The Girls in Hollywood
The girls in Hollywood. Took the girls to Griffith Park today. Overlooks L.A. from downtown to the ocean but it was very hazy and there was a bit of smog so we couldn’t see Santa Monica. They saw the Hollywood sign so I guess they can go home now.
Then we went to Hollywood. There we saw Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway vent as if she didn’t know what would happen next. Then whoosh! A train goes by below. What a ho!
Then, lo and behold, Michael Jackson comes moon-walking up, shading his white-ass honkey pigment job with a fucking umbrella. Nobody’s crying, they’re all smiling and clicking away with their cell phones and their digital cameras. I get the urge to yell out, “you’re dead you fuckin’ loser!” but then I think about the reality idol shopping mall lynch mob chasing me down the street for ruining their vacation. I can just hear the phone calls back to Missouri and Nebraska tonight, “you’ll never guess who we saw…”. (Michael, not me!)
So Michael is alive. Elvis never died either. Middle America and the whole of Watts, Compton and Inglewood are happy. They know Michael wouldn’t leave them that way.
I struggled down a side street past an old photo of Frank “Blue Eyes” Sinatra and threw up next to a homeless guy lying in an alley. As he struggled to avoid the splashing, he exclaimed, “Get the fuck outta my L.A. bitch.”
I felt the same. Reminded me of a sign I once saw. “Welcome to LA. Now turn around and go home”.
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