You know the one. You can find the Vista Theatre there, and the indie and mainstream darlings too. You know you can walk along Hollywood Boulevard and catch yourself mooning over some of the names? There are names in front of the Vista Theatre as well. (Hi, Joe!) But those names have nothing with anything just now.
Picture yourself standing out there, the California sun beating down onto your eyes. Go past the little shops littering the sidewalks. Go on, you'll see it. The Goodwill. Stop when a guy with sandy hair and blue eyes shouts that he'll race you home. He'll be wearing aviators and a flat cap, his clothing skirting the fine line between average and grungy. He'll flirt with you, ask you where you're from. If you fit a certain physical type (Russian), speak with an accent you yourself aren't aware of (Irish? English? Scottish?), and demonstrate a high literary level, chances are he won't quite believe you when you say you're from Los Angeles. After the wall of silence you've been building around yourself all day--even going so far as skulk for hours in the nearest library--almost everything he says is going to seem funny to you. Lord knows why. Then he says you're beautiful and asks if he can give you his number. Failing that, he gives you his email address. And you both walk away, you being the strange lady who is still laughing uncontrollably.
You walk into the Goodwill. You look but don't buy. There are, inevitably, mirrors. You walk up to one, take one look, and say to yourself, "Holy shit, who's that sexy-looking broad in the mirror?!"
Created: Jul 01, 2012rough_tough_cream_puff Document Media