A tiny love letter to my dream girl
“And all the vampires walkin' through the valley, move west down Ventura Boulevard”
Do you have a song that shaped your psyche as a kid, and now, every time you hear it as an adult, the cathexis is so strong that your stomach clenches when you hear three chords?
Like the ending of the film Vanilla Sky, where he realizes that he built his dream life around all the art, movies, music, and books he loved as a kid, even his dream girl is a composite of every love story he ever watched.
"Free Fallin" by Tom Petty is absolutely that song for me.
If it comes on while I am in the car, I won't turn the ignition off until it ends.
I always thought of it less like a song and more like a tap on the shoulder from a God that has all of my mixtapes.
I wish my song choice was more eclectic, but it is what it is.
And it's pretty much an epic love poem to the Valley, which makes me laugh when I think about how much people hate the Valley. But Reseda gave us Miss Pamela, and there's simply nothing more rock 'n roll than her.
The summer of 1991 was rough, and I vividly remember sitting in my father's house, watching the video on MTV and thinking to myself,
"I have got to get out of here. Mulholland sounds nice. I wonder where that is."
Fast forward 20 years, and I watch the sunset from my home at the top of Mulholland Drive every night, glowing in the fluorescent light of the big white Hollywood cross that shines like a poor man's "Christ The Redeemer" statue, blessing all the lost souls, good girls, and vampires down below. I always wanted a life soundtrack, and now I'm baptized by nightly fireworks and the lullaby of concerts from the Hollywood Bowl.
Alone, but not lonely, for maybe the first time ever.
Warm nights. My feet in a pool. Canyon coyotes moving through the jasmine. How did I get here?
"Mulholland sounds nice."
I don't think I'll ever live there again, and honestly, I get pretty sad about it sometimes, especially now when I need to find a new home and everything everywhere just seems a bit...less (me).
Where do all the last exiles on Main St. live?
Where are the desperados under the eaves?
Humming along to Walls and Bridges?
Playing piano in the Chateau lobby?
Stretched out in room ten o'nine?
I tried to explain it to someone the other day, and the best I could do was say this: "I've lived in some of the most beautiful places in the world. I've been incredibly lucky. But nothing has made me happier than turning onto Ventura Blvd. in Studio City or driving Sunset from the Hollywood Hills to Malibu. California was my dream girl."
Sincerely,
A television version of a person with a broken heart