That's the problem (do the map). Hell he was between Santa Monica and Olympic out towards nowhere. There weren't nothing there. Vast stretches of stucco apartments with fake themes and rows of middle class homes built on the installment plan---the pre-war tracks that became the model later. The morning beach fog glowers over head until the sun burns it off around mid-day and the smog backup from the central interchange finally kills the late afternoon in a brown haze making the sun go down in a billious orange glob of shit.
Truth was that was paradise for me hacking my lungs out a eleven off Alverado and Beverly. The smog was so bad it rained a fine grit of black shit on everything and was so toxic it rotted car paint jobs into oxides that would never come clean. Then the rains would come, and the city would shine for a few days in unimaginable brillance, like the postcards. A few beautiful days around Thanksgiving, a rain, then some wind, you wanted to dance with life it was so goddamned beautiful. By December the intersections were flooded with mystery brown water, and the dreary winter set in until maybe March and the brillant sky would come back for another brief appearance.
Anyway what was Dean bitching about? He got a Porche type-S and blew it driving at speeds NYC never knew and loved it. Highway 1. God I wanted that mid-engine job as a teenager out at the races. Fucking dream car. There was only one question at the time, was Porche going to kick Ferrari's ass? Maybe. The best part was walking the mile or so back to my car through the parking lots filled with the hotest street jobs imagiable from Abarth to Alfa to unimaginable luxury like Lamborghini's... I got in my Goliath and two cycled off to the Valley a millions miles away to collapse in my bed and dream
CG