Life Begins at 3AM
One of my favorite movies of all time had piqued my interest in jumping into the fun mess of L.A. culture. This was the film that had made me curious about the randomly desperate lives that populated the very unglam spots of the city.
"Go" came out in theaters in April of 1999. I was a freshman in college, clueless yet collected in my thoughts concerning what I wanted to be when I grew up. To the eyes of a just-turned 19-year-old, Los Angeles seemed like a vast fairground of chemically-charged social circles and numerous possibilities that would rival any Choose Your Own Adventure entry.
"Life begins at 3 AM."
The tagline for the film suggested excitement could be found on the other side of the night. Another world came alive after midnight. You could buy yourself a ticket to some dangerous fun, live on the edge, that whole spicy enchilada.
Now, if you’re expecting a story about how I cruised downtown L.A. and stole a credit card from a drug dealer whose prostitute girlfriend shot my neighbor while interrupting a threeway involving a Scotish midget named McFeely…go rent a DVD from your local Blockbuster. The most daring thing I’ve ever done (this week) was steal Coffee Mate creamers from the snack bar at the Ford Amphitheatre.
As I drove home at two in the morning from a Saturday night screening at the Vista in Silverlake, I stopped at the Vons supermarket on Sunset to purchase some cereal and milk for my Sunday morning plop-on-the-couch-and-watch-TV ritual. The doors slid open as I squinted at the near-nuclear flourescent lighting in the store. I navigated my cart through the labrynth of baked goods and dental hygene products, past racks of publications picking on the latest anorexic Sundance starlet, glided by gallons of cheap wine and imported ales on sale for those looking for a last-minute way to drown sorrows that will always come back to torment.
I reached the cereal aisle, a gauntlet of colorful packages promising wholesomeness and natural flavors, cartoon action figures buried under mounds of sugary morsels, and most importantly, a slimmer waist within ten days. A Hispanic clerk was stocking the shelves while Backstreet Boys’ "Shape of My Heart" played over the loudspeakers. He let out a startling "Shit," left his cartload of boxes and walked away, apparently upset over a mistake he had made. But his anger was short-lived; he proceeded to sing along to the boy band ballad as he disappeared from sight. I grabbed my Honey Bunches of Oats (damn Vons for not carrying my Special K Yogurt & Berries) and headed to the dairy section.
A young dude was hanging out by the milk. He wore a striped polo and gray cargos. The standard Silverlakian hipster. I imagined Katie Holmes and Sarah Polley playing Dead Celebrities in the freezer behind the shelves of orange juice (seriously, just watch the movie). I also imagined this guy was probably sleepless and craving some eggwhites to scramble as a late-night health snack. Scenario A: He was up all night writing in his cramped studio off Vermont Avenue and thought a stroll to his neighborhood grocer would help him clear his head. Scenario B: Guy was a dealer looking for some sweets to satisfy the sugar craving he got from all the Ecstacy he consumed at 4100 Bar and mistook the dairy section for the candy corner.
I grabbed my quart of skim and checked out. My nightly commute home would take me down Sunset to Highland, Highland to Olympic, Olympic to the ubiquitous La Cienega. I coasted along the empty three-laned street, my window down, my iPod blaring some Groove Armada, the perfect soundtrack for an afterhours run among the phantom traffic of Miracle Mile.
While I drove I recounted the busy day I had completed. Helping Swaga paint the living room and entryway in his new condo. Attending the "Book of Daniel" Outfest screening at the DGA Theater and reuniting with some the writers of a television treasure too few tried. It had been good to see Jack and some of the crew. Afterwards, Steve Kmetko had moderated a discussion panel and Q&A with Jack and some of the actors. Everyone, the panelists and those in the audience, had expressed their sorrow and frustration over the unnecessary "controversy" and early cancellation.
There is a hypocritical, Nazi-like minority in this country that has a very powerful voice and will do everything in its capacity to bring down harmless change and those who simply want to express their feelings…But my soapbox is in the shop, so I’ll save this for another day. Instead, THIS IS WHERE I PROUDLY PLUG AWAY: "THE BOOK OF DANIEL" ON DVD SEPTEMBER 26. Visit your Best Buys and Targets and Circuit Cities and make a purchase, won’t you?
The remainder of my Saturday called for a quick trip to the gym. I had neglected to go for a week, and my energy levels had been that of an octogenerian librarian sipping chamomile in a La-Z-Boy chair. Dinner for the evening had taken place at Cheebo with Molly (my first time). Drinks were on the house (Molls knew the bartender). I was on the floor. Next: said screening at the Vista. And…
Back to my drive…
I arrived at my beloved South Bedford, climbed the stairs to my apartment, and collapsed into bed. No discreet drug trades in littered alleyways. No neon raves in abandoned warehouses. No car chases throughout the potholed streets of Inglewood. Just me. And my toothbrush. And some dreams about deadlines and timeshares in far-off places.
3 AM came and went, but my life had already been in progress.
H.P.M.
