I WAS A MUTANT FOR ROGER CORMAN

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For starters, there were airheads like I could not believe. I'm not talking laid back, slow on the draw - I'm talking bubbleskulls, insensates. Any gathering of five-six people would invariably include at least one raging dodo cum oaf, either (I at first assumed) because Angelenos were flexible, "tolerant," less rule-governed in respect to wiggy abstractions like human thought, or (a better working premise, one I tried hard to repress) because sun-and-fun might ultimately cook anyone's brain until full-service mentation became a tricky and functionally meaningless calisthenic, one less vital (on a regular basis) than signaling a lane change. On my second day as a resident a new acquaintance labeled me, semi-derisively, an "intellectual," as if the breed were as rare, freakish - and locally unwelcome - as an anti in New York. I had split the Seriousness Capital of the World, it was quickly becoming evident, for the Dummdumm Capital of Same.

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