Los Angeles. . .So much about this city changes on a daily basis and yet the life running through it's veins remains the same. The money is as ever - grand and illusive, the lights are as ever - bright, the draw of fame and fortune are like pheromones to midwestern youth. Forgotten stars line "The Boulevard" and the Angels watch from heaven but their vision is obscured by the blessed marine layer that makes Los Angeles as mild as it makes her harsh.
No, in Hollywood, the circle of life continues; shows are made, shows are canceled, movies soar and others flop, players shift, the pieces change, the faces start to age, get a little nip and tuck and you're back in the game for spell only to be replaced with the next generation of young looks.
And right in the middle, on Serrano Ave. there is a small and innocuous apartment building with a Mediterranean court yard, an avocado tree, two squirrels, a lazy cat sitting on the hood of a warm car, a small Sicilian balcony looking out toward the hills, a picture window with a view of James Dean's final winding road, and a small table with a macintosh laptop.
And this my friend is my Los Angeles. . . .
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