Thanksgiving

I had to hop the hill early this morning to refill my prescription with Jaxx: Three bags of weed and five grams of something called Lilothreporablapalthorin. They give this to old people in their apple sauce at a Santa Barbara sanitarium. I have no idea what this does to them, and I'm not sure why I wanted this, but I really did. And I have money. So I bought it. I buy everything I want.

Beverly Glen was a ghost town. The Jews stayed home today.  

Claustrophobia. This is how I felt as I drove to Encino towards Jaxx's place. I felt locked in. All around me, from the Simi Hills to the Verdugo Mountains, there was nothing but meaningless, jagged horizon, and flat, oil-stained macadam of the streets stretching pointlessly northwest towards a place that no one is even remotely interested in. I once asked a Tonight Show with Jay Leno producer, "What is beyond the Santa Susana Mountains?"  

"Nothing?", he replied, and then he began crying.

Jaxx and I got high this morning and watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on CBS. Later, as I was leaving his ranch-style home, Jaxx handed me a DVD-R and said, "Watch this by yourself. Don't tell Taylor I gave this to you."

Later, I drove up and down Ventura, smoking weed before going home. As I drove towards Laurel Canyon, I saw a woman--breasts exposed--pitching a newspaper tent over her shopping cart next to Jerry's Famous Deli. Her boyfriend was nearby, waving a cardboard sign to passing traffic: "DON'T BE A TURKY. GIVE US SOME FUCKING MONY!"

I honked my horn.

Nothing changes in the Valley. Ever.