There was also the socio-psychic factor. Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether.

Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas ... with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.

I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and my cardigan.
Welcome to the land of fame excess - am I going to fit in?
I jump into the cab, here I am for the first time,
I look to the right and I see the Hollywood sign.

Hollywood is a place where some people lie on the beach and look up at the stars, whereas other people lie on the stars and look down at the beach.

There was only one road back to L.A. - U.S. Interstate 15. Just a flat-out high speed burn through Baker and Barstow and Berdoo. Then onto the Hollywood Freeway, and straight on into frantic oblivion. Safety. Obscurity.

I like to slip out in the middle of the night and take my Lamborghini and drive it really fast on the highway. There’s a particular one close to my house in Pasadena. I just roll down the windows, and it’s kind of like I just slip into the night.

People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.

What a wild dilemma,
how to make it to the stars on a highway slick with fear

By the way, there's a place on Hollywood Boulevard where you can get a _____ for twenty bucks.

The Santa Monica Freeway is traditionally the scene of every form of automotive folly known to man. It is not white and well-bred like the San Diego, nor as treacherously engineered as the Pasadena, nor quite as ghetto-suicidal as the Harbor. No, one hesitates to say it, but the Santa Monica is a freeway for freaks.

Jesus, I thought, I am ripped right straight to the tits. Where am I? Are we going up or down? Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew I was sitting in a jeep in the parking lot of a night club on an island off the Mexican coast — but how could I really be sure, with another part of my brain apparently convinced that I was looking down on the huge glittering bowl of Los Angeles from the cockpit of a 727? Was that the Milky Way? Or Sunset Boulevard? Orion, or the Beverly Hills Hotel?

It is like sitting in a traffic jam on the San Diego Freeway with your windows rolled up and Portuguese music booming out of the surround-sound speakers while animals gnaw on your neck and diseased bill collectors hammer on your doors with golf clubs.

Did I miss the skyscrapers, did I miss the long freeway? From the coast of California to the shores of The Delaware Bay You can bet your life I did, till I got back in the U.S.A.

When you’re in LA, you can try everything.