A good portion of television news is its coverage of street gangs and their drug-related crimes. And aren't the prisons supposed to be overcrowded because of drug dealers and so forth? And then again there's the entertainment industry. Singers and rock stars command the music scene. Hollywood. Actors play a big part in television and the silver screen. . .It seems not a year goes by that some big name in Hollywood doesn't commit suicide because of drugs or die of an overdose.

"Do you think that your cousin will let me study him?" I ask.

"Probably," Joel says, and then laughs. "I haven't spoken with him since Christmas, but I bet he'll be happy to hear from me. Besides. . .he's an actor. He doesn't have anything better to do than be watched."

"Great!" I say excitedly. I realize now that this is going to be easier than I thought. I ask, "Where's he live?"

Joel grows somber. "The Pit."

Oh shit.



THE following weekend, nine o'clock, Saturday night. Joel and I are in my car. We would have come out Friday, but Joel's mother had talked him into staying home to play the piano for the dinner party she was having. Joel hates the piano, but there was no way he could get out of it. It's for important guests he'd later told me his mother had said to him.

We've driven through ninety minutes of endless LA traffic. I've never driven through Los Angeles at night before now and I'm beginning to realize the kind of sheltered existence I've lived. Raised on an estate of vast wealth with maids and butlers to attend my every need. Attended the most prestigious of schools in the area, having expensive tutors to ensure my successful education. I could have chosen an East Coast Ivy League university like Harvard or Princeton, but I didn't. I was too afraid—too afraid of leaving the estate. Too afraid of life without my omnipotent father to guide me from over my shoulder. Too afraid of life on my own. And so, within driving distance, I enrolled at UCLA.

Sepulveda Avenue a few blocks behind, we're now in Venice Beach—or The Pit, as Joel says. For the most part, LA is referred to as the Valley, but as far as Joel and I are concerned LA is just one big pit. Venice Beach is somewhere near the bottom. Compared to Beverly Hills, Venice is a shanty-town with narrow houses and apartments seemingly stacked together and stretching for blocks. We drive along a swarming two lane street that runs north just a block or so from the beach.

"It's around here somewhere," Joel says, peering out his rolled down window. The convertible top is up—I see no reason to create a potential target for car jackers who I'm sure must frequent this section of LA. Night traffic pushes us along at a mere fifteen miles an hour. A few times I have to hit my brakes as long haired women and. . .long- haired men?. . .dart out between cars, some of the women in bathing suits, some of the men carrying surfboards, attempting to cross the street.

"Get a hair cut!" I blurt aloud to no one in particular.

"I know what you mean," Joel says. Then he says quickly, "Turn right, here. If we go any farther we'll be out of Venice.