LA is my lady

And what happened then? We went to the city of angels, where, funnily enough, there are no angels. At least not the kind with wings and the ear of god. Then again, who needs angels in Beverly Hills?

Oh, how plush Los Angeles is. Completely delectable. So hot. Cool. Sexy. Unless you walk into the wrong neighbourhood. Suddenly you think you’re in Detroit. Or Addis Abeba. You turn around. Back. Retrace your steps. Rodeo Drive, Bugatti Veyron parked outside Louis Vuitton. Ah. That’s better. Did you know that Aaron Spelling’s mansion is up for grabs? 150 million dollars. We drove past it – they have a room which only exists for wrapping presents in. Fantastic audacity. I don’t know whether to scream in outrage, or whoopaloo in delight.

Ah, “to make it” – that’s what it is all about in America. Some make it, most die trying. Since no one has yet defined the reason of being, I’ll keep the judging to a minimum. Besides, those houses on stilts up on Mulholland Drive made me salivate. I think I might have a little of America in me. Always had. Always admired their aspiration, ambition, anti-irony. Come on. They even conquer age here. Only an American could take on such a thing, and win. Almost, anyway.

Yeah. I heart LA. And we saw it all. Chinese Theatre, Shirley Temple in cement, Kodak Theatre, Walk Of Fame, Hollywood, the sign that says Hollywood, the marina, Venice Beach (where I had an outburst of diarrea in junkies’ toilets for twentyfive uncomfortable minutes on a cold steel toilet without toilet seat), Jimmy Kimmel Live, Jim Morrison’s house, his other house, where he used to get packed, where he took his laundry, Santa Monica Pier, Bel-Air (best ever-isolation from all sorts of poverty, including poverty of reality), Chateau Marmont (first choice for glorious smack overdose), Sunset Strip, the Viper Room, the Standard, in fact, every club Paris Hilton goes to, the outside of Universal Studios, where Michael Jackson died, Crips, Bloods, Justin Timberlake’s house, Beverly Hills Hotel, the traffic (suicide sprung to mind), Mickey Mouse, a million billboards, the Playboy Mansion (restrain yourself), Victoria’s Secret shop, Hooters, Hollywood Boulevard, LA Country Club, Julia Robert’s house, all locations where they shot Pretty Woman, heck, many locations where they shot a lot of movies, and and and and and…













And and and and and.