What begins in the Land O’Vapor stuffs us in its slippery tube and down we float down the buttery river. How happy could we be? Anita Baker has only to warble some bars of “You Belong to Me” for everything—hazy clumps of milk solids, Speedy Gonzalez, a car full of skipping CDs—to come clattering through the rainbow trellis where Hollywood Blvd. crosses XXX Terrace. The sun descends, slowly, shimmeringly, over the waters. A golden moon lights up a fern-clogged waiting room. I don’t want to go back inside anymore. But it skips ahead quick to two lovers in the throws muttering no, no, I won’t ever let you go.
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