THE RED TRAFFIC LIGHT which had been immobilizing me since the first sentence of Morons Awake! suddenly changed to green! And no sooner did I noticed it had done so than the blonde in the Eldorado was already hightailing her way across Hollywood Blvd! At the time, of course, I didn't wait to collect my thoughts. My first reaction was to shout a silent "Tallyho!" while flooring the Winnebago's gas pedal to pursue that voluptuous vixen as hotly as I possibly could. Given the disparity between our horsepower my chances of catching her seemed slim indeed. But, to my surprise, the distance between us remained more or less constant once I got my RV up to speed. And, by the time we crossed Franklin, I managed to close within 50 yards of those 4 distinctive tail lights she was showing me from the fins of her Eldorado. But narrowing the gap any further was proving to be difficult. When she turned left at Primrose the streets got steeper and more serpentine as we snaked our way higher into the hills overlooking Hollywood. Even when I did manage to gain some ground on her, the Eldorado surged ahead with a brief, dragonlike roar from its dual tailpipes, as if its monstrous engine was warning me to come no closer—or taunting me because I was incapable of doing so. After each of these episodes the blonde would glance back at me over her shoulder briefly showing me an expression that was equally enigmatic. Did those momentary smiles she flashed at me signify the sadistic thrill she was getting at my expense—or, along with the winking of her eye, did they constitute a series of comehither looks meant to lead me on a chase that would culminate more merrily than any Dirty Old Man could ever hope to imagine? In any event, as my chase (merry or otherwise) of the Eldorado and that foxiest of females driving it was to continue for some time in the more or less equidistant manner I've described, we can take advantage of that fact (as I did then) to reflect on the reasons why whatever it was that seemed to be happening to me was actually happening in the way it was.

     To begin with, of course, there was the obvious mystery surrounding the behavior of that perfidious traffic light at the corner of Hollywood & Vine. Why, after having kept me waiting for an eternity, did it change from red to green when I was in the very midst of establishing an intimate rapport with the angelic creature I would never have seen had it not been for its steadfast refusal to change before her arrival on the scene? Or was that "eternity" preceding her arrival merely a figment of my imagination—a time expanding trick played on me by my memory so I might more fully explore (for the purpose of writing this novel) what was actually the evanescentG unfolding of my apotheosis?  While at the time, of course, I didn't have access to the orchestral score of Mahler's Fifth Symphony, my recollection of the precise passage I heard being played on KUSC when I stopped at Hollywood & Vine was crystal clear. And I was similarly confident about those passages which marked both the arrival and the departure of the Eldorado and its starknaked driver. Utilizing my photographic familiarity with all of Mahler's symphonic works I was able to construct a preliminary scenario which indicated that from start to finish the events at the corner of Hollywood & Vine had transpired in no more than 7 measures! Moreover, at the accelerated tempo with which Bernstein was famous (or notorious) for conducting that particular section of the Fifth, those 7 measures translated into a span of real time that couldn't have exceeded 15 or 20 seconds!

     So, there wasn't anything necessarily miraculous—or even unusual—about the behavior of that traffic light after all. At least concerning its operation after I had been brought to a halt. Any speculation regarding the "divine" or merely "coincidental" role it played in arresting my progress up Vine Street is probably futile. For all I knew that light was programmed according to some Master Traffic Control Plan to normally change itself to red just as I happened to approach it. Or it could just as equally have been ordained to do so because I was approaching it. Unfortunately the arrival of that fullyfrontalizedplatinumblonde sexgoddess at the same street corner is also shrouded in the same sort of inscrutability. Nevertheless, when taken together, such an unusual set of "coincidental" factors seems to justify at least the suspicion they could have been celestially stage managed. Especially when one takes into account just how desperately I needed a miracle in order to write that first sentence of Morons Awake!—and the undeniable fact that: If it hadn't been for what happened at the corner of Hollywood & Vine on the night in question that perfect sentence would never have been written! While I can't prove it with that degree of certitude required to authenticate such theological phenomena, I will always believe my meeting with that most heavenly of female creatures was just that—a match created in heaven. As for any reservations you might have about the meaning—or even the truth—of what happened to me on that balmy autumn night at the corner of Hollywood & Vine, once again, dear reader, in the final analysis only you can decide whether a book like this could have been written (and published!) without the considerable assistance of some divine entity.

