Cap back. Sunset on low.
Dippin’ down the block.
The kid enjoys his long drives around the neighborhood.
Got me pushing him around in his mini-me car, battling the uneven sidewalks, the rolling stops, dogs, territorial birds, overall non-gangsta shit in former gangsta lands. I’d rather stay in, take him — and his whip — out some other time, but I just can’t say no — so we drive on and on and on and on.
When the L.A. sun is out, that quiet whisper of a gleam, that light that lands so gently on the body, feels like it welcomes more than it brightens, all spirits heighten. In the land of fame and spotlight, the L.A. sun is prime resident. Everyone else abides.
“But ‘L.A. sun?'” she said. “There’s only one sun, fool. The SUN.”
“No, no. The L.A. sun is the L.A. sun.”
That late-afternoon light, that “cotton candy sky.”
(See: An article in The New Yorker about the glow of L.A. by Lawrence Weschler).
