Westerns, Pulp, and Noir

I know Los Angeles as a city defined by it's consistent patterns, paparazzi mowed down by celebrities out for revenge, the dull grunt of cars grinding down the interstate, trends that will inevitable dry into husks to make room for the new. All sit atop the cracked plates of the earth, waiting for the moment to slip and rattle beneath the city's base. The city waits to be rumbled by the San Andreas Fault. It marks the end of hope through the crumbling of failed Hollywood dreams, the end of westward expansion, a broken pattern. Los Angeles is a collection of crumbled promises. Both sides of Los Angeles run together as the boundary of a fault. Their motion both defining and breaking the city. Western travelers came with a promise of gold, paid with broken backs. The last great expansion ended the promise of man conquering frontier. The dreamers lost and had to settle like everyone else. Chaos erupted within male minds at the lost of definition. If a woman is loving, nurturing, and open. Then what is a man? Polar opposites make for the easiest definition, everything a woman is not. Through the end of the fronteir, America created the pulp hero. He could no longer be defined through taming the land. He is made through separating himself further from his opposite. He becomes the loner, no connections, no family, alone, no ties to hold him down. He is the frontiersman without hope or heart. He became the voice of America when dreams of exploration died with our genocidal tendencies towards American Indians. He expanded into film with Noir to scream through a thousand minds, the death toll of dreams. Dreams act as a Phoenix and move cycles of rebirth to death.  Men recreate their ideal identity. Los Angeles is the city of recreation and death. There is no better place to be reborn. It is also the best place to watch yourself die.