About a year ago I moved to L.A. on accident. I had been living at an amazing place called Esalen in Big Sur for two years and was planning (planning … hah) to move to San Francisco to pursue what I envisioned to be the fabulous life of a destitute poet. I had visions of Jack Kerouac and Bukowski floating around in my head. I had spent much of the previous year carrying around a bottle of vodka in an attempt to become an alcoholic. Anything for the art. Anyway, a short time before my planned departure, which included driving up the steep entrance to Esalen and turning left, I decided to take a hike. On that hike I had the grand idea to climb a mountain….barefoot. If you know anything about me, you will know that I am full of great ideas. I was with a dear friend and fellow poet, Bonnie and I informed her of my plans to climb the mountain, which cascaded down to the sea on a beautiful stretch of beach in Molera State Park. This announcement came after I literally grabbed a chunk of the rock, ripped it from the side of the mountain and declared it unsafe to climb … like I said, full of great ideas. I reached a plateau at about two feet above sea level, then the mountain crumbled beneath my feet into a pile of rocky shards, nearly leaving me one thumb toe short of a full set. Bonnie and I miraculously ran into a man hiking the beach who volunteered his brown handkerchief as a turnicut, I tied my foot back together and we hiked the mile or so back to Highway 1. In the next three weeks I had my foot stapled back together by a hippy doctor while I sat in a plastic chair next to a wooden shack, spent a lot of time in bed reading, watching movies and writing and got a tetanus shot. Another dear friend volunteered to work for me at the institute, bring me my meals and eventually agreed to take me down to L.A., provide me with a bed to recuperate in and grocery delivery services until I was back on my feet again. After I had the ten staples in my foot removed by the hippy doctor on the work table of the maintenance department (all of this for free, saving me thousands of dollars in medical bills and the probability of contact with drug resistant staphylococcus superbugs I would have received at a real hospital). A few days later, still on crutches my friend drove me up the hill, and instead of turning left, we turned right. I remarked that I hadn’t planned to turn right, I was heading left. He reminded me that I wasn’t so good at left turns on Highway 1. He knew about an unexpected left turn I had made back in 2002 that resulted in an awesomely epic drive over a cliff and my inauguration in the West of One club, but that’s a story for another day. This was an unexpected right turn. And now, a year later, I am in love with L.A. Everything I had planned to create for myself in San Fran, namely: a super abundant creatively fulfilling passion filled life in community with like minded fabulous creatures of the universe, knocked on my door and offered itself to me on a silver platter in L.A. And so, I start this blog with few expectations, and certainly no plans. Plans are for people who don’t understand that letting go is so much more awesome. Let’s go on a journey together, I’m stepping out.