July 31, 2000

Greg Proops

Laughingstock Diary:

Hollywood

Los Angeles is not a city. A city has places to go. That are near each

other. LA has places to go but they are really far apart and there is

lots of traffic. After hours in your car, when you arrive, you're still

in LA. Bummer, dude.

The denizens pilot enormous, gas-swilling, armoured, amphibious

assault vehicles in a land that's fully paved. All the while

complaining about the price of gas, on their cell phones as they try

to kill you. LA was once a huge desert: the snake and the lizard

thrived. Now only their semi-human counterparts rule the

wasteland like Mad Max, till they use up the last gallon of gas on

earth. Stocked on three dollar and seventy-five cent Iced Mochacinos

and completely oblivious to others. The car is the device to separate

and elevate yourself from everyone else with the special, added

bonus of not having to take shit from anyone who isn't operating a

machine as big as yours. When people are already completely self-

absorbed, babe, you have trouble a'brewing. In London before

someone runs you over in their flash motor, they often blink their

lights, very considerately, to let you know that you are blocking

their way and therefore stand or fall. In LA signalling is showing

your hand. Just go, dude. Everyone is really important in their car

and they have but one thought while driving: Must Kill.

The truly annoying thing is with all the furious rushing around and

stress no one is anywhere interesting or important. It's LA not

Paris or Istanbul. The locals are going to the Beverley Connection or

the Cinerama Dome. They are not rushing to the centre for Disease

Control lab with a test serum that cures leukemia. They are not

speeding to help someone. They're going to meet another vacuous

ding chow and blather about stuff they don't know. Or talk about

"Survivor." Or take another showbiz meeting regarding how they

can sap the entertainment out of everything and then run you over.

The weather is perfect; the people suck. In Hollywood being selfish

isn't a fault, it's the only personality trait most people possess. LA is

not a city, it's an idea held simultaneously by a million assholes.

My theory is only the worst English people succeed in Hollywood.

Only the shallowest, most self-aggrandizing liars, mesmerized by the

sound of their own bullshit and convinced of their exhibitionist

sexiness can survive. A hard, cold core where feelings go, a crazed

love of possessions and the need to crush others for your own

personal gain are the traits that serve best in Hollywood. That's why

Liz Hurley lives here. In England she was just Hugh Grant's

girlfriend. In Hollywood she's actually taken seriously as a actress/

producer/glamourpuss. Notwithstanding the fact that she can't act

and no one has seen anything she's produced. She has a posh accent

and will dress skimpily with little to no prompting this makes her an

intellectual in Hollywood. You must always look for intelligence in

Low Cal cus it's never just gonna come at ya'.

Soon the Democratic Convention will take place in old LA.

The Party of showbiz, extra-curricular oral fixation and Barbara

Streisand will gather "downtown" where, by the way, nobody lives

to nominate the man who would be human, Al Gore. The cops will

bust some heads, as they do. That will boost the local news

numbers. A former member of the Eagles will throw out a pithy

soundbite about protecting the environment and Liz Hurley will

attend a cocktail party for women's issue's wearing nought but a

rubber band. And the traffic will be murder. The shallow meet the

useless where the cars can't move.