Pale Blue Again
Los Angeles, CA
"The inhabitants lack any sort of depth that you have to walk around completely numb from in order to endure the emptiness of it all."
I wrote that almost forty months ago. From the moment I set foot in L.A. in early 2006, I maintained a steady state of inebriation considering I spent a significant time on the road in the years since then most of the time trying to chase down a cheap high instead of actually enjoying one. Underneath the lush hills of Hollywood, I found no problems whatsoever finding plenty of options... a tasting menu of intoxicants... everywhere.
There were roving bands of artisans willing to drop the goods off by motor scooter, or you struggled to find parking in West Hollywood on the street your lazy Russian dealer lived. You know who I'm talking about... that Hummer-driving tattoo-riddled thug who sold nosebleed inducing blow so shitty that you wouldn't even let your maids snort it.
The instruments of self-medication varied, and as expected, the usual suspects were involved. The most dangerous, of course, were the ones manufactured by corporations, packaged under nifty names, and dispensed by white-coat wearing uninspired shills for the insurance and pharmaceutical companies. Those gave me the cleanest high, yet it was also the most addictive.
The sunshine in Southern California is magnificent and that's the only reason why most sane people deal with living in an insane city like L.A., shit, even I often question my own sanity. Aside from the sunshine, the reasons I stay here is because of the potent marijuana, it's cheaper than living in NYC, and a fleeting dream of selling a million dollar screenplay. L.A. is Nicky's hometown and that's another reason, but we both travel so much that our time in L.A. together is always sporadic.
Parts of the city are prowling cougars who got their bankrolls after their lawyers carved up their first or second husbands' empires. Most of them end up lonely like everyone else, since freedom (from marriages/unrepairable long term relationships) doesn't automatically mean you're gonna be anymore happy. The desperate cougars cruise boys town looking for bored boytoys to go shopping or to pilates with them.
The relentless traffic becomes so excruciating that you need something to keep your mind off of the urge to freak out about inching alone for one a mile in forty-five minutes. After a while, you've listened to every single song, over 4,635 items, at least seven times. Sometimes you get so sick of your own music that you'd rather listen to conservative talk radio and listen to a pill popping former bible-salesman rant and rave about those knuckleheads in Washington... those damn liberal hippie communists.
OK, maybe not. I'll listen to Pale Blue Eyes for the 239th time.