As the sun sets, and Hollywood blvd begins to empty and refill at the same time; the atmosphere changes, the business people in rush hour began to change into people rushing to get to the bar, the same people that make the rush hour crowd rich, is the same people rushing to the bar, the club, some form of entertainment to get away from the miserable corporation, unethical acts of people and having to construe what the public wants, because for some reason the message isn’t clear. Sunset strip, here I come, the bar here I come, roll the windows down and feel the cool damp air, the breeze and smell of Hollywood. The lights slowly began to twinkle as the orange glow from the sunset begins to set; the energy surrounds the blvd preparing for a night of romance and drunken violence; the acts of lust feel the air, as the girls with perfume saturate the air and their hills clack against the piss stained sidewalks of Hollywood. The dispensary gives off the smell of the finest marijuana in the country. The sun giving off its last glow before it rest, simmers on the horizon, allowing the stars to twinkle in the Hollywood sky; night has arrived.
For a brief moment the traffic has died, only to turn into drunken idiots behind the wheel, honking horns and tourist astounded by lights, the magic that is Hollywood. The litter streets of the fame and TMZ, the masses of people on highland out on the town for a cool stroll, sun glasses worn at night by a group of guys drenched in old spice, wearing 90’s style clothing, like time has stood still; until they open their mouth is when you notice, this is a different time. Not a bad thing, it’s different. As the night proceeds, the people began to pour in and the traffic is backed up on the 101. Traffic accident caused in DTLA by someone dropping their blunt and almost causing the car to almost burst in flames; “Come on!” someone is yelling, trying to make it to the same destination as the accident. Pass by the 110 freeway only to see the traffic is worse, backed up because of the Dodger game, LA WE NEED A SUBWAY LINE BADLY. Oh how I would love to ride the train home drunk like I was on the A train in Manhattan.
The sun is gone. The night is born and in full swing. Music glares out of cars, art galleries filled with hipsters from silver lake are starting to line the streets; oh how I love this new Los Angeles. The passion of the night can be felt as the people began to pour out their house into this late summer Virgo evening. The bars are filled with live bands and people talking about whatever; it’s mainly noise. The clubs are filled with, raging hormones of 20 something’s waiting to get laid and thinking. “that ass tho” with their hands out chasing the first person they see to fuck. The alcohol pours up, the night grows and enters into its prime years.(hours)
The night is still young, the energy seems to not stop, more and more people are seeping into clubs and parking garages, more throwing up, more change for the homeless man on the corner, oh you know the night is really good; they set up check points around the city. WHEW! The wind acting as a coffee straw, stirring the night with passion and pheromone; the sniff of the cologne, the smell of her perfume, combined with intoxication has you romantically dancing, not caring for the rhythm, only knowing just one kiss, one touch, the slight hair pull, the lips touching the neck, his full fledge erection penetrating your thin fabricated dress poking your panties and lightly rubbing against your clit; the grinding motion in the heat intense club, as the DJ mixes in some house soul with Gypsy Woman, her caressing of your pants and slightly pulling down your zipper to discretely rub your manhood, the kinky abrupt, the show watching attention, the shadows of the dark drenched night club, the heavy breathing and the smell of alcohol lightly dancing on each other’s breathe, the hidden fantasy and eroticism of being caught, the one person who notice, the person that joins, the person you boot away, that person that ruins all of that magic, the smile of relief, the feeling of release, and your clothes were still on. The balcony were all the cigarette smokers are loudly talking, puffing away, drinking their drink; finding your corner only to look down three stories and see the three drunken chicks trying to carry each other back to the car, the taxi’s, and then the cool LA breeze hit’s you soaked sweat shirt, you sit back, still a tad aroused, light up your cigarette, and glaze out, only to see Downtown Los Angeles twinkling in the close distance.
The lights, the million of individual stories have become one, and the moment we figure out all of our stories sound the same, hate might began to break down. The Jack and coke mixed, the jack and coke mixed, the ack na cke meixd…whew yeah….the moment we realize, the moment we realize, the moment you realize your personal thoughts have become a conversation with some other drunken bastard whose response is far off, far out butt fuck Egypt, in its own league off the wall gibberish; you relate, you toast then you spot miss, then she spots Mr., you know, the two of you having sex with each other on the floor, each one smile, she walks over, grabs your hand, Tom Ford blasting loud against the speakers she twerks that, I mean she really works that, bent over touching her toes she, “claps for a n***a with his rapping ass” “blow a stack for your n****s with you trapping a**.” As you grab her waist, and she slowly wiggles back into a upright position….