So I'm on my way home yesterday and who should I see with her arm extended and thumb pointed skyward, but periodic contributor to the Hollywood Temp Diaries and national treasure Maya Angelou.
I wasn't in much of a mood to write last night. But lucky for me, Maya was. Trapped on I-10 between 26th Street and La Cienega she began to scribble furiously in her note pad. When I dropped her off at her destination (which was curiously near the Pleasure Chest), she handed me what she'd written. "It's the least I could do," she said. What a woman.
URBAN. URBANE. OR BANE
12 lanes slicing though
Bisecting sprawl from
I dream of being home
On the couch,
Potent Potables for $1600.
The Christopher Columbus Highway
Jacksonville is 3500 miles hence
At our current
15 days with no stops
Barely faster than Horatio Nelson Jackson did in 1903.
Horns are useless instruments of noise. I wish there were
Noise Statutes. Right Danny?
Non-existent methane pockets and
Subway to the Sea
How low can the speedometer go? Is the engine
A traffic jam for what?
A Clippers game!
Nothing makes sense in Hollywood.
It never will.