't get a chance to support The Strip this week, in part because of the screenwriting class and more due to my early morning bootcamp.  Gonna try to make it out next week, but i may have to dial that resolution back to once per month.