Here, on this last day in California, I have covered as
much territory as I could have hoped for, beginning the day in
Palm Springs, heading west to Zuma Beach, north of Malibu.

I didn’t plan an early start because all I wanted to do was flee
the desert, and leaving before 9am would have been suicide –
I saw the mishegoss that was the 10 last morning, with it’s
stand-still traffic for 75 miles plus from Downtown Los Angeles to
Loma Linda east of San Bernardino.

As if it should be any surprise that the 10 is the worst case
scenario in freeways, home to most of the famed road-rage that
plagues the six o’clock news. Left around 9:45, stopping for coffee
and juice downtown. I was happy to flee the oppressive scene
of Palm Canyon, sixty-something men in top shape and bouffant
salt-and-pepper hair strutting around, trophy blonde on one arm,
Frappucino on the other, stopping acquaintances behind juice-bar
counters to introduce their prizes, with more than a note of arrogance
in their voices.

So it’s head west, past the wind power fields or whatever they
are, and towards cooler air. Of course, leaving the desert and
crossing over and down into the Inland Empire, the air only gets
worse, while perhaps a degree or two cooler, smog covers all.

I gain a new appreciation for our Inland Empire equivalent --
Long Island -- over the course of this trip – yes, here there are
snow-capped peaks to one side and not too distant beaches to
the other out here, but for God’s sake, at least Long Island, stretching
out for miles and miles of sameness, has air to breathe.

It’s Santa Monica two hours later, considerably decent time if you
think of the possibilities for traffic. Malibu is an odd place, perfect in
every way, I certainly love it all, save the people.

Some movie star I can’t place is behind me in line, being
bothered by other line members, everyone is just so annoying, but
thank goodness she of the counter doesn’t ask my name when my
turn to order comes up. Coffee in hand, I arrive at Zuma Beach minutes
later, alas, finding far too many people present, to my liking. I resolve
not to let this ruin my day, and parking at the bottom end, press on
towards the northern side of things, seeking solitude.

I get about twenty minutes of it before two groups of mothers with
screaming children in tow close in on either side. I flee to one of the
picnic benches across the wall, and make a desperate attempt to
mellow out – near impossible as the crowd grows and grows, there
must be some school holiday of some kind, crowd multiplying like
flies. I blast Tears for Fears and make it all go away, succeeding
to a fair degree, eventually.

I need to get rid of this car, get back on my feet, and walk for at
least three days before everything will truly be back to normal again.
It’s been a great run, yes, but I’m ready to go home.

---

I give a fond farewell to Zuma, shrouded in fog -- driving towards
Malibu, the sun begins to show itself. Stopping for a bagel, I am
again tempted to lash out at the spaced out counterperson that
can’t be bothered to realize that I’m tired of giving my name to
strangers, especially after i’ve ignored his initial inquiry.

None the worse for wear, physically, but emotionally drained, I
head for check-in at the Wyndham, but not before getting some
serious stratches to the bumper, at a two-bit carwash on Lincoln
Boulevard in Santa Monica. Of course, this gives me more than
enough to obsess over, languishing in early-afternoon Venice traffic.

The hotel is lovely, my room nothing amazing, but a cut above
the Best Western, and the rate only a dollar more than I paid up
there, in Hollywood.

It’s a pity I find myself so in love with the location of the dive,
which actually, I had a better room in this time round – second
floor in the main building above the entrance, commanding a view
of Franklin Avenue, the 101 and it’s perennially jammed lanes,
as well as the neighbor’s living room. It’s so ugly, yet so romantic.

But not nearly as romantic as my birds’ eye, eighth floor down
onto the Century/Sepulveda interchange view, which has me transfixed.

I don’t really want to go out, I’m now paranoid about the car to
the point of meltdown, but re-examination helps me see that a lot
of it is in my mind, but not all – if they want to be sticklers, they
well could.

Determined not to let it ruin the evening, I set out for Dockweiler –
of course, the beach is nearly invisible – total fog, no sunset visible,
possibly the only thing more romantic than an orange-red light
cast against fading blues is the fog and the way it highlights the
colors of the ground it covers. Greens seem almost fluorescent,
the sand a little whiter – I sit on the overhang off the highway over
the short drop off the Vista Del Mar to the beach, watching the waves.

The last neighborhood I’d wanted to see waited to be seen, so I
headed up to the Strip, via Beverly Hills – I drive up Roxbury at
25 miles per hour, the limit, blasting music and tapping my
cigarette out the window. Immature? Perhaps. But a hell of a lot
of fun too. I’m breaking no laws, unless being annoying counts in
this over-policed enclave. Without brushing up against the arm of
the law, I head to Sunset Plaza. I’d heard rumblings about it being
the best neighborhood in the city bar none, and while skeptical,
I certainly figure out what it is they were talking about.

As you rise the steep incline – it’s not a canyon, which is different
from most hill roads, the houses get closer and closer to the
road, as if there simply isn’t any more room to grow. Once
again, we see the phenomena of roads that go where they go
and yet builders sandwich houses that surely cost more than
I’ll be making anytime soon, in wherever they can fit, never mind
that Mercedes convertible you’re backing up is in danger of being
sideswiped by some fast moving Honda, and never mind that its
almost unavoidable, as your garage door opens right into the street.
But on the other side, that stunning city view, who’s complaining.

Still, it’s really like a first-world version of the shantytown,
everything so close together and so without aesthetic. Showing
off their asses to the world, blocking any sort of view from the road,
fuck anyone who thought they might catch a glimpse of anything
while driving by.

Atop the hills, the air becomes dry and pleasant, and as I peer
past the edge of the road wherever I can catch a view, the city
below is blanketed in heavy greys, though many lights shine
through. I regret that my visit to the Canyon Country Store is the
last for the time being, and smoke unhappy thoughts away while
cruising down Hollywood Boulevard, tawdry as always. It will be
most interesting to watch the changes after the new theatre opens
and the awards return to Hollywood once more.

I almost decide against making a sweep through Koreatown –
there have been numerous car-jackings and shootings this week,
in Hollywood, Boyle Heights and East L.A., all neighborhoods I had
become familiar with and had assumed were safe in daylight –
so suddenly I found myself wondering whether or not a journey
down Western was smart or unsmart. But I went anyway, and
was most impressed. It’s quite the cultural and economic giant
of a neighborhood, and it’s only as you cross into the bizarrely
named Country Club Park ghetto that you start to feel a little
uneasy – the Korean population does spill over into the fairly
diverse neighborhood, but economically, at first glance, the
picture is pretty grim.

And that pretty much did it. Tore up the last bit of road between
me and the chinese takeout that had been recommended out in
blue collar, airport-adjacent El Segundo – and I was back on the
bed, watching the Sopranos finale in reruns, and an old episode
of Oz, a show that is possibly even better than the Sopranos.