My favorite place in Los Angeles is LAX. Don’t laugh. Seriously. You know that runway that takes you out over the ocean? We lived at the end of that runway. It was my first home—in Playa del Rey. Now if you look straight down during takeoff, you’ll see there’s this ghost of a community. It’s all sand, the streets are still there, but all the homes are gone because that runway didn’t exist. As soon as they put it in, in 1964, all of the houses were condemned. In 1963, there was an earthquake, and I think my dad was bothered by the ocean—by the idea of a tsunami—so we moved to the ass end of L.A: Chatsworth. We lived at the very end—and I mean the very end. You would see a lot of desert rats: the remnants of real cowboys and prospectors. They were eventually all lumped together as “hippies,” but they were real country people back then. I remember Wilford Brimley shoeing horses. There was a rodeo below our house every Saturday. So what you would call a real cowboy was around back then—there’s still zoning for horses on Devonshire.

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