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That line implies that L。A。 is a magnetic field and that all L。A。 migrations are suspect。 That line indicts your desire to e to L。A。 and categorizes you as an opportunist with a hidden sexual agenda。 That line is a cliché and a prophecy。 It foretells your brief sensual riches and your grindingly protracted fall and retreat。
You can reinvent yourself en route。 You can assume your desired identity and make attitude count for a thousand times its hometown value。 You can live in a munity of people who came to L。A。 to be somebody else and envy the few who make money at it and blow you off as a loser。 You can blame your fall and retreat on the city that magnetized you and duck the issue of your own failure。
People will understand and empathize。 They know that L。A。 is big； bad； and beautiful and full of the power to mortify。 That power carries a built…in escape clause。 L。A。 rejects can cite it without the appearance of unseemly self…pity。 The clause grants forgiveness through mitigation and holds L。A。 up as a city beyond any individual's control。 There's enough truth in the clause to keep anyone from questioning his desire to e to L。A。 in the first place。
I'm 〃from〃 L。A。 My parents made the migration and spared me the grief of making the jaunt on my own。 I possess certain L。A。 migrator tendencies。 I migrated east to enact them。 I'm sure that my parents would have understood the move。
My father arrived in the mid…'3os。 He was a tall； handsome guy with a gigantic 〃schvantz〃 and an inspired line of bullshit。 He had won a few medals during World War I and hyperbolically embellished his exploits。 He jumped on every woman who'd let him and firmly believed that every woman who didn't let him was a lesbian。 He landed in L。A。 with a flash roll and some snazzy threads and gravitated toward the movie biz。 His career as a Hollywood bottom feeder topped out in the late '40s。 He got a gig as Rita Hayworth's business manager and allegedly poured the pork to Rita on many auspicious occasions。
My mother won a beauty contest and flew to L。A。 in December of'3 8。 She was a 23…year…old registered nurse from the Wisconsin boonies and the Elmo Beauty Products' newly crowned 〃America's Most Charming Redhead。〃 She toured L。A。 with the most charming blonde； brunette； and gray…haired winners； took a screen test； and flew back to her job in Chicago with i；ooo in prize money。 L。A。 kicked around in her head。 She learned she was pregnant； aborted herself； and hemorrhaged。 A doctor acquaintance fixed her up。 She got the urge to start over in a sexy； new locale。 She took a train back to L。A。； found a pad and a job and met a schmuck who may or may not have been an heir to the Spalding sporting…goods fortune。 She married the guy and divorced him within a few months。 She met my father in '40 and fell for his good looks and line of bulishit。 My father deserted his wife and shacked up with my mother。 They were married six years into their shack job and seven months before my birth。
They told me stories； took me to movies； and encouraged me to read books。 They force…fed me narrative lines。 I grew up in the film noir era in the film noir epicenter。 I read 〃Confidential〃； 〃Whisper〃； and 〃Lowdown〃 magazines before I learned to ride a two…wheel bike。 My father called Rita Hayworth a nympho。 My mother wetnursed dipsomaniacal film stars。 My father pointed out the twoway mirrors at the Hollywood Ranch Market and told me they were spy holes to entrap shoplifters and disrupt homosexual assignations。 I saw 〃Plunder Road〃 and 〃The Killing〃 and learned that perfectly planned heists go bad because daring heist men are selfdestructive losers playing out their parts in a preordained endgame with authority。
Johnnie Ray was a fruit。 Lizabeth Scott was a dyke。 All jazz musicians here hopheads。 Tom Neal beat Franchot Tone halfdead over a blonde cooze named Barbara Payton。 The Algiers Hotel was a glorified 〃fuck pad。〃 A pint…size punk named Mickey Cohen ran the L。A。 rackets from his cell at McNeil Island。 Rin Tin Tin was really a girl dog。 Lassie was really a boy dog。 L。A。 was a smog…shrouded netherworld orbiting under a dark star and blinded by the glare of scandal…rag flashbulbs。 Every third person was a peeper； prowler； pederast； poon stalker； panty sniffer； prostitute； pillhead； pothead； or pimp。 The other two…thirds of the population were tight…assed squares resisting the urge to peep； prowl； poon stalk； pederastically indulge； pop pills； and panty sniff。 This mass self…denial created a seismic dislocation that skewed L。A。 about six degrees off the central axis of planet Earth。
I knew an inchoate version of this at age 9。 I knew it because I came from L。A。 and my parents told me stories and lies。 I knew it because I read books and went to movies and eschewed the gospel of the Lutheran Church in favor of a scandal…rag concordance。 I knew it because my mother was murdered on June 22； 1958； and they never got the guy who did it。
My mother's death corrupted my imagination and reinforced my sense that there were really two L。A。's。 They existed concurrently。 I bebopped around in the cosmetically wholesome Outer L。A。 I conjured the Secret L。A。 as a hedge against Outer L。A。 boredom。
The Secret L。A。 was all SEX。 It was the shock and titillation of a child slamming up against the fact that his life began with fucking。 It was my father's profane laughter and scandal…sheet deconstructionism。 The sheets rendered beautiful people frail and somehow available。 mon lusts shaped and drove them。 Their pizzazz and good looks made them more and less than you。 If the wind blew a certain way on a certain night； you could get lucky and have them。
The Secret L。A。 was all CRIME。 It was Stephen Nash and the kid he slashed under the Santa Monica Pier。 It was Harvey Glatman and the cheesecake models he strangled。 It was Johnny Stompanato shanked by Lana Turner's daughter two months before my mother's death。
CRIME merged with SEX on 6/2 2/5 8。 My Secret L。A。 obliterated the Outer L。A。
I've been living in it for thirty…nine years。 I've reconstructed L。A。 in the '50s in my head and on paper。 I did not e on vacation or go home on probation。 I lived in the literal L。A。 and dreamed my own private L。A。 I left the literal L。A。 sixteen years ago。 It was simply too familiar。 I left the Secret L。A。 one book and one memoir ago。 I made a conscious decision to drop L。A。 as a fictional locale。 I had taken it as far as I could。
I've been jerked back to L。A。 '53。 A man made a movie and reinstated my L。A。 life sentence。
Curtis Hanson is serving life himself。 His sentence carries binding permanent…residence clause and a work…furlough waiver。 He's got ten five…year hash marks on his jail denims and the beach pad characteristic of all successful L。A。 lifers。 He splits town to make films and es back to L。A。 rejuvenated。 He's serving his life sentence voluntarily。
He made 〃Losin' It〃 in Calexico； California； and Mexicali； Mexico。 He made 〃The Bedroom Window〃 in Baltimore and 〃The Hand That Rocks the Cradle〃 in Seattle。 He made 〃The River Wild〃 in Montana and Oregon； and 〃Bad Influence〃 in present…day L。A。 It's the Faust tale retold for yuppies and hi