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In the morning I cleaned up as best I could at a park spigot. The overcoat was trashed but I still had the pungent aroma of smoke while I waited by the side of the road in the warming morning sun. I apologized to the driver and she just laughed while I told the story of losing my coat. She warned me of the record low temperatures predicted for Southern California. After a couple of rides I wanted to stop off at the address I had visited in Malibu a few days earlier but I was a total coward and chose to live in the reality that was handed to me regardless of how it really stank. It was still daylight when I landed in Santa Monica and took a bus to Dominic’s house where I pleaded for a place to crash and was granted a shower and a change of clothes and the promise to hang on to my duffle until I gave up. I carried small sack with writing pads and ventured back to Santa Monica where I stopped off in a book store and bought a used copy of EXISTENTIALISM by Jean Paul Satre.
I bought a local paper to see what my options were and spotted the article with the headline, “LA CITY HALL OPENS ITS DOORS FOR THE HOMELESS”. It was also the week before Superbowl XXI and the visibility of the homeless on the streets didn’t bode well for the City’s Image. I was homeless but I didn’t have a clue where LA City Hall was located. I walked down to where I could see the sun going down across Santa Monica Bay into the Pacific Ocean where the water was very salty unlike the sodium free spring water that I sold on the other coast. I asked for directions and was told to head East so I began walking in search of LA CITY HALL so I could proclaim myself homeless and get a place to sleep for night while I waited for a meeting with the bionic woman about a story where people put themselves into a little box and become prisoners until they are freed by drastic, courageous measures—a revolution of sorts—against the self.
I walked until blisters formed on my heels and finally caught a bus. “I’m looking for City Hall.”
“It’s on Spring Street.” The bus driver answered. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
It was nearly midnight when I climbed the White stairs to City Hall. A short Latino man met me at the front door. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I need a place to sleep.” I answered.
He opened the door, let me in and gave me a blanket and led me through another door. “Find a spot,” he said.
It was the center aisle of the LA City Council Chamber. I found a spot on the cold marble floor between covered heads and ragged feet—indoors.

Emerging from an air freshener commercial on Monday morning I immediately got a ride and filled the entire vehicle with the scent of pine. I was aware that I probably wouldn’t get to Malibu by nightfall so I used my phone card at the first phone booth at a small store to call Sally Lewis, the former agent who was now working for the bionic woman and Wagner Ball Productions, and who had promised me a meeting.
“Things have changed,” she said, “call me later in the week,” she said.
I called Decker back in Ocean City and he said things were fine with the water and to take as long as I needed. “Duda right thing.” He said.
The air was quite warm, even in January, in sunny Southern California and I removed the overcoat for the course of several congenial rides that took me to South of Santa Barbara after the sun had gone down. There was quite a difference and the chilled air shook me to the bone. I was told of a state park near where I was in Carpinteria and I walked through the deserted entrance and found several campsites where I was able to gather burnt scraps of wood for a fire. I carried the wood until I could hear the ocean waves crashing on the beach and dug a hole in the sand near a tree. I found dried grass and twigs for kindling and started a small fire. I huddled near the fire and still couldn’t get warm. I remembered a movie, “Jeremiah Johnson”.
Jeremiah Johnson was a mountain man and he was taught to warm himself by heating rocks and sleeping on top of the rocks.
I gathered rocks from wherever I could stumble upon one and gradually warmed by gathering rocks. The fire gradually faded the more rocks I added and I began to chill till I shivered. I lay down on the heated rocks and warmed quickly and fell asleep exhausted only awakened by the warmth that turned to heat and the smell of smoke and the woven wool overcoat bursting into flames.

I was aware that hitchhiking along Coastal Highway 1 may take a little longer than 101, especially in January. The fact that I was returning to LA-lalalala lalala– with the promise of a meeting with Lindsay Wagner about Norman Iland’s screenplay Trapezoid gave me hope drowning in anxiety because I knew I had no place to stay once I got there. The long woven wool overcoat kept me warm along with the wake of good company and a good night’s sleep.
The traffic was sparse but a ride came quickly and took me all the way south of Montery past the Mission and what I had been told was Monastery Beach where I had become God many years ago. It had been tough to live with and tough to forget and it really didn’t take away any of the pain of being human. I spoke of the experience to my rider and he soon left me by the side of the road.
There was so little traffic I had no choice but to walk—for miles. I passed a coffee shop on the side of the road and stopped in for a cup and to keep warm. I soon ventured out into the darkness and continued walking. I had the experience of walking on the waters edge with the waves breaking on the rocks. There were millions of stars and I sat for awhile on a rock and could hear sea lions below. Suddenly from behind me a neon flying wing appeared and rapidly grew smaller as it disappeared into the horizon. I was overcome with chills and thought I had seen something from another world. “Nah,” I thought, “being God is one thing—seeing flying saucers is a little crazy.” I soon left the symphony of sea lions behind and continued walking until I could walk no more and found a spot under some low lying fir trees and made a bed and blanket out of fragrant broken limbs.