MEANWHILE, THE "CHASE" CONTINUED. And as it did so I gradually regained some of my mental equilibrium. Enough, at least, to become aware of those details that would later comprise part of the novel I was gradually beginning to realize might actually be written as a direct result of the events I had witnessed since stopping for that traffic light at the corner of Hollywood & Vine. Not the least of these details being the Eldorado's rear license plate. It read "A MUSE" —which I naturally construed as confirming my initial hypothesis about the starknakedplatinumblonde sexgoddess' showbusiness affiliations had been accurate. Since words like "ENTERTAINER" and "ENTERTAINMENT" were precluded by their length from appearing on the customized plates of a Hollywood starlet she had chosen those 5 letters to not only proclaim her celebrity but her reason for being so as well!  In writing my first novel, among other things I've discovered that "scintillating literary inventions" like hers more often than not result when one is forced by some practical necessity to maximize one's creative use of language.

     Considering her starknakedness, I also had to weigh the (strong) possibility "A MUSE" did not signify her status as a legitimate sexgoddess but rather that she was one of those "aspiring actresses" who are forced (by the realities of an industry where the virtues of talent and beauty aren't always rewarded with stardom) into the clutches of some unscrupulous producer whose XXXrated films are filled with the damaged (but nevertheless still marketable) merchandise salvaged from an assembly line whose final products must be absolutely flawless before they are certified as genuine MadeinHollywoodUSAMajorMotion PictureStudioSexGoddesses.

     There was at least one other way of reading of that license plate. Although, because of: (a) The distance involved; (b) The still somewhat agitated state of my mind, and; (c) Eyesight that benefited only marginally from the rejuvenating effects of my metamorphosis into a man who looked at least 20 years younger than he actually was—I couldn't be completely certain. But it was just possible the space separating the letters A and M was somewhat greater than that between the letters M, U, S and E. And if this was indeed the case—if in fact, rather than the single word "AMUSE" her license plate was comprised of the 2 words "A MUSE"—its meaning would, of course, be radically and profoundly altered. Naturally this riddle added no small urgency to all the other incentives I had for following my prey to her destination. Accordingly, I wrote a mental memorandum to myself that: "No matter how distracted I might be by whatever it was that awaited me at the end of the chase I would remember to carefully ascertain the precise spacing of those letters to resolve any doubts about the message they were meant to convey."  That could, of course, prove easier to say than to do. It all depended on what would happen after she arrived at her destination. Was that overtheshouldercomehither look she occasionally gave me really what it seemed to be?  For all I knew she had a husband—or a livein lover—waiting for her at the top of this garden path up which she was leading me. In which case my amatory expectations could very well be consummated in a losing brawl with the kind of musclebound Mister Universe one might expect a Miss America with her correspondingly prizewinning vital statistics to choose for a consort.

     Or worse yet, she might be one of those plain-(or un)clothed female cops the Hollywood Vice Squad deploys to entrap all the fornicationallyminded Johns (and Dirty Old Men) who cruise through Tinseltown looking for some curbside (or motorized) hooker who might be similarly inclined! No matter how remote it was, such a possibility had to be taken seriously. Regardless of what then looked like my failure to ever write the book calling the world's attention to the Klutz Affair I didn't relish the prospect of accidentally delivering myself into the hands of those whose conspiracy against its writing I had worked so long and hard to frustrate. But as my pursuit of her continued I didn't detect a single sign I might be the target of a local vice squad sting operation—or international dragnet. Monitoring the local, state and federal law enforcement frequencies (on the auxiliary radio hidden under the Winnebago's dash for that very purpose) failed to turn up any evidence of suspected criminal activities in the hills above Hollywood. Repeatedly checking my rearview mirror only confirmed that our 2 vehicles appeared to be the only ones driving in this remote residential area at such a late hour. With every opportunity for doing so, I craned my neck through the open window to scan the night sky for the telltale sights and/or sounds of a police chopper—but all I ever saw was the starstudded canopy under which this protracted "fox hunt" of mine continued to unfold. The only noise I heard was the muffled throbbing of our engines, the swish of our tires and those Santa Anas rustling through the roadside foliage.

