I got some tickets on KCRW to go see Singin' In The Rain at the egyptian theatre tonight. Debbie Reynolds was to be in attendance, and was engaged to make an appearance and do the Q&A thing. It turned out to be fun. Singin' In The Rain is such a magical film. It gets weird. Beautiful. I think the best number is Gotta Dance! A young hick kid dances right up to broadway, singing to everybody that he's Gotta Dance! And then the hayseed works his way up from the bottom to the bright lights. And he gets himself some fine clothes. But then he meets the dame in green. The gangster's girl he falls for. That whole number in the club. I don't know how recently anyone has seen the picture. The gangster in the club lets him dance with her, but his two goons glare at him all the while. The goons keep tossing quarters into the air, and catching them. They're perfectly synchronized. And the gangster has a huge, comical scar on his cheek. The whole thing is so over the top.
My favorite of all teachers, Marc Gervais always said that MGM was the opulent studio. They had the best costumes and sets. They spent the most on mise en scene. And he would say that Paramount was the epic studio. They went more for the cast of thousands pictures. Gervais really knew about stuff like that.

I need to get out like that more. But it's hard here in LA. Because you have to drive, and I'm just not willing. It's too horrible. The other night I warmed up my old cutlass and drove it over to Hillhurst Street. I came to a stop, blinkered then went to make my turn. Real easy as I always do in the old car. There was a white ford F-150 stopped on the corner to my left. I had the right of way. I proceeded. I'm halfway across the intersection and directly in front of his truck, and he suddenly floors it. With me in front of him. The truck's bumper is at my chin level practically, and his truck jumps off the mark. From a dead stop. His tires screeched and broke loose. And just before destroying me, he slammed the brakes, screeching to a stop one foot short of my door. I had a heart attack.
Then the guy sticks his head out the window, and he's making this horribly scary, leering face. He's like hanging out the window and grinning like a demented logger - whose still got the stitches around his gourd. Sonofabitch. Like I want to go anywhere now.
Sometimes people are just like that in LA. Everyone is doing the wrong thing. That's when it's time. To. Re-valuate. To recess. To relign.

The thing about the cars in LA. It's this. I'm convinced. It harkens back to the days of the Californios. When LA consisted of a few Mexican ranches. On the Mexican haciendas, they would have a inner-courtyard where the horses were stabled. You could ride right into the compound. Very dashing. Very caballero. These guys are lords. Senores guey. There's no question they';re going to have their horses. And they would entertain. People would come for parties that went long into the night. Los Angeles still has this amazing social side to it. Despite the distances of everything, and the pervading sense of alienation. People in LA want to be lords of their little kingdoms. Little suburban kingdoms. I'm one of them. It's a completely different approach to living from New York or San Francisco. They're 19th century cities. More rentals and turnover of populations.

No, this is not going anywhere. I'm just talking. I'm just a guy talking here right?