I just finished reading Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis.  The story is particularly relatable as it’s about a boy coming back to Los Angeles after spending time away at college.  It also mentions quite a bit of streets, cities, restaurants, and other spots throughout LA that I’m very familiar with.  I know Bret Easton Ellis himself is from the Valley, and it’s interesting to read about characters interacting in Encino, Woodland Hills, Sherman Oaks, as well as Westwood, Hollywood, and Beverly Hills.

Here’s a section I liked (a flashback concerning a trip to Palm Springs):

I awoke to the sound of voices outside.  The director whose party my parents had taken my grandmother to the night before was outside at the table, under the umbrella, eating brunch.  The director’s wife was sitting by his side.  My grandmother looked well under the shade of the umbrella.  The director began to talk about the death of a stuntman on one of his films.  He talked about how he missed a step.  Of how he fell headfirst onto the pavement below.

“He was a wonderful boy.  He was only eighteen.”

My father opened another beer.

My grandfather looked down, sadly.  “What was his name?” he asked.

“What?” The director glanced up.

“What was his name?  What was the kid’s name?”

There was a long silence and I could only feel the desert breeze and the sound of the jacuzzi heating and the pool draining and Frank Sinatra singing “Summer Wind” and I prayed that the director remembered the name.  For some reason it seemed very important to me.  I wanted very badly for the director to say the name.  The director opened his mouth and said, “I forgot.”