     By exposing my face to the outside elements, however, I unexpectedly caught the scent of her perfume in a night air whose usually stagnant state of nocturnal pollution had been ventilated by the blowing of those desert breezes. Although describing the scent she was leaving in her wake as a "perfume" isn't entirely correct, it wasn't the kind of manufactured fragrance that comes from one of those fancy frosted flacons lining the sample bar of a Rodeo Drive parfumerie. Whatever the original formula of her perfume might have been when she first applied it to her skin its chemistry had been altered during what was probably a long—and somewhat warmer than expected—day. Having mingled itself with that bouquet of natural aromas even the most fastidious career woman exudes while negotiating the hazards of her daily struggle for vocational survival, the patented fragrance my starknakedplatinumblondesexgoddess began her working day with had long ago become uniquely personalized.  Unless some chemist had in fact managed to counterfeit that olfactory cocktail of freshlybrewed feminine odors and stale love elixirs all men find so fatally attractive. In which case I had to consider the possibility I was tailing one of those highpriced Hollywood Hookers whose house calls were fabled for, among other things, the sudden state of aromatic intoxication they produced upon their arrival. If this were true the "goose"like nature of the chase she seemed to be so wildly leading me on could be explained by the simplest set of facts. To wit: When I first saw her stopped at the corner of Hollywood & Vine she was on her way to a client—whose address she had either lost or forgotten; or, more likely, was finding it difficult to locate in a terrain that was unfamiliar to her. She certainly wouldn't be the first motorist to have gotten lost in that treacherous labyrinth of terraces, ways, drives, streets, roads and avenues overlooking LA. Maybe that "profoundly enigmatic" expression I thought I saw on her adorable face was put there by nothing more ominous than those reservations most female drivers (starknaked or not) have about giving some strange man the wrong impression concerning the prurient implications of their helplessness when simply asking him for directions.

     And still another trainload of thoughts began chugging its way across my already congested mind! If that voluptuous blonde I was trailing was a highclass Hollywood hooker enroute to a client, how could she not be intimately acquainted with a locale where callgirls in transit are as common as pizza deliverymen? And if she did know exactly where she was going why was it taking her so infernally long to get there? Could it be that when we exchanged those "unspoken messages" during our "brief interlude" at the red light she mistook my wink for that of a plainclothed vice dick warning her not to push her luck past that (debatable) First Amendment point beyond which the harmless thrill she was giving him with her fullyfrontalized body language would result in a solicitation bust?

     So, whether she was a homewardbound and overheated starlet, a radicalfeministnonverbalfreespeecher, a psychopathic streaker, or a whoreonwheels plying her trade—if she had mistaken me for a cop it would explain her reasons for delaying our arrival at a destination which might result in: (a) Her arrest; (b) The arrest of her client; (c) A vice squad shakedown; (d) A neighborhood scandal; (e) A domestic row, or; (e) All of the above.

