From June 17th, 2004 Murder in Hollywood
I can't sleep. M***** is upstairs, cuddled into my blankets as if she's been there for an eternity for the common man to bestow goddess-like worship upon her. It is a movie moment--her right thigh is exposed--her arms are thrown back with the blankets barely covering the tops of her breasts. Although I picked her up at her apartment, she didn't say a word. No one had. But then at the Rialto she tells me, "Did you hear about the murder?"

"What murder?"

"Mr L***."

"What the hell are you talking about? Why would anyone want to kill Mr L***?"

"Oh god it was horrible. The son of a bitch cut off his head and killed a retired doctor down the street."

Why hadn't anybody told me sooner? I was so angry just then. One, I don't like being left out when there's a tragedy, and two, he was an old friend of mine. Fifteen years ago, I can distinctly remember Mr L***, his face twisted into a grimace because I had attempted a screenplay that he read for me. We were taking a walk--he didn't move very fast at all. But he could make his way around without assistance; just as he did up to the very end. "You've got to have a story made of pure fire in this town if you want to make it with the writing," he said. "Your story has some kindling; there's some drizzle raining down but you only have one match. Now, why don't you either stick to acting, or write something built on propane. It will be explosive." And now here he was, murdered; in a Hollywood murder at that; explosive yes, and tragic.  ¶ 2:44 AM