The hostel was on Crenshaw Boulevard. We had to go through Hollywood to get there. So we get off the train and me and old Jane are there with a world of bags and a continent of fatigue and we see all these film rolls on the walls. Jane knows what they are cos she works in TV and tells me they’re really cool and rare and then we get an escalator passed a pillar with trees painted on the side. And everything’s kinda bright yellow and there’s a static fuzz in the air like nothing’s exactly real and if you fell too hard against a wall you’d go right through it and into some dark black abyss the other side of nowhere. So we take these stairs at last and exit onto Hollywood and Vine and there’s an old tramp lady there and she’s in tattered rags and her hair’s brown and her teeth are nearly gone and she’s spinning round and round and round and she’s screaming: ‘I’m fuckin famous, you motherfucker! I’m famous man! Look at me bitch! Look at me, I’m fuckin fay-muss!….agagahahahah….!’ and then she stops and starts jumping up and down and screaming at no one at all and on the ground are all the stars of famous people and ahead are theatres and themed restaurants, and we ask a guy bout where we’re staying, and he tells us and we end up getting a taxi.
Night falls asunder and the great star blasts the world awake and we get on to Hollywood and Vine again the next day. There’s a guy dressed as Spiderman hanging off the wall and up the road there’s Heath Ledger’s Joker walking around with a knife and Marilyn Monroe is having a chat with Superman by the ‘Crossway.’ We met Chucky from Child’s Play outside the Dragon Theatre, a famous place for Premieres, and we took a picture and he asked me for a tip in the kindest way possible. Wasn’t too long before we got roped into a tour, everyone thinking we’re on honeymoon and tryna get our money. And we get into this small bus with a black lady driving and another couple that say they’re from New York but they’ve got West Coast skin and style and sunglasses. Blonde guy. Thin girl. Arms across the rest and taking in the passing breeze. A smell of summer trees. The lady driving points out houses. George Clooney lived there. That’s where Michael Jackson lived with the flowers outside. Here they filmed the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Paris Hilton is building a new house here.
Thin streets. Intense heat. Bottles of water. The smell of sun cream. A megaphone on top of our little bus explaining who the people in the passing gardens are, how much their houses cost and what they do for a living. And the world is a pyramid with a great snake wrapped around it and the head is here, the venom of wealth, and below the throng is obscured in a shadow of arrogance and ignorance and something like an assumed entitlement, and the mob clamours to reach this dizzy height, looks up in admiration and envy, desperation and pain, wants to climb this slimy back and achieve all that these here water sprinklers have to offer, and the yellow Porsches, and the million dollar porches and the view, such views, isn’t the view fantastic, wouldn’t you like to live here, wouldn’t it be great, so nice to dream about tennis courts and afternoon Bacardi and tanned legs and white clothes and leather couches and cool pools and champagne and strawberries and green hills and security cameras and big iron gates and body guards and stalkers and freaks and paparazzi and sick people just lost, lost, and to dream of no more bills or crying in the shower and how it’s possible here to be a beautiful God, God himself, with Mexican maids and intravenous mocha and a phone full of famous numbers, gathered at parties where cocaine went around on a ten thousand dollar velvet cushion and we could take as much as we like cos we’re immortal, after all, ain’t that my picture on the wall, wasn’t that my voice on the radio, hey, Joe, what now, we’ve done it all, the world is watching, we’re too high up and no way back down, what’s outside, I can’t go out there, stay here and hide and pass the line, it’s stronger than last time, same guy? No different guy, new, last guy died, fell from a roof, oh shit, gimme another hit, put on some tunes, I want to act, I want to sing, I’m bored, I wanna feel something, you wanna hooker? I want a woman. There ain’t no women here, Joe, you know that, just actors, man, what time is it….
The next day. Again these bags, we’re like a great rumbling herd hurtling towards Vancouver. And the heat lays it on hard, and we got the Amtrak off Crenshaw, and I spent most of the time writing, and sitting opposite a crew that were on their way to the Burning Man festival. And did we want to go? The tickets were over 300 hundred dollars and it was eight days in the desert, and you needed so much water, food, clothes etc. They were drinkin Vodka and Red Bull and it was noon, and they were excited, and we had another twenty two hours to go. The train rides on, slow, incremental, calm accentuated. A guy came and sat opposite me. Kind old man. He looked out the window. Looked at me. Looked back. He seemed anxious and we said nothing for a while and then I closed the lid and I said hey, and he said hey. And I reminded him of his son, and his son had a big job, and was married, and was Ireland a nice place, and did it rain much, and what will we do in Vancouver, and we should stop at Portland because it’s beautiful. It went on like that, and he came to life, and the colour came back in his cheeks, and he thanked me for talking to him, and he left and I got the feeling that he’d needed that chat, like he woke up and looked over the California plains and saw before him the bulk of his life that had passed, and felt the wheels pull him toward the final chapters, and he was scared, but when he got to talk and discuss all that he was proud of he didn’t feel that bad, and was happy to and look out the window for another while and smile, maybe cry, maybe think, or just sleep and dream with the lullaby of motion.
And it wasn’t long before we saw the fire, and there was so much smoke it blocked out the sun, and all The Burning Man kids called it Awesome and Amazing and Beautiful and a mad scatter of tourists came from nowhere to take pictures and a couple of old men that musta been local compared it to previous fires. The flames ate the scrub and the brush and all that it could devour and the plumes got so thick that it was like a slow motion mushroom cloud, and it was such nature, such consumption, so toxic and inexorable, and then we passed on through and drank the cold beer, and The Burning Man kids were drunk except one guy that wanted to tell about his past, and no one really wanted to hear, but he told it anyway, spiced it up with words like Lawyer and AK47, and Doing Time, and I got wondering why he’s so damn proud of himself, and his sour coke deals, and doesn’t everyone really live in their own drama, their version of the world, listening to the voice-over of the movie in their heads, and it began to get dark and the road is a pedal and the mind is a wheel and we keep on spinning and spinning and spinning.
Mokusatsu – A Novel by Mick Donnellan.
(Includes Worldwide Delivery and Postage) Charlie’s out on bail and back on the sauce. Still devastated over the events of El Niño, he drinks to kill the pain and robs all he can to feel alive. But the past won’t give him peace. The police want him in jail. Kramer’s old crew have a price on his head, and his new employer has big plans to carve out his own niche in the criminal underworld — with Charlie at the helm. Roped into a series of audacious heists and ingenious schemes, he finds himself involved with illegal diesel in Westmeath, stolen cash machines in Mayo and violent debt collection in Galway. Couple that with his regular income of stealing wallets and robbing shops and you have a cyclone of a man roaring down a path to destruction. And bringing everybody with him. And then there’s Karena. The beautiful girl that may save him — but maybe she should know better? At times dark, others touching, and often comic, Mokusatsu is a fiction readers feast of Irish Crime Writing.