And, why wouldn’t you rather be in London? Cute boys, great curry, high fashion, public transportation, sexy skies of gray and drizzle, and the chance at a chance run-in with Thom Yorke. But you’ve got obligations keeping you stateside — your book proposal’s (over)due, your bandmates would freak, and your most high-maintenance private yoga client swears she’d slit her wrists (again). You’re stuck here, waiting for the quake, waiting for your break, waiting for waiting’s sake, wishing it was all somehow different. So you slip on your Burberry button-down and head to the Village Idiot with your best mates. Tucked away in a corner booth just as the late afternoon sun is calming the fuck down, you sip a pint of cider while watching the weirdos walk by on Melrose, or at least the broken shell of what Melrose used to be before gentrification, absentee landlords and neighborhood apathy sucked the zest out of it. Over a hot, crispy order of fish-’n’-chips, with malt vinegar and a side of pig-slathered Brussels sprouts for kicks, you melt into the dark wood trim and the soothing sounds of Kid A filling up the joint, and you remember this space before the unearthing of vintage brick and the laying of dark wood panels and the throngs of weekend hipsters, back when it was Chianti, and Flea took you here for angel hair and idle chitchat and you suffered the lack of chemistry because you were young and he was a rock & roll star. But the truth is, the Village Idiot is far more welcoming, and the salt and the cider are taming the flaming scorpions gnawing at your chest, and your waitress is pretty, and maybe, just maybe, you can stomach another summer here in La-La Land, just one more, as long as the cider stays cold, and Radiohead comes back to the Bowl, and there’s an empty booth with your name on it at the corner of Melrose and Martel, and a mate with a funny accent who steals your French fries to share it with.
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