ON THE OTHER HAND, WAS SHE JERKING ME around like this as part of some feminine version of male foreplay? Her elongation of my pursuit closely resembled the techniques I employ to stretch a woman's climactic expectations to their breaking point. My increasing frustration over the semi elusive nature of her maneuvers since she gave me my first lecherous look at her starknakedness was certainly approaching that "painful state of constipated lust" I labor so diligently to inflict on my "victims" before finally ending their "misery" with a coup de joie. [Don't be misled, dear reader. While it might appear from this hindsighted narrative of mine that at the time I was calmly and coolly collecting such "literary" thoughts, the truth is my mind was almost totally devoted to pondering the pure bliss awaiting me when, at long last, the chase ended and I ravished that most delectable (and elusive) object of my predatory desires.] Based on the degree to which she persisted in keeping me at a safe distance you might think my ejaculatory ruminations were decidedly premature—or even delusionary. Wasn't I overlooking the most plausible explanation for her evasive behavior—which is, simply: The poor creature was in fact trying to evade some Dirty Old Man she had inadvertently enticed with her nudity by virtue of the elevated perspective his recreational vehicle had unexpectedly given him on the otherwise from the neck down privacy of her convertible. But you underestimate me, dear reader. Of course I considered such an obvious hypothesis! A hypothesis I rejected for reasons which are no less obvious! If her purpose was to lose the "Lecherous Old Creep" whose prurient curiosity she had "accidentally" aroused, all she needed to do was press her foot more firmly on the gas pedal of that Eldorado and our "relationship" would have been history.

     But, as I've already explained, she chose not to exploit the horsepower advantage her Cadillac had over my Winnebago. The gap between us remained more or less constant at that 50 yards—a distance that prevented any further observations of her fullyfrontalized nudity; but one which did allow me to scrutinize and ponder that mysterious license plate of hers. As the chase went on, however, my curiosity about the spacing of those 5 letters—did they spell AMUSE or A MUSE?—took a back seat to the concerns I began having about the cryptic nature of the chase itself! While I was unfamiliar with the geography of the hills through which we were driving, there were times when I thought I was seeing the same landmarks more than once!  Although it was still possible that because of: (a) The mazelike configuration of the route itself; (b) The repetitive "Hollywood hillside style" of the homes; (c) The vertiginous effect of the altitude, and; (d) The fatigue resulting from the attenuation of such a traumatic experience—my growing suspicions about the circularity of the exercise in which she and I were engaged could have been erroneous.  After what seemed like an "eternity" as enervating as the one I had so recently endured while waiting for that traffic light to change, I decided to compile a mental list of all the street signs we passed, beginning with Holly Drive. Thereafter our meanderings took us along the following route:121 Deep Dell Pace; La Rocha Drive; Quebec Drive; El Contento Drive; Creston Drive; Vasanta Way; Dearborn Drive; Beachwood Street; Westshire Drive; Hollyridge Drive; Rebena Drive; Cheremoya Street; Winans Drive; Greer Avenue; Scenic Avenue; Del Mar Vista Place; Temple Hill Drive; Argyle Avenue; Alcyona Drive; Willetta Avenue; Ivarene Avenue; San Marcos Drive; Weidlake Drive; Lake Hollywood Drive; Lakeridge Road; Woodrow Wilson Drive; Pacific View Drive; Mulholland Drive; Nichols Canyon Road; Willow Glen Road; Jupiter Drive; Hercules Drive; Electra Drive; Oceanus Drive; Zeus Drive; Achilles Drive; Venus Drive, and; Apollo Drive—before we finally ran out of options (or reached what had always been our final destination) when Mount Olympus Drive brought us to the entrance of Inspiration Point: whose mountaintopness would preclude any escape hopes my prey might have once she drove across its threshold.122

     Which, to my relief, she proceeded to do!

     Perched on the crest of Mount Olympus and second only to Hollywood & Vine as a mythic tourist attraction, Inspiration Point is famous for being the "jumping off" spot for some of Hollywood's most celebrated suicides. In bygone times it was also a parking place popularized by such legendary offscreen motorized makeout artists as Rudolf Valentino, Gary Cooper and James Dean.123 On a clear day one can see the snowcapped San Bernardino mountains to the east and the Blue Pacific to the west. And at night Inspiration Point offers an even more spectacular view of the entire San Fernando Valley and LA basin—whose suburban symmetry can be seen laid out as a vast grid of street lights sprawling its hubristic splendor beneath a firmament filled with stars that were flung there as an equally audacious gesture of celestial supremacy.  Because of its central location, strategic vista and Biblical aura124 Inspiration Point has also become the site where thousands of Southern California's most faithful Christians traditionally congregate every Easter Eve for an Ecumenical Sunrise Service. In a setting imbued with such a natural and supernatural mystique it's not surprising that seldom does an Easter pass without at least one Mount Olympus pilgrim reporting his or her miraculous encounter with a freshly reresurrected Messiah. On the other side of the religious coin, throughout its history Inspiration Point has been periodically chosen by some of Southern California's more cataclysmicallyminded cultists as the ideal venue to gather themselves while they wait for this decadent civilization of ours to end in a blaze of apocalyptic retribution. But getting back to our story—

