Honey Please Leave LA!


The immortal words of James Taylor’s “Honey Don’t Leave LA” ran through my mind last night as I experienced Hollywood Boulevard for the first time and wondered why wouldn’t his honey want to leave LA; it’s a weird place and Hollywood is even weirder.

What I noticed most, is that everything, and I mean everything, is not as it seems in Los Angeles.

Unlike New York, where reality seems harsher than it actually needs to be at times, Los Angeles seems anything but real, even though the illusion may be harsh.

For example, while walking along the Boulevard, I spotted what I thought would be a local “dive” based upon its external décor and the general dilapidation of the area.

I typically like dives, so I aimed myself towards the door and pushed ahead.

To my surprise, what I expected to be a run down watering hole, turned out instead to be an amazingly posh café http://www.boardners.com/ and I soon realized that this was where the deception had only just begun.

Looking around at the sumptuous art deco room, I quickly noticed that I was the only person in the place, so it seemed, that didn’t have countless tattoos gracing every inch of my body or having multiple piercing in all sorts of places that I could see and probably other places that I could only imagine.

How odd I thought it was to see these “punks” gracing such a posh establishment, but as the B-52’s, the Dead Kennedy’s and the Clash played from the internet enabled juke box, I realized that punk must have grown up when I wasn’t paying attention.

I thought that punk was dead.

This juxtaposition of “grunge” meets “glitz” seemed surreal at first as I observed the inked and pierced patrons imbibe drinks like Sapphires and Tonics, Cosmos and Manhattans while I sat drinking my omnipresent Jim Beam on the rocks.

I was confused.

Not feeling comfortable enough to strike up a conversation and feeling like a preppy that had fallen down a rabbit hole, I sipped my drink and watched their camaraderie as if watching men come in from the 18th hole of their golf club.

It just couldn’t get any weirder.

When the man beside me, laden with more ink than a Guttenberg Bible, pulled out a dainty cigarette case ordained with some unrecognizable yet obviously sinister logo, my eyes must have widened as I watched him proceed to pay for his tab with a platinum American Express card.

For all I know, they all winter in the South of France.

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