Eliza Hodgkins 1812
04-16-2007, 06:09 PM
Yesterday I was invited to dine with Heidi and Tom at their pad in Thai Town Hollywood. The last time I visited, I underestimated travel time and was late. This time, I left early and was thirty minutes ahead of schedule. I decided to take a walk up Western, turning right onto Franklin, one of my favorite streets in the neighborhood. I love the Los Feliz area. It smells so good there; the trees and flowers are fragrant. Nice place to bide some time rather than show up someplace unexpected. Night blooming Jasmine is about the only scent I can identify, but there are verdant smells combined with floral and citrus. Perfumes envy certain streets in Los Feliz.
Most of the view was to my left, so I was walking ahead, glancing to my left, sometimes pausing but mostly walking as I looked. As I neared the street where Heidi lives, the sizes of the houses on Franklin grew exponentially to match their price. They were also more garish. The newer the money, the poorer the taste. Maybe a nouveau riche stereotype but here is further evidence. Homes that were once of their time, heart, hearth and elegant but not outlandish, have been made over or built anew to resemble replicated palazzios in miniature.
One house in particular stood out. Pale blue with cream trim, the house stands proud on a hill with twin staircases climbing in parallel before they unite at the base of a gigantic nude statue. The original is probably beautiful, but replicated in front of a tacky house the statue was a horrible site to behold despite being a stone cold hottie. And just as I was beginning to wonder if the sculpture had struck a latent homosexual cord
TWACK
Imagine a cartoon character skiing into a tree.
Imagine a Star Trek episode where a character runs unknowingly into a force field.
I bounced back with my head still turned to the left, a sharp pain in my right temple and in my groin. As I started at this monstrous contribution to contemporary Los Angeles architecture, I had walked directly into a metal street sign. My stride had full momentum. 145 pounds of me crashed into a blunt stationary object. I didn’t see stars or hear birds but there was a blinding flash of light followed by a complete absence of feeling. I may have momentarily left my body. Then I doubled over, rubbed the spot, moaned a bit and wondered if my right pupil was blown out.
Not theatrics, I was only wondering. It was pretty obvious that I’d simply bumped myself somewhat badly but without serious injury, excepting my seriously injured pride.
But no one saw. That was the upside. Unless a car was driving by, its passengers snickering as they drove away, this was a bit o’ incognito slapstick.
Also, for the record, this is the third time I have done something like this.
Most of the view was to my left, so I was walking ahead, glancing to my left, sometimes pausing but mostly walking as I looked. As I neared the street where Heidi lives, the sizes of the houses on Franklin grew exponentially to match their price. They were also more garish. The newer the money, the poorer the taste. Maybe a nouveau riche stereotype but here is further evidence. Homes that were once of their time, heart, hearth and elegant but not outlandish, have been made over or built anew to resemble replicated palazzios in miniature.
One house in particular stood out. Pale blue with cream trim, the house stands proud on a hill with twin staircases climbing in parallel before they unite at the base of a gigantic nude statue. The original is probably beautiful, but replicated in front of a tacky house the statue was a horrible site to behold despite being a stone cold hottie. And just as I was beginning to wonder if the sculpture had struck a latent homosexual cord
TWACK
Imagine a cartoon character skiing into a tree.
Imagine a Star Trek episode where a character runs unknowingly into a force field.
I bounced back with my head still turned to the left, a sharp pain in my right temple and in my groin. As I started at this monstrous contribution to contemporary Los Angeles architecture, I had walked directly into a metal street sign. My stride had full momentum. 145 pounds of me crashed into a blunt stationary object. I didn’t see stars or hear birds but there was a blinding flash of light followed by a complete absence of feeling. I may have momentarily left my body. Then I doubled over, rubbed the spot, moaned a bit and wondered if my right pupil was blown out.
Not theatrics, I was only wondering. It was pretty obvious that I’d simply bumped myself somewhat badly but without serious injury, excepting my seriously injured pride.
But no one saw. That was the upside. Unless a car was driving by, its passengers snickering as they drove away, this was a bit o’ incognito slapstick.
Also, for the record, this is the third time I have done something like this.