Thanks to Netflix and the free DVD section at the Los Angeles Public Library, I have pretty much forgotten what it feels like to go out. Arriving home from work, working out, showering, then dressing up my hair and some stupid pink t-shirt for a night full of drinks, random conversation, jogs to the nearest ATM, cigarette butt smashing, taco truck dinners, pints of Anchor Steam. Nervously entering a bar only to find myself tucked away into the darkest corner, watching, staring, despising, envying the more courageous, stupid, better-looking, rhythmic boys dancing.

Enough of that.

Now I arrive home from work, having already worked out at the YMCA where the young, old, professionals, students exercise themselves until they've wrung out all the moisture in their fat, muscular, squishy, slim, lean, bodies.

I take off my boat shoes, scuffed from not being able to sit still at work. The leather scraping against my chair, opposite foot, desk. I crack open a PBR, Carmel, Rogue, Bass. I'm a fan of the quick dinner lately. Ramen, pasta, peanut butter, cookies, tortilla chips, cheese and salami. Then I'm off to movieland.

I've watched Rick Steves travel through Austria, Germany, Switzerland, the Czech Republic, Scotland, Wales, South England. Netflix has also taken me to England (Mrs. Brown), the US (Harold and Maude) and France (Before Sunset). There was also a refresher on the Santa Barbara wine country with a repeat viewing of Sideways.

One would imagine this is a depressing, lonely, inappropriate way to pass the time. Fortunately friends call me in the middle of the night, immediately after work, via email, IM. As far as I'm concerned, they're with me watching these movies, observing the folks working out, walking down Glendale Blvd, and drinking some beers. They're just farther away working, helping, exploring, writing, thinking, remembering, loving, hating, making-up.