I had, since I arrived in Los Angeles this time, thought that the scenery along the roadways was somehow… wrong. It took me a while to figure it out: everything looked too small. No, the people of LA are not a bunch of well-tanned Lilliputians. But why is everything so small?
| Hollywood is a place where people from Iowa mistake each other for stars. |
After a bit of rumination, I realized why: Much of the actual city of Los Angeles is built, not on real estate, but in the imagination.
When I drive from Sunset Boulevard to Ventura Boulevard via Laurel Canyon, I’m not just moving over asphalt and cement. I am also driving through uncounted gossip columns and several old Joni Mitchell songs.
| Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a 1000 dollars for a kiss and 50 cents for your soul. |
When I drive down Sunset past the Chateau Marmont, I don’t drive by a hotel, I drive by the place where John Belushi died on my birthday. I never met the man, but I feel oddly respinsible, nevertheless.
When I look out my window and see the House of Blues, I wonder what sort of night it was when Phil Spector drove Lana Clarkson home, just over a year ago.
| In Hollywood now when people die they don’t say, “Did he leave a will?” but “Did he leave a diary?” |
…And I’ve long since left the scenery of the world behind for the scenery of gossip. Maybe “objectivity,” whatever that is, doesn’t do so well out here. But no matter. The sun is out, and the day is warm but not hot. The breeze blows and the swimming pools sparkle in the sunshine. Nope, no matter. Not a matter in the world. But the fact that Sunset Boulevard has a beginning and an end… incredible.
| Hollywood has always been a cage. . . a cage to catch our dreams. |
white pebble 