Still In Hollywood

"Still In Hollywood" - Concrete Blonde (Concrete Blonde - 1986)

I hate L.A. Forget the Starbucks on every corner. Forget the marginal celebrity in every café. Forget Randy Newman. I hate L.A. And I have a million legitimate reasons why. But I’m not going to tell you what I know. You have to know if for yourself. You have to feel that sun burn turn into cancer. My grand total of 2 ½ days, spent in the lair of sun-shined movie stars, grounded my perceptions. Despite spending that 2 ½ days in the home of the man who shot Jaws. Despite discovering the original storyboards for Taxi Driver. Despite sifting through 30 years of Academy screeners in the basement of Scorcese’s former DP. I still hate L.A. That’s not enough to change my mind. Travis Bickle should come and shoot the whole place up. The violence of redemption.
You see, I am not keen on places that suck your soul out through your nose and leave you bleeding in the streets. In the case of L.A., that would be the 405. And unless you have your cell-phone charged and are safely in your BMW, you will probably die. Bled dry. Alone. I hate L.A. Has-been actors are such before they even arrive in the synthetic playground. The Midwest. The South. The East. They send their legions of aspiration and communication degrees. It’s the only place where your shelf life is shorter than computer software.
I had a friend to go. Against the warnings. Against the odds. Against everything. The voices of the past were stronger. Soon they were the voices of the sidewalk. And the bus. Can you see me through the honey glaze she asked? I hate L.A. The diner. The diner doesn’t pay well. Keeps me in cigarettes. I don’t dress as well as I should, but that will change. I don’t eat as well as I should, but I don’t really need to eat out here. No one does. At least not my friends. Oh, you have a few of them. Not really. Competition. Her cell phone uncharged. Breaking up. I have an audition. Another one. I haven’t heard from you in so long. I met the queen of L.A. At least that’s what she said. I hate L.A. Why does everyone put on sunglasses and think they’re important.
When are you coming home, I wanted to ask her. I keep thinking your not okay. What? I’m not living under a truck or anything. It’s glorious. We’re all beautiful. Immaculate. Sunshine. You can’t fool me. It’s taken your life. Where are you? Where’s your BMW? Is Starbucks hiring? What about that pilot you went out for? Any word?
Honestly, I thought I’d be out of here by now.
Isn’t life grand?

http://www.concreteblondeofficialwebsite.com/