Elvis is My Rider
Randy Blazak
He was a hulking figure, maybe 250 pounds with bloodshot eyes. You expect to see discombobulated homeless people in LA; but on Hollywood Boulevard, not in posh Beverly Hills. This prize-winner was wearing a silk bathrobe, gold pajamas as he hovered in front of a small mansion on Summit Drive. He seemed confused, watching cars pass from each direction like he was in the middle of a psychotic breakdown.
I knew immediately who he could not be.
I was lost in LA in my own way. On a summer break I had driven down from Portland to, once again, push my novel in front of any interested Hollywood types. Let’s have a meeting became Just have your agent email me. Without a literary agent I had taken to leaving copies in West Hollywood coffeehouse restrooms where I th
