Tonight I think I experienced the magical fantasy place that I envisioned in a corner of the skull when I said “I’m moving to California,” more especially the Bay Area.

In fact, I should say, every now and again the fact that I have moved escapes me. My life is obviously a continuum, not a sudden wake-up from a walking coma. Still and all, I saw something on my own web page in my stand-up comedy bio that mentioned Northern California, and it felt foreign, like stepping out of the person whose bio I was reading (let alone living).

So, with that “Huh, is this really me,” disorientation, I headed off to a storytelling, spoken word evening run by this vivacious and interesting and compelling chick.

It’s probably a testimony to my lack of civilized manners, but I let her know that meeting her the first time had creeped me out. But, at 72, as a writer, a painter, a scholar, and given her dimunitive pocket size, it’s impossible not to see an imperfect, funhouse reflection of the woman Pat might have been, had she lived (of course) and had she ultimately had the gumption to fulfill the long list of unfulfilled dreams.

But, back to that theoretical space that “coming to California” invoked in me. California is sprouts and lattes and hippie shit and “rapping” with the kids, ya dig. It’s sun and ocean and mountains and windy roads and canyons, wind in your hair, rugged western and independent. Only I live in the ‘burbs and it ain’t like that living every day.

Tonight, though, I drove north on a stretch of highway that’s about as good as it gets scenery wise. Rolling canyons and wide open, unblighted space and sky. Crackling across the usually pleasant Route 280 was wide-arcing and multi-colored bright lights of lightening, kicking out from dark rain skies. I, then, eased the Beetle onto the quintessential adventuring stretch called Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, the road that killed Jimmy Dean.

Yeah, so there I was easing to the beach and ultimately to a cafe/restaurant with a satisfying but sprout-ishly described list of homey, hippie sandwiches, where I entered to a couple of dudes on guitar. Free wine and, thank god, a non-strictly vegan, ham sandwich later I was easing to my seat and meet some of the others.

A cafe, a few like-minded folks, adequately diverse, wine, a nearby ocean and hippie sandwiches, and I was living that deja vu tripped by my own view of Cali.

I figured my storytelling, unpolished, unstudied as it is, would be out of sync among actual storytellers and authors, but I believe myself adequately acquitted.

The loose theme of the night in honor of tomorrow’s Veteran’s Day was “Battles you have won.” Guess which career-changing adventure in lawyers, knives, money and psych exams I thunk up?

It was the closest to home on “stage” I’ve felt here. It was Thursday night at the Walsh Brothers just kicking back and swapping tales.