Olympic Drive

Los Angeles Across from the gorgeous dog park, men dream against poodle-pissed trees — their pillows made from breath captured in milk cartons. Only arid, temperate climate offers respite. Let us suppose they have tales, here in this city where filmed stories turn a mint. All around, one wide screen — the dark hills due north pixel-pocked with villa lights. Below, streets hemmed with haggard brown men — jack-in-the-box bodies ever unfolding. Who is pitching this script? Title: “The Child of 1968.” Voiceover:After the Integration Apocalypse, one man must find his way in a land where the sole survivors who look or speak like him are those rendered disturbed and indigent