Ah, Hollywood...retarded enough to be smitten.

Standing in front of my East-facing windows tonight, I look upon the lit up Capitol Records building with red-pointed spire, the Knickerbocker Hotel, and some of our beloved Hollywood Boulevard.

Right next to my building, Jean Harlow used to drink herself into a cozy state of gorgeous repose. And her spirit is still there sometimes, watching over the garbage bins...making sure I don't get knifed over an iPod.

Looking out into the crystal clear night, made all the more pellucid by yesterday's rain, I realize that there really is something to Hollywood, ironically.

It's the stuff that dreams are made of, baby. Just in from Iowa? Sure, give it a shot! You were Prom Queen? Stand in line, baby doll, so's everyone else in this pale yellow room in Burbank waiting for their scene. But you know what? You've got a chance, however slim.

Sure, sometimes those dreams get crushed under a parade of Ferragamo shoes headed to the Ivy, but still, but still!

Tonight I realized that should it ever come to it...should the new management of my building here on Whitley Ave. evict me for not paying rent in 45 days, I really will miss dear old Hollywood.

She's a strange, but magnetic little bitch, she is.

OK, no more Woodford Reserve for me tonight.

Good night, all, and have a pleasant tomorrow.