Hello, my name is… Armond.
First things first, I’m not a writer. I’m a classical musician from a quaint town with not enough training. I’m trying to get into the L.A. Philharmonic. I found out our blog was up and running a few hours ago, so I’m trying not to copy and paste from my boyfriend’s side. The name and theme of our blog has already changed three times from Arizona to home, but I couldn’t be more ready for Love Letters to Los Angeles.
I left Oregon sleeping on one couch and came back to sleep on another; napping between exits 22 and 34 came pretty easily on our impromptu trip that was planned in two and half days. This trip was for one person; Austin’s grandmother. A woman I had only heard stories of and still has me laughing at her absurdity. Meeting her I realized that the stories were all true but I hadn’t heard the best ones. Even if it was a hurricane of emotions – I knew it was right to be there. From Austin and I struggling to build a twenty dollar fan while she mocked us to her saying “He’s one of us” while I struggled with the salad grabber; in the end what I can say is we came, we saw, we conquered.
Angels aren’t exactly what I saw. Mostly gay boys at generic bars on a Tuesday night, homeless people on the street, and smog everywhere in-between.
That’s where we’re moving. A city that does sleep but somehow is still in the gym before the sun comes up. A writer and a musician, in the city that would bring us the most success. I want to be Radek Baborak, and he wants to be Joss Whedon; we can be the next power couple that speak french while drinking wine in West Hollywood. It’ll take a while to get to our dream home but we’re one step closer to becoming the snobs that we pretend to be in the car.
First stop Portland, Oregon. The city close enough to home but still far enough away. We’ll be able to work on our individual successes and our success as a couple. The money will come easier and the art can run free.