A FRENCH COMPENDIUM

 The Lizard KIng

 

 

 

 

  From the moment I stepped from the plane at LAX and the stents in my heart set off the metal detectors when going through customs, my quick trip to Los Angeles was a veritable roller-coaster of razzle-dazzle at high speed, or divinely quiet and serene moments, spent in blissful solitude.

  Such should be the perfect balance of life, like night and day, summer and winter, high and low tide. I can live without the glitz and glamour, but it is unfortunately essential. For my ego pays the bills. I am an international leader in my field. 

  Tranquility, on the other hand, is a tonic for the soul. Voiceless nanoseconds are my chosen opulence, luxurious but sporadic moments of calm in the raging storm of life.

  I had already paid scant regard to the steward and her request that I bring to a stop, the drinking of the tequila which I had bought duty free, before boarding the aircraft. I then passed out, woke up to the information that we were disembarking and tried to, as we say in Hungary; szedd össze a szart!

  Once clear of all aviation related chaos, I contracted an Uber and headed for the hills. Given the proximity of Venice from the international airport and what I did not know at that time would become my ‘quest’, I should probably have chosen the famous beach as my first destination, but an opportunity had arisen to rent a house in the hills above Los Feliz Boulevard, which was too good to turn down.

  The neighbourhood has been home to members of the Hollywood elite for well over a century. Americans, across many fields for several generations, had called it home, principally during a time when their own careers were blooming.

  The most enchanting of these to myself, for romantic links to periods of infatuation during my own past, were most notably the American-British novelist and screenwriter, Raymond Chandler. When growing up, a young European boy with a fascination for everything American, I absented myself in Philip Marlowe, the detective protagonist in Chandler’s fictional novel series. 

  I had long admired his stylistic influence on American popular literature and the transformation of some of it onto the big screen, where the legendary Humphrey Bogart became quintessential in the role of Marlowe.

  Movie stars and musicians lived, or had lived, all throughout these hills, close to Griffith Park, under the famed Hollywood sign. Again, of most interest to myself was Bela Lugosi, not only because we were fellow Hungarian’s, but I had truly marvelled at, as a child, his original portrayal of Dracula and later pairings with Boris Karloff in Poe related films, plus of course, Frankenstein. 

  The legendary founding father of the Hollywood film industry, Cecil Blount DeMille, had also been a resident of Los Feliz. Others with whom I had a personal connection, having worked with them  at some stage during my time living in Wellington were Liv Tyler (Lord of the Rings), James Cameron and Giovanni Ribisi (Avatar) and Rihanna (Valerian).

   My own offspring would have been more impressed if I had mentioned more modern celestial bodies, such as Katy Perry, Slash, Eddie Van Halen or Zac Efron. But throw in a few A-listers; Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Leonardo DiCaprio…not forgetting Madonna…you are talking heavenly bodies of the damned. 

  Val Kilmer was yet another with a residential bond to Los Feliz and of course, Val had played Jim in Oliver Stones 1991 biographical musical, The Doors. Shaken into reality by this last thought, I remembered that I had to make contact (once grounded) with The Doors drummer, John Densmore, with whom I had a e-mailed the week before and arranged to meet for coffee, or herb tea, or some other cosmic interlude.

  Which led me on to my next notion, passing through Korea Town from memory; Where or how was I going to score? 

  The house that I rented at 5227 Los Hermosos Way, was built in 1976, but had been extensively renovated in 1988. The slick Spanish architecture was complimented by a superb view over downtown LA, the front section complete with pool, spa pool with coloured lights, all fed by a luminous, cascading waterfall. I’d missed Joe Walsh by a week, the notorious Eagle had been the last to rent the place before me. He'd checked out the day before.

  I was long over the ‘a’ class drugs more associated with my industry. That beck and call had all but ruined my health. I was only interested in the integral simplicity of marijuana these days and there were many other reasons for that, which I feel inclined not to talk any further of.

  That said, I couldn’t help but ponder the thought of a quiet, quality joint (and perhaps a tequila), whaling around in that aforementioned pool, acclimatising myself to LA and the week that lay ahead.

  As the Uber came to a peak hour standstill and the Californian winter sun went down, dusk ascending on the City of Angels, inching slowly closer to my final destination for the night, the driver and I became inevitably locked in conversation. 

  Because she looked (and talked) so much like Joni Mitchell, I almost felt that I knew her. When she asked of my plans for the evening, I told her just what I have written above for you. 

  “So…ah,” she began, “are you soited?”

  I quickly deciphered this, through her New York accent, to mean ‘sorted’ and I took ‘sorted’ to mean cannabis. “Unfortunately not,” I cautiously replied. Only in Amsterdam on the continent, was one seemingly free to talk in this capacity.

  Within a minute or so I was sorted, then and there, thanks to Joni. I swear that suddenly the traffic began to flow a little more freely and that the sudden emergence of the lights along Hollywood Boulevard. had lightened up the gloomy prospect that had been the Freeway.

  Joni stopped at Ralph’s on the Boulevard in Los Feliz, to allow me to grab a bottle of Jimador and a bag of jalepenos. A few moments later I’d punched in the code at the security gates and entered the property. Aside from disturbing a racoon, which took off across the lawn toward a shrubbed area, all was silent. I thought instantly of Bela Lugosi, vamping it up in the Hollywood Hills.