My apartment has that 70s noirish Valley-thing going for it. A little LA Confidential, a little Elliot Gould does the hardboiled detective with a Jewfro-gig. Thin walls, Venetian blinds, a baby screaming upstairs (neglected or just colicky, who can tell?), the kind of place where a guy might go to interview the roommate of the dead mol who just washed up on the banks of a dried-up Ventura swimming pool, if you know what I mean, and she answers the door in nothing but eyeliner, a white T-shirt, underwear, and a Lucky Strike. She invites him in, half-listening as she reads the trades and sips her coffee (an aspiring actress who works the night shift at Mel's Drive-In) without any reaction as he lets her know her missing half of the rent just kicked the bucket. Damn, this baby's still screaming. Should I call someone? I hear it crying alot. Then again, babies cry alot...
Anyhow, that's why I'm not asleep. Thinking about pimps and producers and all this other LA neon lights, hot city stuff.
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