She sat down in front of me and pulled out one of those long, skinny cigarettes. Waved it around with dainty grip in a way that told me her petite frame is made of iron.

I won't ever date someone who smokes. I did once for a second. 10-year-long second (I wish I were mortal unto the aeons). But since I'm not I'm not gonna waste my mere year-tallied time kissing someone with an evil furnace boiling from their depths. That private incinerator only an intimate associate will share. The red hot devil rotting a hellion's death in each close up breath.

Maybe this person has a bad attitude fueling their furnace. I won't date that either. But even the best attitude does not make it pass my fresh-inside kissometer. Let them eat avocados. And love them. In front of me.

Back on track. The residents of Hollywood have made bold choices. If not only just by association. Whether it is the continually morphing street flavor of this happy-face county, Hollywood in Los Angeles in Southern Cali - I wonder why people who live here are surprised when I say I love this town. I love living in Hollywood. Ain't no Atwater hill house or downtown ghostown loft that would compensate for the uniqueness and diversity of Hollywood East of Highland and I watch the pretty girls who take care of themselves fuel their trashy cars and I watch Mexican men jump for jobs outside Home Depot or sell strawberries, mangos and pineapples on residential street corners for $5 - talk about fast food.

That's my Hollywood. And when I get up from this jazz amplified Euro Coffee Shoppe I'm gonna unlock my pink cruiser with racing flames, wide, white wall low rider bike tires, and peddle my athletic ass back to my apartment leaving a trail of wind blown dread locks behind me. I am someone else's Hollywood.

Who, when the west wasn't won, imagined from the prairie that things could be better. The unexplored virgin landscape with snow covered mountains, expanses of real, no-life-supportin desert, natives protecting their established tribes, a canyon easily deep enough to be considered one of the seven wonders of the world - who are these people who said, "Come on, honey. Pack up the house and get the damn kids, let's see what's on the other side."

Western settlers believed in gold. They were rushing for gold. They were alchemists of sort, elevating spiritual and physical matter into gold. Searching for the philosopher's stone. Some stopping at quick silver. But some ... making it all the way. All the way to water. The end of their travels. This is our home. This is a pure cultural lineage. American Alchemists: We Who Travel West.

Our progressive minds. Our possible momentum. Our ability to change quickly and without attachment our power. Bless the actor and her research of the human condition. Her desire to know on the deepest and most complete of levels, exactly what it means to be someone else. Someone(s) else. Someone else's. She began smoking because she thought it looked sexy (it did). Then she became attached. Another consumer marketing success story.

That's my Hollywood.

If someone lights up a cigarette, every mouth on the dance floor will tell them to put it out. But if someone lights up a joint, well, that's medicine, now, you know?

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