     Naturally I followed her into the parking area. Noticing as I did so that she had apparently used the Eldorado's massive front end to smash her way through a barricade of wooden trestles guarding its entrance! Whether this desperate act resulted from her fear of being caught by me or from the emotional panic of having finally reached that most romantic of settings where her lovemaking fantasies could be fully finalized I couldn't ascertain. But since I was cautiously maneuvering my Winnebago in such a way as to prevent her escape from the corner into which she had so recklessly driven I would soon discover the true state of her mind.

     Or so I thought!

     To my astonishment the Eldorado had completely disappeared! At least it was nowhere to be seen as my eyes scanned the pitchblack darkness for what had been the familiar sight of its twin set of dual tail lights and illuminated license plate! During that split second when I speculated on her motives for crashing into what was an escapeproof culdesac had she managed to somehow make her escape? But no sooner did I ask myself this perplexing question than it was answered! The Winnebago's headlights located her Eldorado parked near a bank of coinoperated telescopes at the very edge of a railed precipice offering the most dramatic view of the scenery below. My "disappearing" DreamGirl had simply switched her lights off!  So much for my nightmarish fears that, just as I'm about to clutch her, she pulls a vanishing act from her bag of female tricks—an empty bag she would leave me holding as a permanent reminder of her feline triumph over my mouselike plans!

     As I drew alongside her Eldorado, however, the hopes that had just been rekindled by its rapturous resighting were cruelly dashed when I saw she was no longer sitting in it! Not a trace of her heavenly hide—nor a single strand of that angelic hair— remained! Even worse, while her radio was still playing it was now tuned to one of LA's heavy metal stations!125 When I told you she left "not a trace of her heavenly hide—nor a single strand of that angelic hair" behind in the Eldorado I was being less than totally truthful. But if I did tell you a lie it was a harmless one; the sort of literary deception a novelist must occasionally practice on his reader in order to recreate for her the chaotic state of a character's mind when he suddenly finds himself facing a set of facts that seem as ominous as those which confronted me. The whole truth is: My first impression of what I saw (or didn't see!) when I first gazed into that driverless Eldorado was indeed as I have described it. Which isn't to say that in actual fact she didn't leave me with at least some clue she had once been sitting there in the flesh. Not that my initial search of the Eldorado's immaculate interior revealed even the slightest physical evidence it had ever (let alone recently) been occupied. The glove compartment couldn't have been barer. Not a single stain or smallest speck of detritus blemished the pristine carpeting. Even the ashtray appeared to be virginal! More remarkable still was what seemed to be the new car smell hovering over the topless cockpit of that 40yearold convertible!126 As my exploration of the Eldorado continued, however, I began to detect a hint of something in that "new car smell" which to my educated nose for such things was decidedly non aerosol in origin. Arising from the driver's seat, its pre orgasmic pungency reminded me of those telltale olfactory indicators an expert foreplayist constantly monitors to maximize his consummation of a woman's lovemaking expectations. But there was also something about that lingering fragrance which seemed to me more faunalG than feminine; like the odor of primal fear emanating from a caged—or cornered—animal.  It certainly wasn't the "puff of ambrosial smoke" or "perfumed wraith" described by ancient poets as that a genuine goddess (or muse) leaves lingering on the thin air into which she so magically disappears. No. The message hanging in the air vacated so recently by my starknakedplatinumblondesexgoddess reeked with mortality. While it might have been written on the wind its meaning was anything but ethereal. Like those invisibly inked "thankyou notes" left on the pillows of my fourposter by the countless Moronettes and -esses into whose downtrodden lives I brought the sublime gift of lovemaking bliss, its text was comprised predominantly of those 4letter AngloSaxon words Lady Chatterly used when expressing her (unladylike) gratitude to that handiest of handymen, Frank Mellors.

