BLONDIE IN L.A., AND NOW FOR SOMETHING DIFFERENT
Or, The Making Of The President’s Chauffeur
Los Angeles, the city of lost angels and angles. Dreamland. And of course HOLLYWOOD. L.A.�s not really a tough town. It has a strange feeling of fragility. Earthquakes on the brain may be part of the reason why the surface always seems about to crack with delicate tension.
In the boiling hot, dry summer season the low-rider gangs leave the barrios and prowl around. The weekend car crunch on Whittier Blvd. has been squelched by the cops and the gangs range futher out, leaving tneir fantastic alien graffiti on stucco walls all over town. V.G.V. V.G.F., etc.— it looks like Martian writing. The fires burn the hills. The Strip still throbs dull reds and pinks and the lights of the Valley still look beautiful in the hot dusty nights.
