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Along Venice Beach I visit Muscle Beach. I see an elderly woman in an alarmingly small sagging bikini, a Venetian carnival mask with Cyrano nose playing an acoustic guitar and singing beneath an umbrella held in the crook of her arm. I pass a dog hat stall and a booth where you have your photo taken with lifesize (whatever lifesize may be) aliens.

Breakfast the next day in the restaurant opposite the Hotel Cadillac. I am transfixed by the following conversation:

Jack Nicholson-type comes in and addresses the man fixing breakfasts behind the counter:

JN type: How are you?
Man fixing breakfasts: No, how are you?
JN type: I'm......good. (Long pause.) See you've got yourself
all....uh...shaved up.

Or transcribed:
Man fixing breakfasts: Fuck you.
JN type: Fuck you too.

(But I am naïve. it probably was JN)

In Los Angeles there is no downtown. In Los Angeles you have to have a car.

After waiting for a bus for 10 minutes I step onto an air conditioned 33 bearing the legend DOWNTOWN.

OK, so it took me an hour and a half but it was all worth it. OK I had to share the bus with the carless which in LA is tantamount to travelling with the decamisados. After about ten miles I am Downtown, although I have for most of the journey been haunted by glimpses of the knot of skyscrapers that belatedly, in its history, became Downtown.


need these streets
city sublime
seismic city
chopper shot
perfect city
dark city
global flaneur
shanghai and seoul
city tourist
loathsome centres
krung thep
sex city
hong kong
nightmares dreams
new sublime
dickens in la

  verybigcity: e-Book by Rodney Blakeston
  :: SITEKICK.CO.UK :: 2002©Rodney Blakeston