I went looking for the seamy underbelly of the entertainment
world – I thought I’d see at least a star or two in the Carl’s Jr.
in Chatsworth, perhaps a bleached hottie combing the racks
at Meryvn’s for a hot-pink halter-top.

I did not walk into the gas station bathroom, only to stop,
wide-eyed, the voyeur, at a sex-crazed couple slapping wildly
against each other, in the throes of animal lust -- neither was there
a soft rock soundtrack of indiscriminate origin blaring in the
background.

No, there were none of these things in the Valley, or at least not the
day I spent looking. From Ventura to Tarzana, from Hills named
Mission or Woodland, from Van Nuys to Chatsworth, North Hollywood
to Reseda – I saw nothing.

No large-breasted babes flashing passersby, and certainly no horny
lesbians or trios of men satisfying each other orally in the front seat
of a red convertible, just off the freeway exit ramp.

Damn – and they said the movies were just like real life.

At church, they told us God was punishing those evil pornographers
when the big one hit Northridge way back when. I believed them at
the time, God did things like that you know – but as far as I can see,
the only people in Northridge are pudgy retirees with bottle jobs
combing the clearance racks at Target.

The heat and the haze are oppressive in this land-locked suburban
wasteland – I begin to succumb to severe claustrophobia. I jump on the
405 and before you know it, I’m surfing on a wave of love and
brotherhood, straight through Topanga Canyon, home to more
earth-children per square inch than is allowable by law, to be sure.

Abruptly turning the last bend on the back side of the mountain,
we are dumped out onto the Pacific Coast Highway, I look across
to the water, waiting at the ten minute light -- the air is cleaner,
fresher – downright invigorating.

Choked lungs breathe freely, I head for Malibu -- coffee, the objective.
The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf fills the bill, with one of it’s full-charge
Red Eyes – I wade through the sea of quasi-celebs and hangers-on,
tourists-in-arms, Pepperdine students with fabulous tans and Jesus
in their hearts. Retreating up the road, the destination is Zuma Beach.

Zuma is amazing, dramatic as all California destinations tend to
be. I kick off socks and sandals and run across the wide expanse
of sand, to dip my feet into the relatively mild surf.

What is it about California that seems to turn it’s residents to
Christ in droves? It doesn’t seem to be a quality of life problem.
Laguna Hills, Costa Mesa, Mission Hills, Pasadena – all bastions
of hyper-evangelical thought. This flies in the face of east coast
tradition, where it seems to be the rule that the poorer you are, the
more religion you get. Calvary Chapel on Park Avenue? Assembly of
God on Central Park West? Not bloody likely.

On KNX newsradio, somewhere between traffic reports, a thirtiesh
Orange County man is giving all honor and glory to God, who truly
does have a plan for each and every one of us. What’s this? He’s
won an $11 million jackpot in the Lotto.

Presumably, the Lord does not object to his children indulging in
games of chance, at least not by this child’s interpretation.

"Now I’ve just got to pray and see what it is the Lord would have
me do with all this money."

Sure – I’ll patch Him through as soon as I finish asking him when
this traffic’s going to let up.

---

The drive from Malibu to Santa Monica is pretty much hell with
traffic. A walk on the Santa Monica Pier offers little relief. What’s
with all those cars parked half way into the highway up on the PCH?
I’d be curious to know just how many accidents have occurred
along that stretch.

The scene on the pier is rowdy, but not rowdy fun – old men amble
alone and young men in packs, eyes glancing every which way.

I give up and head for home, but not before stopping in at Chao
Praya, a well recommended Thai joint in the shadow of the
Capitol Records building in Hollywood. In conversation with the
hostess, I discover she too is an aspiring writer, and we discuss
travel at length.