Fight the powers that be! I'm talking about non-conformity!

But I'll tell you the truth, I'd like to be an undercover non-conformist. A little conformity is a comforting thing. Enough to get through the door.

'Cause I always think I'm a little off. Not quite like all the other non-conformists. As if I am unaware of the three sheets of toilet paper dragging off my shoe.

Somehow, if I start talking about what's on my mind, people give me a blank stare and say, "Whatever."

But I've got the floor, and you don't, so I'm going to speak my mind.

I got this new job. And I've moved to a new place. Okay, I'll be honest, I bought a house--one that June Cleaver would be proud of, with a lemon tree in the front and roses on the side.

This freaks me out a little. Because I do not want to wear a twin set and eat off the kitchen floor. I want to be that creative artist type that stays up all night drinking and toking with their other creative friends and being REAL.

Isn't that what the L.A. life is all about? Except I don't drink much and I don't like drugs. And I get really sleepy around nine thirty, so no one would hang out with me.

I guess that's the life in West L.A. I live on the East of L.A., and I am just like everyone else here. We get up early and speed to beat the sunrise, speed to the screeching halt of the bumper in front driving 5, 20, 10, stop and then start again with the miles per hour for the hour or the hour and a half that it takes to finally stop at the parking lot and the padded cell walls of the cubicle.

It's not so bad. I like mornings. And maybe this is the real L.A. after all. Maybe you crazies from the West are going to crash and burn back to where you came from while we east enders drop the grains of sand into our 401Ks 'til our time runs out, the mortgage is paid, or we retire--whichever happens last.