     But I was wrong. Not only about the apparently diffuse origin of those vixenish vapors left behind by her disappearance— but about the total absence of physical evidence indicating that she had (or anyone else had ever!) driven the Eldorado before her mysterious disappearance. While rummaging my way through every one of its nooks and crannies I slid my hand under the driver's seat—and there it was! No visual confirmation was needed! My fingertips told me instantly I had found the diaphanous scarf she once wore around that swanlike neck of hers! Reverentially raising that crumpled chiffon with cupped hands as if it were a sacred relic I smothered my face in its bouquet—hoping to get high on whatever fumes might still be trapped in its gossamer webbing. Only the dregs of her scent remained but that fact itself was enough to intoxicate me. Why? Because: While that faintest of odors couldn't have been more "heavenly"—the organic constituents of its complex chemistry were clearly those no genuine goddess is capable of—or would even contemplate—producing. And, since the scent impregnating that scarf was left there by a woman as noncelestial as the scarf itself, the explanation for her "miraculous disappearance into thin air" was no doubt similarly secular in nature!

     The question I then had to consider was, of course—where could she have gone in those few seconds it took for me to locate the abandoned Eldorado? And that was a question whose answer hinged on why she abandoned the Eldorado in the first place? Could it be the public restrooms situated conveniently near those coinoperated telescopes represented the simplest of all explanations for her otherwise "mysterious" vanishing act? Was it possible her desperate gatecrashing behavior was motivated by nothing more mundane than an urgent call of nature?

     Standing outside the doorless entranceway to the women's half of the public restrooms I listened for any sound that would confirm my "natural emergency" hypothesis. But so absolute was the silence all I could hear was my own breathing. Still, it was possible she was sitting in one of those cubicles quietly relishing that profound sense of relief one feels at the happy ending of such an urban crisis.127 But after some 4 or 5 minutes passed without a single audible sign of life reaching my ears I abandoned that passive strategy for a more assertive one. When clearing my throat several times failed to produce any reply from within I took the plunge and called out:

     "Hello? Are you in there?"

     The only answer I received was the echo of my own voice ricocheting from the concrete walls of the restroom's vestibule and cavernous interior. Undaunted, I continued with the most reassuringly avuncular tone I could muster: "My dear young woman, there is absolutely nothing to fear from me. As you've probably guessed, I'm the fellow in the Winnebago who's been following you since that alltoo brief encounter of ours at the corner of Hollywood & Vine. For reasons I can't go into just now, introducing myself by name would be imprudent—and possibly dangerous—for both of us. What I can tell you is that I am not 'the Dirty Old Man' you might have mistaken me for. Which doesn't mean I haven't been sorely tempted by your obvious charms. How could any man not be dazzled by such a display of female pulchritude? And yet, here I am; speaking to you from this safe distance when nothing prevents me from storming in there and 'having my way with you' on the spot!"

     After raising the specter of rape I paused for the hysterical outburst such a suggestion would ordinarily provoke from most women—even those whose seductive ploys are designed to bring out the beast in a man. After hearing only a beat or 2 of my own heart I hastened to add: "Nothing, that is, except the self control and basic decency of a civilized human being. In short, I have no plans for taking advantage of a situation the average chap wouldn't think twice about before exploiting it to the hilt. The fact of the matter is, my dear young woman; whether you deserve it or not, your indiscreet behavior has resulted in nothing more sinister than finding yourself at the 'mercy' of someone who happens to be both a gentlemen and a scholar. Not that those highminded attributes of a man's character are necessarily incompatible with the carnal component of his nature. Just the opposite is frequently—if not always—true; as most women who are fortunate enough to be 'romanced' by such rare paragons of masculine intellectual virtue will testify. In my own case these testimonials are numbered in the thousands. And, while not all of my "paramours" have been completely satisfied—especially those I practiced upon during my lovemaking apprenticeship—not one of them has ever complained that I forced myself on them. In point of fact, the majority of what few reproaches are now and then made about my foreplay failings concern themselves with my reluctance to be more aggressive in finishing the jobs I begin with such consummate craftsmanship!"

