Its late Sunday when my dusty Tahoe pulls off the 101 South onto Highland. I barely notice the screaming lights of Hollywood Boulevard as I pull past La Brea and straight into the parking garage.
I kill the engine and Tahoe groans to a stop. All is still.
I’m six hours, 400 miles and 2 bacon double-cheeseburgers from my old apartment in San Francisco. I’m at the doorstep of my new home.
The grill is grimy, plastered with a rainbow of bug carcasses. I don’t know which phylum of insect bleeds purple, but color me impressed.
The trunk is loaded to the hilt, but I’m tired. Only the guitar and the laptop are making it out tonight. The rest can wait.
I’m here. Welcome to Hollywood.
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