Thursday afternoon, I drive the Pepperdine campus and stop at Alumni Park, where Brother Tom and I used to do some serious route-running. There are a few girls on beach towels. Students here? No, we go to high school in Thousand Oaks. Cool! You ladies take care. And so I spin the football in my hands and stare at the view for a while. The babyblue lifegaurd shacks, the dramatic cliffs, the zillion dollar houses, the sky. I mean, have you been to Malibu?
I drive the PCH to Santa Monica, where I meet Lauren, Andrea, Justin. I've been in LA for less than an hour and look at me: I am beachcruising to a Lakers bar on Wilshire, I am watching Kobe and the Foreigners, I am schmoozing with fashion reps...
I spend all day Friday on this beachcruiser. Down Montana, left at Ocean, right at Santa Monica Pier. Up Arizona Street, down the Promenade, to Main. Granted, I'm doing all this on a beautiful, why-live-anywhere-but-here Friday, but everyone I encounter is soo nice. A few cars pull too far into the intersection; they reverse and apologize! The waiter at World Cafe is little late with my beer; he comps it! The barista at Urth likes my new fedora (purchase validated)! A stranger on Third Street complements my beachcruiser, Nice ride my brother! Picture-perfect Friday in Santa Monica. A nice ride indeed.
And now for the drive into Hollywood. It's 4pm, could have timed this one better. Traffic is nightmarish, but whatever, I'm in Westwood, I'm in Melrose, I'm in Beverly Hills! Look at the houses, the trees, and pretty gates and shiny Bentleys. And CRUNCH. San Diego to LA (the long way) unscathed. And, today, my first collision.
It's my fault. We pull over and assess the situation. Everyone's fine, damage is minimal. The guy I hit (more like bump, more like tap) is Joshua, a nice young guy, but he's nervous because he's leasing this Beamer, typical, and is accountable for every ding. We exchange info and we part ways amicably. I pull onto Sunset two hours after leaving Santa Monica and call Steve. I'm a little flustered. Pinkberry? Pinkberry.
Later, Crown Bar in Hollywood. The kids are hip and the music very fresh, written seconds ago. So I'm walking the place, surely rubbing shoulders with future Hollywood greatness, and I'm telling my story, making friends...
Her: What's your number?
Me: 858-
Her: Okay, 310-858-
...And who do I bump into (again) but Joshua. Dude! Didn't I rear-end you today? Yeah man! How are ya? I apologize for the inconvenience and buy him a drink. I meet his friends, some curiously beautiful people in skinny jeans and gossamer V-necks. I meet a guy that I thought was Danny Masterson but is in fact a just a film editor. I meet Dom from Entourage. I meet Pau Gasol. Everyone is soo nice.
And why wouldn't they be? This is LA, the sunny 33rd parallel, where broke actors wear True Religion and drive BMWs, where the floor ain't bad and the ceiling is high. The razor's edge of cool. The good life. Why live anywhere but here?
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