     Once again this seemed like an appropriately pregnant point at which to pause for what should have been a conversational overture no normal woman could resist answering. Although, considering the circumstances, making any assumptions about her "normality" was a dubious proposition! After all, despite my lifelong study of the female mind had I ever encountered a woman whose sexual mentality came close to being as inscrutable as hers was turning out to be? In any event, no matter how infallible such blandishments had always been when reassuring some young Moronic thing my designs on her were more fatherly than fornicational, in this case they proved to be futile. While this latest failure of my previously invincible techniques for enticing even the most reluctant woman into a conversational clinch persuaded me they had probably been deployed in a vacuum there was only one way I could convince myself the restroom was empty.

     "Don't be alarmed, my dear," I announced, "I'm coming in there now simply to satisfy my intellectual curiosity."

     "Although," I added as an exculpatory afterthought should my tantalizing affair with this elusive seductress end in a vice squad ambush, "based on my observations of behavior which could be construed as psychopathic I also have a civic duty to insure that a woman in your condition is not a danger to herself."

     If there was a light switch somewhere inside that windowless restroom I never found it. Having to grope my way in the dark made the search that much more irksome—feeling one's way through a latrine is not my idea of how a sexual fantasy (or an epiphany!) should unfold—and, even more importantly, timeconsuming. When my suspicions about the restroom's emptiness were fully confirmed I emerged to find the first signs of dawn beginning to fold that pitch black circus tent under which my wild goosechase had turned into a game of hide&seek. The stars were beginning to fade. Stalled by the stirrings of an onshore eddy the sultry Santa Anas had lost most of their nocturnal steam. What was once a stygian void over whose inky vastness millions of fireflies flew in perfect latticelike formations had lost its magical splendor and could now be seen as nothing more marvelous than the misty gray prologue of what would soon become that smogbound suburban wasteland known as the San Fernando Valley. But there was another—and far more ominous—surprise awaiting me when, after scanning the steep slope for some sign my elusive exhibitionist might be modestly hiding her oncestarknakedness in its dense brush (or, God forbid, leaped to her death!) I turned and saw to my astonishment and dismay that the Eldorado had also disappeared!

     Was it possible that while listening for a proverbial pin to drop in the perfect silence pervading the women's restroom I had failed to hear that engine roar to its thunderous start? Such a scenario seemed extremely improbable. On the other hand this was no ordinary night! Since stopping for that red light at the corner of Hollywood & Vine hadn't I been overwhelmed by a virtual avalanche of improbabilities? And I wouldn't be the first "egghead" who focused his "laserlike" intellect so obsessively on a single problem he was blindsided by some "peripheral" factor which, in the final analysis, proved to be his undoing. Hence the monumental snafus of such military "masterminds" as Napoleon at Waterloo, Churchill at Gallipoli and Hitler at Stalingrad. Not that being fatally outflanked is a peril faced exclusively by those engaged in the art of making war. The "battlefield" of culture is littered with the corpses of unsung painters, sculptors, composers and novelists whose "immortal masterpieces" were doomed to fail from the start by some fundamental flaw in their grandiose design. You can imagine128 how I felt then, when what began as the dreamiest of nights any man could ever hope would actually come true had turned into my worst nightmare.

