I dream about California. Call it a simple Pollack dream, but the more I live in Chicago, the more I yearn for those white sandy beaches, the Pacific Ocean and the California sun. I dream about the women and the stars in the sky, the poverty and the unemployment on the rise. I dream of Chico's and gringo's and people selling "habanero's." I want the surf to hit me and hit me hard. I dream of walking down Sunset Blvd. and fending off bums. I dream of working for the press there. Yeah. I dream of covering the city of fallen angels.

I want to be a fallen angel.

The more I think about it the more I want to pack up my things and go. But with my degree in hand, God only knows what will happen. But I don't care. I want to be there. I want my life to be different. I want California.

And I know that if I go, I will not come back. I know this.

No matter how fucked up L.A. is.

It's the city of a million stories and a million dreams—all unrealized. It's the place where the Hells Angels—albeit in Oakland—began to wreck shit up.

I want to see the sun set and rise on that California beach. Call it California dreaming.