Los Angeles pulls the creative and the crazy towards it. Glance towards the hills and gaze in awe at the marble mansions of the movie moguls, those whose visualized impulses are the entertainment for the world. Hoardes come to LA with dreams of looking down at the city from their Hollywood Hills villa after having chiseled their notch into the collective psyche.
The mentally ill of America arrive at an equally staggering rate. If I were a vagrant inclined to sleep on the street, a land of beaches and mild winter temperatures would seem the logical choice.
The line between starry eyed aspiring actors and street people is not always clear. Both share a common trait: talking in public to voices only they can here.
Wireless headpieces have become the safe way to talk on a cellphone while going about business. Perhaps I am the only one, but everyone appears to walking around addressing the voices in their head. I was raised to see someone talking loudly to themselves as crazy. When the faux hawked, Van Dutch hoody hipster picking up his Kombucha at Whole Foods addresses silent voices, I cannot help but to question whether they are healthy in the head.
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