Where do I begin.
My father once said to me as I drove him to LAX at 7:30am, my most unheard of hour, “you might never forgive me for saying this, but you fit in here.” It wasn’t until this last week, three years later, that I became truly offended.
A few highlights.
I got a parking ticket within 24 hours of my arrival. I witnessed a car crash while sitting at the intersection of Wilshire and Sepulveda. And a white pick-up truck with the peripheral vision of Polyphemus nearly sideswiped me on Sunset Boulevard; so bland was my nondescript Chevy Cobalt rental that it rendered me invisible to other drivers.
I marveled at the shiny new abundance of American Apparels. I gasped at the moderate attempts to bring “class” to Hollywood Boulevard (read: the pretty pink façades of Geisha House and Hillview Hollywood.) And while strolling past memory lane (read: Whitley Ave. at Hollywood), encountered this fantastic sight (courtesy of Virginia's camera phone).
In case you can’t make it out, this is my old street blocked off by an exciting assortment of emergency response vehicles.
Some things never change.
3 comments:
I was praising your knack for adapting to adverse conditions. Now it appears your ability to pose as an insane LA native has diminished--the result of a year in Brooklyn? The choice of a Chevy Cobalt raises further doubts about your chameleon-sense. The sane thing would have been Rent-A-Hummer, but then the gas would have cost more than the trip. I mean a real hummer--50 Cal. and all, which I understand is available in the South LA souk, freshly imported and restored,with authentic IED damage.
You didn't -- nor did you ever, apparently -- live in LA.
You lived in Hollywood.
right. i obviously never lived in LA. and my parking tickets never read "City of Los Angeles".
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