Los Angeles, God Hanks, and Skinny Dipping

Look at her. She moved down here to chase dreams of becoming an actress and didn’t make it. Now she’s had bottox pumped into her face to try stay young, and this city and all the sleezebags in it are sucking the life out of her.

I cringe at my friend’s borderline sexism, but I don’t call him out for it because, honestly, I half-thought it myself [1]. Paris Hilton-a-likes, Perez Hilton-a-likes, and all the other in-betweeners, both the good and the bad, are everywhere.

That billboard is their altar, and Tom Hanks, as much as any one else, is their deity.

As we drive down Sunset Boulevard, I can’t shake the feeling that Hollywood is the twilight zone. You think you know what it is to move there to chase dreams of becoming an entertainer, but you have no idea. Well, not at least until you spot a 30-metre tall billboard of Tom Hanks’ mug punting his new film, Bridge of Spies. That billboard is their altar, and Tom Hanks, as much as any one else, is their deity. To continue the crassly apt analogy, the only difference between practiced faith and Hollywood is that Abrahamic religion says ‘I am your God, your one true god, and you will worship me.’ Hollywood says ‘ I am your God, you will worship me, but one day you could become me.’ However unlikely it is that you are the next Tom Hanks, in that difference is something extremely powerful… or exceedingly terrifying. I can’t tell which, but its ability to build titans and destroy lives is quite the spectacle.

And so we play our show at the iconic Roxy Theatre that night — the same one where Bob Marley recorded Live at the Roxy — to extremely loud revellers. They’re learning the music end-to-end. They sing loudly for most of the high profile songs and lose their shit when Sinner and Down South come on. A good show it was, more inroads in LA made, and a successful start to the tour, indeed.

I have a house full of beautiful girls naked in the pool and they all want to see you.

Later that night, I find myself in an extraordinary home that belongs to a film producer going through a divorce with her husband of 20-odd years. He’s leaving her for a young assistant he met at work, she tells me matter-of-factly. I was the only man among six ridiculously beautiful just-got-out-the-pool-and-still-wet women. Why was I there? A friend’s underage sister [2] was caught drinking at our show at The Roxy, and they were all kicked out before we went on stage. She was distraught about missing the show. She asked me to come say hi where she was spending the night, and sensing I may say ‘no’, her host grabbed the phone and said ‘Mo, I have a house full of beautiful girls naked in the pool and they all want to see you. How can you even consider saying no?’ Fair point. How could I? This was a microcosm of Entourage, only I was alone, barely a Z-lister, but I’m in this situation in this city because I can rap so this isn’t the time to overthink shit. I go.

She doesn’t say it, but I can tell by her demeanour and how carefully she chooses her words that she’s been through some shit in her life

At some point in the night, I find myself in deep conversation with one of the girls about white privilege, wealth, and being a person of colour navigating wealthy white spaces inconsistent with your background and, in ways, incompatible with your race [3]. I say ‘conversation’, but really I was listening, and she was speaking. She doesn’t say it, but I can tell by her demeanour and how carefully she chooses her words that she’s been through some shit in her life. The seriousness of the conversation also belied what she was wearing — an all black bikini with a partially see-through black gown she kept pulling closed in an attempt to cover her admittedly banging body. It would come open when she became animated and spoke with her hands, and then she would cover up again. But I was on my best behaviour, cognisant of how important the conversation was, and was deliberate in maintaining eye contact and in no way flirting with her lest it derailed the chat. While she spoke, I snuck a glance at my watch and I asked myself how the fuck I landed up here with her talking about this in the laundry room in this palace at 3am. It was all so random, but felt completely appropriate. Los Angeles.

Later, I’m back upstairs at the main party, drinking the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had [4], connecting with my friend, and connecting with the host too. Our host is closer to 50 than she is 40, but doesn’t look a day over 35. She’s beautiful in a Robin Wright meets Margo Robbie sort of way. She’s super sophisticated and well travelled. She has it all and seems a good person. I really like her. I figure she comes from money, and her worldview probably differs from mine significantly, but my impression of her is overwhelmingly positive.

Yet here she is, a seemingly well-adjusted, intelligent, beautiful woman with a healthy career, all the material things and life experiences one could reasonably want, but her husband is leaving her for someone younger. Someone fresh. Pretty much sums up Los Angeles for me.

My phone blows up. The message reads ‘Yo, you in LA tonight?? Why’d you not tell me? We got some shit popping off at my spot. Come through!’ It’s 4am. We leave for San Francisco at 9am. As I look back at mega Tom Hanks on the side of that building on Sunset Boulevard, I’m doubtful if I could ever live in this city or if I could ever make it in this city[5].