The last day in LA. Bags are packed and I'm ready to go, even if that means going to LAX at 2:3O AM. The terminal doesn't open until 5 AM. What a square no-sidewalk town.
But I knew that being her before.
It's not a city to me.
More a collection of suburbs. Its citizens buy the City of Angels' illusions of self-importance from 5e dntertainment industry's propaganda. None attacks the lie. The glamor of the cinema is all smoke and silver screen with the press flaks protecting the lie that you can make it here, but people do at the expense of their souls. The thousands of hopeful candidates for fame and fortune Hirding from parts unknown for roles unknown having abandoned who they were for who they might be with a little luck, but this world is tough to break into, because most of your days are spend in cars to avoid any corruption of their pasts
I don't go to the movies anymore. I hate the multiplexes. The smell of fake popcorn and Holden aufield's line from CATHCER IN THE RYE. "If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me."
Truthfully I loved the movies.
SUNSET BOULEVARD, CHINATOWN, SINGING IN THE RAIN, BARFLY, FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH.
I still dream of being a screenwriter, although they are the low man on the ladder, as movie star friend once said, "At Six O'Clock the female star will go with the producer, by 6:30 she's worked her way down to the dir3ctor, then the male lead, ut they'd rather go home with the valet than a writer. They are always a problem."
Later at LAX
Goodbye Los Angeles.
Adios to the freeways, the Milk Bar, Beverly Hills, North Hollywood, the bums, the club-goers, the LAPD, the Beverly Hills FD, Santa Monica Boulevard, the 420 bus over the hills, the 4 bus to South Canon Drive, the Hollywood Hills resembling Babylon's Hanging Gardens in the morning mist of the June gloom, Scottie driving back to the Valley in his Pinto, huevos rancheros, the wave churned Pacific, eucalyptus trees, The PCH, car, cars, cars, freeways, Dennis, our loving landlord, his street dog Rascal, Sara, bible chanting strippers by the pool house, always Genesis, Perry and her mutt Hairy the Dog, the White Watusi of Malibu Lake, Tujunga Canyon, drugs, Fantasy Island, the home of Dennis' strippers, cars, cares, cars,the freeways.
Everyone blisslessly going nowhere.
Me too.
Not this morning.
I'm flying East.
To Boston. To my baby brother. To see him off.
I wish it were me.
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