When I first arrived in Los Angeles, helicopters, like lightning bugs, dotted the sky. I gazed in awe at palm trees as tall as apartment buildings, at signs professing love and welcome to Hollywood, then Venice, then the Santa Monica pier. I thought I had been surprised at the beauty of Boston, of the winter and its, you know, soothing chill; but L.A. shines with creativity and a distinct fashion. The city wears funky hats and short skirts, tight dresses and heels like anchors. It drinks too much; it parties, plays, performs. Singers work in clothing shops and restaurants. Dancers hit the stage, and then the club. I’m honored to be here. This city. On these star-laden streets, staring down at Lucille Ball and Marilyn Monroe. Both friend and enemy; both native and outcast.
Welcome to Hollywood. Seriously.