    And so, dear reader, this chapter ends—not with the Big Literary Bang we've all been waiting so patiently for, but with what looks, alas, very much like an artistic whimper.129

Book One Chapter 6   Return to Index

Footnotes

121 Those who go to the trouble of verifying this itinerary against a Thomas Brothers Street Guide will not fail to notice some apparent discrepancies— particularly those deadended streets which would seem to have brought my chase to a premature halt; and certainly made the contiguity of the escapade I am describing physically impossible. Having discovered these discrepancies myself when checking my memory against just such a map I can't account for them except to say: This "venerable" Los Angeles Street Guide isn't as 100% trustworthy as it pretends to be—or the gaps it accurately depicts (such as that between Lake Hollywood Drive and Lakeridge Drive) were somehow momentarily bridged by the miraculous intervention of the same entity who was stagemanaging my epiphany.

122 At the time, of course, being a complete stranger to the area my knowledge concerning what would be her inescapability from the confines of Inspiration Point was limited to the "NO EXIT" sign posted at its entrance.

123 Similarly notorious as the venue where juvenile hotrodders played their sometimes fatal games of brinkmanship at the edge of Dead Man's cliff, Inspiration Point was the location used for shooting the "chicken scene" in Dean's Rebel Without A Cause.

124 Despite the pagan connotations of its name, Mount Olympus has acquired a theological reverence comparable to that enjoyed by the elevated ground where Noah's Ark came to rest, from which Moses descended with the 10 Commandments and on which Christ delivered his most noteworthy Sermon.

125 Given the automatic frequencysearching feature pioneered by the '59 Eldorado, the brevity of our traffic light rendezvous, and the chaotic emotional milieu surrounding from the entire Hollywood & Vine episode; it looms as a definite possibility those few bars of Mahler's Fifth I heard playing on her radio were of a transitory (and completely accidental) nature. Consequently the prophetic significance of so singular an event vis-a-vis the fate of Western Civilization can neither be affirmed nor denied based on what has become, unfortunately, such inconclusive evidence.

126 Although products can be purchased to create just such a false impression, considering the atmospheric turbulence produced throughout the long chase we had just concluded it seemed to me nothing short of miraculous any superficial scent could cling with the kind of congenital aromatic tenacity with which only a newlymade car is authentically endowed.

127 This might not seem like the appropriate time or place to dwell on a subject so "taboo" but since our story itself has taken such an indelicate turn— and because the impression I have so far given my American readers about their Moronic counterparts is anything but flattering—I feel compelled to state for the record that: When it comes to providing its citizens with sanitary facilities it is we who have a lot to learn from the Morons. Not only is every downtown Moronville block provided with at least 1 public toilet, these spotlessly clean lavatories are virtual shrines to civic sanitation. Their (albeit imported) commodes, urinals, bidets and basins are on the very cutting edge of plumbing technology. And their gleaming tile interiors are decorated with mosaic murals no less artistic than those for which the subways of Moscow and Mexico City are so justifiably famous. Even in the remotest rural areas of Moronia a rustic outhouse can always be found at a distance no further than one can walk in 5 minutes at a liesurely pace. While the case can (and has been) made that the superior Moronic attitude toward "scatological" matters is caused by nothing more profound than the peculiar digestive properties of their turnipdominated diet, the indisputable fact remains they have admirably solved a problem we Americans refuse to even address.

128 While I apologize for having misled you into believing this chapter would end with a climax of orgasmic proportions, in what other way could you be made to appreciate so keenly the bitter disappointment awaiting me at the end of my own expectational odyssey? A misadventure that in my case was anything but fictional! However, as I think you will find when reading the next chapter—if indeed my credibility hasn't been irreparably damaged—all is not (necessarily) lost!

129 Or more like the nearly inaudible conclusion of Mahler's Ninth Symphony as opposed to the explosive finale of his Fifth.

Glossary
evanescent adjective Vanishing or likely to vanish like vapor. See synonyms at TRANSIENT. - evanescently adverb
fauna noun plural faunas or faunae 1.) Animals, especially the animals of a particular region or period, considered as a group. 2.) A catalog of the animals of a specific region or period. [Late Latin Fauna, sister of Faunus.] - faunal adjective - faunally adverb