Touchdown on the runway around eleven in the morning—stomachs full of black coffee and salted peanuts. We were half-asleep and half-alive. We felt like we’d been hit by a train. But the cool air and the sight of palm trees raised our spirits. Los Angeles is a hell of a place to walk around and breathe.
Yes, and in the evening there was an Irish pub and folk music. There were people drinking pint after pint of foamy brown beverages. We drank pear cider and brews laced with a hint of honey. A few video professionals showed up later on—once we’d lost our balance—and offered up their fine services. And just where would you like to go? they asked.
“To the Hollywood Hills,” we said, “where dreams are born, and where dreams go to die.”
Hell, we’ve got a few dreams. Let’s see what we can do about them while we’re here.