May 17, 2011
You've made it to the big time.
When I see this hotel on Ventura Boulevard I think about the song Screenwriter's Blues:
And the radio is on, and the radioman is speaking, and the radioman says, "Women were a curse, so men built Paramount studios, and men built Columbia studios, and men built Los Angeles."
Ah, the SHOWTIME MOTEL. Good name for a script, no?
So I have excellent news. And of course being like I am I see it as a sign, a turnaround, relief. You know that as a Southerner by birth I am predisposed to believing that the mysterious ebbs and flows of the universe conform to my superstitions. We're like that down South. It's such a charming quality and it's probably one of the reasons I have settled so well in Los Angeles -- this may be the only huge city in the U.S. (well, perhaps along with San Francisco) populated by hippydippy superstitions, though out here it's about "energy" and "vibration" and "flow" and "karma." No matter what you call it, it's still the same old bone-deep belief that there's a mystery behind living.
Which is to say that after I stood up and declared I am not taking any more crap, Universe! almost immediately my insurance stopped yanking me around and not only are they restoring my Jeep to its 1995 grandeur, they are resolving the whole mess in my favor. Read: paying the deductible. AMEN, people. The tide has turned.
It's like the good Reverend Dr. Michael says, "The universe will correspond to the nature of your song." I guess you should take care about your song. My song is apparently a nonsensical pop tune about gurls in Jeeps in California.
The car was imminently fixable all along, for one thing it is a tank of solid steel and for another I have kept that machine in perfect running condition. It's never lacked for anything, getting every new radiator, the latest in catalytic converters, the differential of its dreams. But of course insurance companies are like banks which is to say they don't understand four by four drop top love. They're all about numbers on an excel spreadsheet. Thus, there was limbo.
As I have been waiting the past week for a resolution on all this, I realized I needed to look at the whole situation in a different light. Not the accident itself -- that was immediate, I knew it could have gone a very different way and I could be lying unclaimed in the L.A. County morgue right now instead of having coffee and typing this ditty. I had that on lock right away. GRATITUDE, check! Why you think I've been walking so much? The simple movement alone became ridiculously pleasing.
What I needed was after, I needed a new way to look at the logistics of the aftermath. (The shrink says that in some areas of the also-mysterious psychology world some see the car as an extension of self. INNERESTING.) I'm not that far gone, but I do think of my Jeep as the one object that has endured the test of time in my life and of course it has a storied history. I don't need to defend my decision here. Pure and simple it's a cool machine and I like it. I hate to see it mangled and scratched up and dented.
So I decided to view this chapter of my Jeep in Los Angeles terms. After all, while still a beauty and still remarkably healthy there comes a time in every aging actor's life when he or she needs a nip, a tuck, a minor facelift. So what if the Jeep needs some re-bar restalyne and bumper botox? It happens even to the most seductive redheads.
When I think of it as an aging B-movie actress everything seems to make sense. After a few weeks and some cosmetic surgery she'll look brighter and younger and ready for a closeup. And it will not cost one everloving dime.
We so crazy.
I have a thing about moody motel pictures.
Posted by laurie at May 17, 2011 9:24 AM