I don’t go anywhere anymore. You can’t. Traffic is just that bad. I’m not sure what endgame is, whether everybody wakes up and moves from L.A. or just those most frustrated are replaced by lemmings eager to partake in the phenomenal weather and the entertainment business.

Yes, we had record cold the past few days. I even saw ice by Felice’s house, and that’s a first.

But today is something different. It’s 73 in Beverly Hills! Actually, I’m in Century City, at the Apple Store, but that’s what the app says. You see I’m killing time on my way back from Hollywood.

I haven’t been to Hollywood during the day–in a decade? And driving to Center Studios I was reminded why. Sure, there were drivers on their cell phones slowing my progress, but there were just too many cars for La Brea. Too many people wasting time they’ll never get back trying to get to their destination.

And when you go that slow it’s fascinating. You see what once was. That restaurant with the outdoor patio you frequented in the eighties, which now has a fresh coat of paint and a different name, but looks just the same.

And I was a bit frustrated. You see there was a delay. This taping was supposed to happen an hour earlier. I’d lost my edge.

Then I entered the lot.

I forgot. The power, the vibe of movie-making.

Oh, I know, you can do it at home now, on your laptop, but suddenly I was reminded that Hollywood is still the center of the film universe and some people are doing it the same way they always have.

Looking for my building I was confronted by tin-men. And damsels from the Middle Ages. I would have asked them what picture they were in, but I’ve learned that’s uncool. Nothing’s more important that being a member of the club, refraining from asking inappropriate questions.

And everybody was so busy, the twenty and thirty somethings focused on getting somewhere. You see it’s a young person’s game. Get old enough and you’re either famous or you give up. Because it’s too hard to make it.

And when I finally found the location they were interviewing a young bearded chap in a cap. Unrecognizable to me.

Until he emerged and I realized it was Jack Osbourne. The e-mail had said Jack OSBORNE’S office. Rang a distant bell, but I didn’t think it was Ozzy’s progeny.

And Jack’s oh-so-nice. We discuss his health and the old family homestead in Malibu that’s now inhabited by Dr. Luke.

And when I’m done with my business I emerge and continue to be mesmerized by the sights. Women not dressed for the office, but for work where they might get grubby. The latte stand. The food truck. A whole world behind the walls.

And it’s definitely winter light, but it’s got the feel of being the same as it ever was. Like “Day Of The Locust.” The dream factory in action.

And rather than battling freeway traffic I decide to take Santa Monica Boulevard back to the westside, it’s a straight shot.

And I pass that grey French/New Orleans restaurant that I used to drive by constantly, but never went in.

There’s the Gardens Of Taxco!

Whole Foods took over the coffee shop, but they kept the sixties facade at Fairfax.

And Los Tacos–Where I used to eat burritos with Freddy and Demi Moore!

And pulled up alongside is three teenagers in a red Mustang convertible, with the top pulled down, basking in the sun.

And with a shiteating grin on my face I realize this is where I’m supposed to be, and I’ll never leave.