Out West

3rd morning waking up in a gloomy LA. It seems the whole country is under an ominous cloud, a presumptuous guest maneuvering to stay for the Summer. How rude. I couldn't be happier, though. Work has brought me to the hometown of one of my best friends. Finally, she keeps reminding me, a visit that's 3 years overdue.

This is my first time in LA and so I have to state the obvious. Celebrity sightings abound and are quite intimate, giving the run-ins a zoo-like, voyeuristic quality. My hotel bar has produced Scarlett J, Ryan Reynolds, Elizabeth Shue, Whoopi, Danny Boyle and a slew of other bigwig producers and directors. Dinner down the road at Il Sole found me rubbing elbows with Eva Mendez. Cafes brim with writers haphazardly typing into macbook airs and readers sipping soy lattes whilst flipping pages of a manuscript or screenplay "discreetly bound" in black. The sound of a door swinging open never fails to be followed by the sound of necks popping, intermingling a dozen heady perfumes as all crane to see who's just entered. Fun for a few days, but I can see how this could become exhausting.

LA is certainly not all pomp and pose. My good friend lives a life of substance, full of love for work and man and home. PCH and I will spend more time together, and soon. Yet a romanticized shot of the New York skyline featured in a documentary I saw yesterday induced a deep saudade, an excitement to return to a lover who's only become more desirable with distance.

I'll be home tomorrow morning, Baby. I've missed your grit, your authenticity. That pretty boy's got nothing on you.