So leaving San Francisco for Hollywood. The plane flies over Los Angeles and the place looks, from the air, very precise and controlled in mathematically-precise structures.
It takes forever to get to the hotel – LA seems to be covered in freeways. And when I’m here the hotel is like something out of Barton Fink combined with Quentin Tarantino and the Weapon of Choice music video. oddly familiar, yet at the same time, strangely other and outside of the world. A feeling compounded when I walk out – the hotel is allegedly in Hollywood but it’s in a neighbourhood that seems to belong to Mexico City. Adverts written entirely in Spanish, a mugginess fills the air.
The lovely and divine Pisser picked me up in her bling-bling automobile – unique, I fear, to Los Angeles – and took me on a lovely tour of Los Angeles. Alas, it being dark and foggy, not that much was actually seen. But plenty was eaten, drunk, consumed, gossipped and discussed and I even got a peek at the cool-ass comedy scene.
More sightseeing tomorrow. What a pity.