It is absolutely selfish, very empty, but not false, and at least not full of false effort. It’s a sort of crazy-sensible.
— D.H. Lawrence, on Los Angeles
Los Angeles by Night
Seen from an approaching aircraft that is gradually losing altitude, the nighttime illumination of Los Angeles looks like a magical image. Later, on the streets of the city, that same light seems pallid and sickly to me, an unnatural brightness in which the green lawns and bushes in the front yards of the houses look as if they were made of plastic.
I LIVED ON GRACE AVENUE, A BLOCK ABOVE THE BOULEVARD IN A CRUMBLING MEDITERRANEAN STYLE BUNGALOW WITH A BEDROOM LINED IN A DECOMPOSING DARK GOLD BROCADE LIT WITH GLOOMY BLUE BARE LIGHT BULBS. I DROVE A BLACK T-TOP CAMARO THAT BLASTED WAGNER, SISTERS OF MERCY, AND MARLENE DIETRICH AND I WORE ALOT OF MAKEUP WITH LONG BLACK LEATHER GLOVES THAT I NEVER TOOK OFF. I WOULD HAUNT SLEAZY HUSTLER BARS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD LIKE THE SPOTLIGHT CLUB OR THE BLACKLIGHT AND END UP AT CRENSHAW CLUBS LIKE BLACK GAY DISCOS, JEWEL’S CATCH ONE, OR CLUB HORIZON FOR THE LESBIAN STRIPPER NIGHT IMMORTALIZED IN LEILAH WEINRAUB’S DOCUMEaNTERY SHAKEDOWN, AND THE SPANISH-SPEAKING DRAG SHOWS AT THE PLAZA SALON.