It’s Christmas Eve and I’m spending it in Los Angeles. Last year, on the beaches of Camps Bay, way down in the SA (sorry, writing a musical), all I could think of was getting back to the cold and snow and country of states united. This year, all I can think of is Christmas Story marathon, alone with nostalgic glory in my apartment on Kings Road. Things change. Themes remain the same.
Because I’m so predictable, I can tell you something. Christmas night, finding myself suddenly over a mid-day drunk, I’ll stand on my back balcony, look to the sky, wait for an impossible snowfall to come, hope for visible breath, a chill before losing balance of mind…which will drive me to head out, likely first to Mulholland then later the dip. The dip happens not far from where I live, just as you pass the light on the north side of the intersection. There’s a big yellow sign just off to the side, “DIP.” Though, I doubt with sincerity this offers relief to any drivers green to the intersection of Beverly and Crescent Heights.
Most of the time, late at night, I begin my northern creep between Beverly and 3rd street, waiting for the light to change from red to green. Sometimes, when traffic allows, I’ll sit idle in the middle of the street, waiting. I wonder what the locals think of me. I wonder if I’m lore…sometimes think about how much I yearn to be.
When the light does finally change, I go. The first time I hit the dip, accidentally going 20-25, I shot into the air, remember thinking something to myself, something along the lines of “Fucking LA.” Then later, “Fucking awesome LA.”
Over time, I worked my way into the 30’s…later to the 40’s…last week flirting into the 50’s. And yeah, life permitting, I think I enjoy it...among other things.
…
"I’m finished."
