Not much exciting to write about. To get my bearings in Orange County, I opened a teeny production of I Love You You’re Perfect Now Change weekend before last. The crowd is mostly moneyed blue-haired types. Most of the actors in the show are fifteen years younger than me, and obsessed with the things that people who are fifteen years younger than me ought to be obsessed about: gossip mags, Myspace, who hates who. San Francisco theater types are much more easygoing than the actors I?ve met so far — I’ve fallen in with an unusually catty bunch for this particular show. I’m constantly reminded in peculiar ways that I?ve moved deep into the heart of Republican California. Nixon’s birthplace is down the road, as is Ronald Reagan’s. The televisions at 24 Hour Fitness are all tuned to Fox News, and people speak with open disdain about San Francisco and yoga and vegetarianism and other liberal pastimes. I met a Log Cabin Republican after a particular I Love You show. He’s a seventh-generation OCer who’d rather tolerate all the insults and rejection rather than break ranks with Big Red. Being gay around here is better than being Democrat. Regardless, I purchased a West Virginia state flag and perched it right smack on top of my garage here in Costa Mesa. When my father brings my guns out to California I plan to sit on the porch and shoot at the postman. Work’s been nice, nearly meditative. I can spin out miles of code like spiderwebs, and the hours pass harmlessly. I’m slow to make friends, here and everywhere. I tend to rank people based on the estimated breadth of their hearts. My wife is working from home, and although she superficially appears happy to be in the company of the house she’s made immaculate, I’m concerned that she doesn’t naturally have enough chances to find a posse or tribe down here in the OC. I’m apparently the outgoing one in the relationship, and I haven’t found kindred spirits down here yet.