A long time ago we were thin. And then we decided to leave. We took the Verrazano. We were gently lowered into this place, they called it Staten Island. Everything was different. Now where are we? The nights are bleak. There goes another maniac, dashing across the dark street. You see panic in the limbs at the edge of the headlights. Am I going to hit that car? Is that bus going to pull out in front of me? Can I fit my car in that space? Did the oil light just go on? Should I turn my head to look or can I just slowly slide into the other lane?
Why does it always smell like skunk in Los Feliz? The weather's beautiful. Who cares about Groundhog Day in L.A.? And that's the messed up thing, isn't it? We don't care about Groundhog Day because nothing is going to change. We have no idea when spring will arrive. We have no idea when it's over. Every day is perfect.
I like my new city. I like Thai Town. I like Chinatown and Monterey Park. I like the palm trees on clear days. But sometimes, going home, I do miss Sixth Avenue at night: taxis, buses, Gypsy cabs, people streaming to Rockefeller Center, to Times Square, up through Central Park, the tourists lined up at Radio City, the partners and executives hustling into Town Cars. Walking past the Barry White impersonator and his light show, down to the F train, steaming away underfoot, chugging for Brooklyn.
I try to avoid the people running for their lives in the dark across Sunset Boulevard. I try not to hit any cars on the way home.