LOS ANGELES—

My best friend in my early L.A. days was a German guy I’ll call Christoph. I lived on the porch of a house in Silver Lake, which I shared with a gay musician, a film student from Austria, yet another film student from France, and the birdlike former frontwoman of the noted band A Certain Ratio; and Christoph was a constant guest who’d often stop by at night and drink with me till dawn. Like me, he’d lived in New York, where he worked as freelance photographer, and when I met him, through my Austrian housemate, he was launching his cinematography career. He later progressed to shooting blockbusters, and when he returned from far-flung locations, he was always full of gossip. I heard much that I won’t repeat, though I’ll share this much: If Christoph is to be believed—and, whatever his faults, I can vouch for his credibility—Julia Roberts is a major bitch.
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LOS ANGELES—

One night maybe five years ago, as I was revising, yet again, Banned for Life, I heard a sound: a slight thump, as if a matchbox had fallen to the floor. I stopped typing and, now hearing nothing, decided it must have been my imagination.

Then, the following night, I heard another sound, this one louder. It seemed to come from my bathroom, and when I investigated and found nothing there, I wondered for a moment if my apartment was haunted.

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