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B (: hand jive -the brother shake, gangsta salute.. honky!) it never rains in Southern California. Well hardly ever. It rained today. Its still raining now. It feels good. So good that its driving weather. I went for a drive. My motive was to pick up tickets for the Suicide show. Theyre playing tonight and tomorrow. I want to go tomorrow, and Im pretty sure it will sell out cos in LA everything does. And I like driving in the rain. Not through, over, or under, but in the rain. So I stood outside my car for a long while getting kinda soaked, towel dry in the car, and I start driving. And cos its raining LA seems to have changed. Everybody from nowhere has an umbrella. Where and how I dont know but everybody at once and at one cross of a block appears with an umbrella and theyre glancing sinister under their baseball and wool hats at each other. Kinda smirking while theyre doing it. Everbody sharing, everybody in on it. Nobody letting on. Cos its Hollywood and its like a game. So I start to play. And as soon as I begin, I drive slower. And cooler. And everybodys walking slower and looking sinister and smirking and smoking. Smokings pretty much illegal in this city but today cos its raining everybody smokes. Again. So, Im driving real slow with a cigarette and cars are piling up behind me; thats how slow Im going and nobody honks. Cos nobodys letting on. And at every light and every cross I glare sinister at all pedestrians and they look back at me from under their hats. And although its only day all I can see are their cigarettes and their eyes. And its only now after living here for three months do I feel like Im in a real city. Cos LA doesnt seem like a real city. Its too bright. The tones like the accents scream pastel neons like Florida or Miami but its always daytime. Today its different. Today its raining. And the adrenalines pumping. And Im a kid driving down Sunset Boulevard and this kid only answers to Starsky and even then only between smirks and smokes. So after an hour-long steam chase for only two miles I pull into a parking lot and light a smoke, and step on out. Only I dont have an umbrella and I realise if I walk then Im just gonna look like the tourist I obviously am. And I dont wanna let on. So I get back in the car and drive around the block. And it still feels good. Everybodys still playing their part and instead of screaming road rage in coarse striped accents everybodys mumbling. And an American accent mumbled is probably the coolest English accent in the world. Especially when youre short of breath cos youve just smoked a new pack in ten minutes and the rains pushing the smog even lower than usual, and youre living in it and it feels like a millenium-plagued sauna. And Im smiling and I get out again cos Johnnyforeigner or no Johhny-foreigner I want to walk through these people. So I do. And I buy the tickets for tomorrow and the guy at the booth laughs at me cos although Suicide should be bigger than Texas, nobodys there and no tickets have sold; but I presale anyway cos like the magic hats and umbrellas these yanks get kinda clever when pressed. So I buy the tickets and Im looking forward to driving the few blocks home to the same action soundtrack, when I look inside this diner. Its on Hollywood Boulevard and theres three people in there outside of the staff. Theres a fella in the far corner underneath the TV but facing away from it. Hes old. Hes lined. Hes scratching. Hes whispering conspiratorially with himself. Hes a junkie. Hes cool. Hes in the movie. The other two are a teenage Mexican couple mumbling great Spanish slang and hand in between french kisses and fries. Theyre in too. I go in. I mumble my fried chicken and coffee order real quiet cos I dont want to let on. Stranger in the midst. New Zealander in Hollywoods skankiest diner. While its raining. And on the television the world series is on. And its the final. And the yankees are playing. And as I sit with my coffee and point right back at my pal in the corner, the game is won. Its baseball. Its live. The Yankees win. They win the world series. They win it in a diner on Hollywood Boulvard; they play to a teenage couple of gangbanging puppies and they play above an old man scratching and falling asleep to his own best company. And Im with the couple and Im with him. And as the kitchen staff come out and applaud the TV for the sport and the win, a bearded security man steps in. Hes as big as he is black and hes smiling like the cream was always his, cos hes from New York and he loves the Yankees. And he laughs and he hugs the kitchen staff and he slaps me jive and I smile like Im five years old and Im beginning to love this country. And I eat my chicken and everybodys happy cos more people have arrived and theyre all talking baseball and even Im happy. And after half an hour the old guy in the corner stands up and asks nobody; Who won? And reluctantly I leave and the botox grease of the street is the same grease as in me. And I feel good and I swagger across Sycamore and Hollywood. And I trip up and fall on the road and its raining on me. Still. And everybodys smoking. Still. And this new old guy who I tripped into says Watch it man. And I look up and its Alan Vega from Suicide. And Ive met a few celebrities in my short stint in California but only one like this, and she had a Corvette that matched her boots. So Im kinda starstruck. And Alans wearing his trademark blueblocker aviator shades. In the rain. And its now night. And Ive been called cool before but only from people who didnt know me and its obvious that this guy bowls in a different alley. And I tell him its an honour and he gets pretty shy and I tell him that with all the drugs and fucking Ive done to his music he may as well be Barry White. And he tells me To come hang out. And I say I cant, cos Im gonna pick up my girlfriend whos been working her ass off serving sushi to the undeserving; but Ill see him tomorrow cos Ive got the motherfucking tickets. And he says Come hang out after the show, and and I smile like a five year old. Outside. In the open. And I let on. And ruin it for everybody... And sometimes. At least when its raining. I love this town. I could have written a story about the time I went as solo honky to a homeless ghetto blasting gospel service in Oakland and was prayed for (and served free fried chicken)... Or, the time I took too much coke at an illegal afterhours (LA -welcome to the prohibition) and drove through Gladys Knights producers fence... Or, the time I hung out with some Boyz to Men in the same studio that MJ recorded Thriller... Or, the time I got absurdly hooked up in a collaboration with Rod Stewarts producer at a Malibu scenester party... But all that comes later and today is cooler. I smiled a lot more. And tomorrow the suns out. daniel mancini is a child runaway... and an accomplished pornographer... he is currently stinking out hollywood... as the don quixote of private investigators... and the pete best of the free world...
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