Selected journal entries from my crazy life


10. 10

November 1, 1:30 am, Los Angeles, CA

As Hunter S Thompson started a page, one sleepless night in Vegas, so shall I for this sleepless night in LA. Strange feelings on this night in Los Angeles. How the hell did I end up in this god forsaken town with these damn, god forsaken people. You can travel world and never find a place like this. People like these. Los Angeles is the birth place and murder scene of the American dream. Its a city built on false hopes and ambitions. A city filled with hopelessly ambitious people, kicking and screaming and fighting for there spot in the industry. And everyone along the way lying, “you got it kid, it, you have it.” This town is made of silicon and plastic. Everything fake. The movie lots, recording studios, Rodeo drive, Beverly Hills, its all bull shit. If you have any ambitions of making it in this town, your one in seven billion. If some agent or producer says you got “it” your being lied to and I recommend you go back in the direction you came from, and fast. How the fuck did I get here? These aren’t my people. My people are 400 miles north. Sacramento, where I was raised. Good people I’ll cherish on my death bed. Honest people. “I don’t think you have it man, try something else, no hard feelings. I’ll love you matter what,” people. San Francisco. Good honest helpful people. If you got in a fender-bender in SF, the person you rammed into would greet you with smile and a hand shake. “The only thing that matters is that no one is hurt,” people. I was eating dinner in Beverly Hills once, on the patio, right along Beverly Drive. It was a warm maroon evening in Los Angeles, the palm trees swaying in the cool breeze, and I witnessed a fender-bender. This lady’s bumper ripped right off of her Range Rover and she pulled to the side of the road, and, tried and tried, but could not seem to retrieve her bumper. Cars just kept running right over it, the drivers looking the other way so they would not make eye contact with the lady. She eventually gave up and watched her bumper get ripped to shreds. Everyone just kept looking the other way and running it over. There’s a metaphor for this damn city in there somewhere. This town is built literally like a pyramid. At the bottom, ( south central ) you have the poor, the drug dealers, murders, prostitutes, then the elevation rises a bit and you have you hard working middle class, just north of the ten, the elevation rises more and you have the shopping district of Beverly Hills, then up the hill a bit you have the first mansions in the flats and above that you have the real money. The people who live in the hills. The people who are physically above everyone. Movie stars, rappers, rock stars. On my way to work I sometimes peer up into the hills and dream, but I sometimes wonder if the hill people are looking down at me, craving again to be a commoner. I wonder.​

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