I spent this evening at a very glamorous surprise birthday party in the Hollywood Hills for my friend John. There was a line of Jaguars valet-parked in front of his painstakingly restored mid-century ranch home, the kind that tumbles down a hillside in a section of Hollywoodland insiders refer to as the "Swish Alps".
The crowd was eclectic and fun. Producers, designers, TV stars of the seventies, and a sprinkling of bohemian Hollywood neighbors to add charm to the mix. But hot -stiflingly hot. Almost brush fire hot.
I relaxed at the portable wonder of a bar which only hours ago had been a pool deck and sipped diet tonic. When the heat began to get to me, I climbed the staircase to the driveway to catch a breeze. At that exact moment, my straight ex-boyfriend was pulling up with his new wife of six days. I attempted not to notice but that was for naught. He greeted me tentatively. I said hello to him and gave her a hug. Him I prefer not to touch.
As they descended the stairway I looked up the hillside at a spectacular polished glass box- a cantilevered mid-century home lit up with a series of George Nelson pendant lamps- it was gleaming white and spectacular against the night sky. It represented the promise of what I expected when I moved to Los Angeles all those years ago. I contemplated the revised guest list and walked to my car.
I'm trying to capture my mood. The best representation, filmed in Hollywood only blocks from the party locale, comes from the eclectic Dwight Yoakum. He clearly has the cutest butt of the entire Bakersfield Sound.
Have a listen:
Will the pain ever dissipate?