Oscar Wilde once said “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” For Wilde there were actually many things he considered to be the WORST things about life, but this quote in particular rings true in this town, in this day and age, in the entertainment industry specifically. I mean, with TMZ, the tabloids and paparazzi, not too mention The Emmy’s, The Golden Globes, and The Academy Awards—one thing is for certain—actors LOVE to be talked about and recognized.

Billy has no idea what he’s done wrong. Just another confused statistic behind bars, sentenced to life for a crime he never even committed. Now, without any means to plead his case, the 23 year-old is slowly losing his mind. Celebrities, politicians and activists have been fighting over him for several years, and a major trial – with a $42 million price tag – is set to go to court this spring. Advocates for Billy’s life-sentence declare he is getting exactly what he deserves, while critics denounce his wrongful imprisonment as a cruel means to an end that could result in his premature death.

Anticipation better not get the best of me. An hour before my partner in XXX crime arrives to pick me up to go to Sardo’s Grill & Lounge, the so-called home of the San Fernando Valley’s Tuesday night Porn Star Karaoke, expectations are flying around, having a heyday. We have both been assigned to check out where the valley’s living exhibits go after a long, hard day at work to relax and hang loose, no pun intended. I repeatedly tell myself there’s no point in all this anticipating, that thinking too much about what will be will kill it. But in all fairness to myself, fantasizing about it is half the fun. All I can think about is having to sing “Physical” or “She’ll Be Cuming ‘Round the Mountain” to a crowd of drunken adult film stars while my arm is draped around Roxanne Hall and the new Jenna Jameson.

Once upon a time a city was erected, and when the neon lights were turned on, the people came in droves. Their dreams were advertised to them wholesale and everyone clamored over each other to buy them. When they realized these were not the dreams they wanted, the people turned to each other for meaning. But before they could embrace, fault-lines in the earth tore apart, separating them, and these chasms were filled-in with highways roaring with traffic. Alas, the people found themselves isolated on concrete islands with no way to reach each other. They now make up the permanent and wounded infrastructure of this city. They had loved and destroyed Los Angeles. . . and Los Angeles had returned the favor.

There is a Band-Aid for the love-impoverished, but it costs about $36 and it doesn’t include a martini. Our quick-fixing society has found yet another way to cut the bullshit to under five minutes with the advent of speed dating. But while the bandage may stick at first, it ends up just sliding off with nothing much to hold on to. We either need better adhesives or we will just have to keep dating the old fashioned way. I vote for Velcro: it sticks but there’s no commitment, and it’s flexible enough for a fickle city like LA.