Home visits. My husband and I went to Disneyland last week and decided to squeeze a morning of LA exploration in between days at the happiest place on Earth. We strolled along the Santa Monica pier, held our noses as we explored the La Brea Tar Pits, gorged ourselves at the oldest farmer's market in the city, and swung by Jim Henson Studios for a photo op in front of the gate (which, let's admit, was probably the most exciting thing we did that day). It turns out that Chateau Marmont is a mere few blocks from Kermit's home and since I know you live within stumbling distance of the famous hotel, Jason, I thought it only appropriate to swing by for a quick visit. Well, it turns out it's awfully difficult to find someone's house without the actual address. The Internet was no help at all, only generating images of you exiting a door while holding dry cleaning or some such nonsense and pics that were posted before you purchased your house, which provide absolutely no kind of neighborhood context clues. Harumph. It would be so much easier on me (and my ridiculously patient husband who indulges my every whim) if I had my best friend's home address. Not only vould we have had a lovely visit, Jason, but we could have invited you to join us at Disneyland the next day. Who would pass up such a glorious opportunity?! I don't plan on being in the LA area any time soon (because, honestly, what Seattleite purposefully spends time outside in 85-degree weather), but the next time I'm heading your way, Mr. Segel, I will expect an invite.
