Driving west on Santa Monica Boulevard in the late afternoon is another satisfaction that I will never tire of. It’s a quintessential Los Angeles scene — the gorgeous ephemerality of driving towards the ocean and the setting sun as headlights begin to come on.
Sometimes I think about the things I will no longer be able to stomach when they’re gone, the things that will be ruined forever. For my father, I know I will no longer be able to listen to Cat Stevens again without weeping uncontrollably. It’s his favorite.
We spend the next thirty days lodging insults back and forth and in the subtext of our banter Lee and I both recognize so clearly, so deeply, in one another the same disease that had been slowly killing us both since long before we picked up our first drink. A connection so profound it transcends politics, sexism, and late-night comedians.