After having a particularly satisfying session at my happy place, the LBC, my smoky writing lounge of fervid and fecund social exchange, I was driving a good friend, Enzo, to his flat off of Ogden Drive, not far from the taco truck we just left on Olympic and Wilshire (Enzo was starving as was I, but the thought of tacos churning in my belly at that point in my life seemed like a poor idea). Enzo offered to have me drop him at the truck and he would walk home, but I refused to abandon my friend so I waited in my big and picked up, redneck, beach-ready Jeep Wrangler. A couple of minutes later, no more than ten, he ambles back to the Jeep, hands full of vittles and plastic kept condiments; pepper, some green, seasoned sauce among other goodies hid in his hand and armed embrace. Once he reaches the ride,i assist him by holding his organic and greasy treasure while he hops up and in the lifted vehicle. And we're off to his spot, then I'm off to mine in Mar Vista, no heavy lifting, no sweat, just a measure of petroleum and moments- the only resources that we are burning to the end of their respective functions. A couple of minutes into the drive, random, cool conversation is sparked and gently nourished and stoked by the curious ease and comfort a healthy and mutually respected friendship engenders. As I lay back in my seat, groping my handles of control, a black, leather wrapped wheel determines direction and my stick, like an upside down exclamation point with numbers 1 through 5 pressed on the ball with the sole letter, "R" (for "reverse"), positioned at a point on the ball as well, I notice the all too familiar shape of law enforcement creeping near my position; yes,the Po-Po, jakes, 5-0, the federales, la policia! it seemed, were stalking the Jeep and her until now, stress-free passengers. Immediately the calm dark of night was ravished by red and blue flashing lights, bright, whistling and purposefully frightening unnatural light bludgeons the cool duo and their placid context. This is, and I'm being mildly hyperbolic, the very last thing in the World I need to happen now especially with the condition my "papers" are in. I hushed the Jeep at the first available spot I could find and quickly so as not to perturb the enforcers behind me armed with state sponsored authority, an authority that is, at times, ultimately necessary and other times, abused horribly. This time when the die was rolled, risk kissed my cheek and carressed me. There is always the possibility of things going bad and getting worse. That is the nature of the World. So as we waited for the policia policia to run my name and information, Enzo and I spoke about intentions and friendship and punk music and dangerous women. Just under the surface of our exchange, a trepidation ebbed and flowed in my belly as we awaited the return of authority. Adventure is always adventure, but it isn't always necessarily a pleasant experience. This I've come to know for sure and even though it isn't always fun and games, adventure, for the hero archytype, for the taker of the left hand path is the only necessity. I look in my rearview and see an assault of red and blue photons exploding into my visual field with a shadowy body increasing in size as it moved in close and closer proximity to my driver's side door. My spincter involuntarily tightens. Ok, let's see what new torture or delight this gamble has in store...
More on this later in part 2...a hint, the Cult of Los Angeles remains in the cut and whole, but, wait for it...the remainder of the post in awhile dearest and most beloved Reader.
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