Saturday night we went to a housewarming party for the CEO/part-owner of Becca's company. The company was recently bought, and it's obvious that he made out pretty well on the deal, considering the fabulous place they have up in the hills around Mulholland/Beverly Glen. It has a tremendous view of the Valley, and the house is situated on a steep hill, so the nearest neighbors beneath them are waaaay beneath them. Jokes about earthquakes were rife at the party, but now that I have access to the internets, I find that in the Northridge quake, a house on their block slid down the hillside, killing a 4-year old girl inside (at least the LA Times got a Pulitzer out of it. If you're interested in getting a similar view, the place across the street is for sale for $1.45 million.
Anyway, the party was fine, and I talked to a few of Becca's coworkers that I knew. Learned much of the strange story of Captain Art and Rocket Boy, and how Rocket Boy was killed with a pie. Oh, and also about the connection to James 'Jimi' Hendricks. You wouldn't believe any of it even if I remembered it well enough to tell it.

I had one of those wake-up-in-the-morning-with-a-story-idea moments. As usual with me, when I considered it soberly after a cup of coffee, it was complete crap(*). But a few elements are filed away, in case I have another half of a story to graft them onto.

(*) The best example is when I had an intense nightmare, woke up and scribbled down the crucial plot element to this frightening experience, and then woke up in the morning to find two words scrawled on the gas bill envelope next to the bed: "werewolf dolphins". Don't laugh... it was a scary ass dream!