Back From The Dead... Yo.

McCallister having become irrelevant, I've turned my attention to these two.

May 2, 2008 -- Pasadena, CA

Let me be clear.  Leonard Koplitsky is no stalker.

My irritation at some recent accusations compels me to say this.  While it may be that I've been keeping tabs on Justin Walker and his sister/friend Rebecca Harper, please know that I am a recently unemployed videographer.  In other words, a PROFESSIONAL. 

I just happen to be a little lonely right now. 

In case any of my (five?) loyal readers were worried about my health and safety, given my long absence from this blog, worry no more:  Leonard Koplitsky, your humble narrator, friend to your RSS feed, is alive and well -- far from the train-wreck of the Adamson campaign and even farther from its impotent media czar, Karen ____.  So disgusted with national politics did Karen make me that I hadn't the heart to return to Washington, District of Columbia -- my ancestral homeland. 

No, I opted to remain where the Adamson campaign had dropped me.  That being Los Angeles. 

Now, as you may remember, LA and I got off to a rocky start.  I called it a moral wasteland, or something similar I probably stole from Luther Reeves.  LA, in turn and by implication, called me a fascist. 

But things have changed.  For one thing, Clay Adamson tanked. 

To refresh your memory, there was this unfortunate little matter of the governor's secret disabled child.  Which would have been just that -- a little matter, maybe even a boon --  but for the fact of Adamson's vocal opposition to federal funding for  special education. 

It was all quite embarrassing for Clay A, to say nothing of the hardworking staff that supported him tirelessly during the grueling primary season. 

But them's the breaks, ain't they, Karen?  I guess that's what happens when you ALIENATE your most ADEPT and EFFICACIOUS foot soldiers. 

Ahem. 

To make a long story short, in case you don't read the front page, Adamson dropped out.  Little Lenny was jobless, homeless and marooned in Los Angeles.  The only people he knew were the people he had been spying on -- Robert McCallister, Kitty Walker, and her family.  It was like that German movie, The Lives of Others, only set in Pasadena.

Of course, I couldn't possibly reach out to them.  But I also couldn't let them go.  So I hung onto my beat, silently watching the Walkers' most intimate moments -- Kevin's kerfufflage with his "roommate" Scotty and the Senator's brother, Jason; Nora's assignations with Isaac Marshall (!), legendary political wolf -- knowing that these people whom I knew so well would never see my face... and knowing that even if there was no reason to use my trusty videographic apparatus, it felt good just to hold it.

Then McCallister dropped out, leaving Boyd "the Toyd" Taylor as the lone option for GOP voters.  Some option.

I confess, I felt adrift.  Still do, if I'm honest.  I mean, it's been MONTHS since I last hung out with someone my own age.  And LA's a lonely place if you don't know anyone.  All the solitary people, cooped up in their pods hurtling down the superhighways, with no way to reach out / To the next pod ... --

I'll spare you my underdeveloped sense of poetry.

To ameliorate my age anxiety, I started following around the two youngest Walkers, Justin and Rebecca.  They do hang out an awful lot, and I really felt they'd like me if they just knew I was there.

Life at the Vista takes place in black and white, even to this day.

One day they went to the movies in Silverlake.  This great old theater, the Vista, was playing a crazy heavy-metal slasher flick -- the kind I used to rent on weekends with my friends when we were in the eighth grade, didn't know any girls, and couldn't convince the local North African convenience store to sell us some 40s.  Spotting the happy Walker siblings up ahead, I slid into a seat a few rows back to take in the film.  But the real show was going on in the audience.

Justin and Rebecca were whispering incessantly about something.  Usually these two are happy as clams to calmly enjoy each other's company.  But not this time.  One after the other, they got up and walked out of the theater.

I got up to follow them out to the lobby, anxious to get the scoop on their troubles... but an usher shone a light in my face and asked for my ticket stub.  Furiously, I searched my pockets, but to no avail.  Evidently, in the zeal of espionage, I failed to pay for the movie.

Happy to exit to the lobby now, I followed the usher, trying in my annoying way to get him to walk a little faster and muttering what I thought a persuasive argument about how the film wasn't worth the cost of the enormous soda I'd purchased... but he wasn't persuaded.  And when he finally left me at the cashier, Justin and Rebecca were gone.

Damn it.  I know this is Karen's fault.  I just haven't figured out how.  More on that next week -- for now, I've got to rush up the hill to Rebecca's mother's home, so I can stake it out and learn exactly what all the fuss is about.

And sorry for being so out of touch.  From now on, you can find the customary Leonard Koplitsky updates here, where they belong.

Love,
Your loyal minion,
Lenny