I cleared my throat, a little green street sign catching my eye. Adams Street. We flew past popular bars, smokers at the walls. People hanging arou...d at the street corners, as old as I was when I hit the streets, on expensive cell phones and fancy shoes. “Where are we going?” I asked.“I don’t care. Habit, I was driving home. But you tell me.”Boots and my apartment flashed through my mind. The worn red sectional, my mattress on the floor. Sex, fucking, smashing, whatever you wanna call. I said nothingand was soon on the plane home.Thankfully we landed at Sacramento and the crush of paparazzi was left inLos Angeles. I doubt celebrities flew into Sacramento more that twice ayear and paparazzi made their money with quantity and not quality. Thatexplained the absence of the flashing cameras.Things settled down after that. The next week I was on the cover of mostof the rags and knew my pictures would end up on the bottom of somebirdcage somewhere. I still couldn't figure out the. More

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