Los Angeles never fails to entertain me. The big behemoth of a city that lies to the north is a strange mix of glitz, fake tans, grinding poverty, mind-numbing traffic, and surgically enhanced “beautiful” people. Beverly Hills, although technically not part of the city, is LA on steroids. Money meets glam meets sex meets sleaze. When I headed north this last weekend to take a highly recommended French class, I encountered a slice of the glam life, LA style. After getting off the freeway at Santa Monica Boulevard I trolled around South Beverly Glen looking in vain for a parking space. While scouting out the neighborhood near the building where my French class was taking place two Rolls Royce Bentleys and a Lamborghini passed me by in the space of two minutes. After that parade of exotic cars, which equaled the GDP of some small African countries, I finally decided to park at a local mall about 4 blocks away. Of course, this was the first mall where I’ve encountered valet parking and yet another Bentley (in a pale shade of blue….wait a sec, isn’t that Paris Hilton’s car?). After parking my truck, I walked up the street and took a double take at the sight which greeted my innocent eyes at 9 AM: a giant, black, tranny prostitute (he looked like the offspring of RuPaul and Grace Jones) who was wearing the world tiniest pair of snug denim shorts (nice package, dude!), black net stockings and killer, glittery-gold dominatrix boots with stiletto heels! Let’s not forget the leopard spotted top, long blonde Diana Ross weave, or the gold cell phone. Wow!
After that “Good Morning, America!” moment I headed to class. It’s amazing how much French I’ve retained over the years despite my best efforts to forget it. The organization that I’m working for just received a large grant to do some work in Rwanda so the need to brush up on my French skills was evident.
Post-class, I wandered back to the mall of money and tried to find a place to get a bite to eat before I got back on the freeway to do mortal combat with the traffic. All the pseudo-Italian and French cafes at the mall were filled to the brim with well-heeled folks, which considering the price of a grilled cheese sandwich at $14, you would have to make some decent cash flow to feed your belly. I finally found a Subway sandwich shop tucked into a discreet corner of the mall and bought a small hoagie sandwich that I ate under some beautiful eucalyptus trees in the courtyard. The parade of people wandering by as I ate was eye-opening: fake boobs, big sunglasses, mahogany tans, Armani casual clothing, more hair gel on the men than I use in 10 years and teens buying up ½ of the boutiques on sight before getting in their valeted Mercedes Benz cars. The ironic and sad sidenote to all of this conspicuous consumption was a guy minus one leg begging at the streetlight across from the mall. As I watched the guy beg at the door of a car that was worth more than I make in 3 years, I glanced to my right and saw the iconic HOLLYWOOD sign in the distance. I couldn’t help but think that LA, despite the glitz and palm trees, is a town of many broken dreams.
2 Comments:
It is so nice to see you on your blog again. I love keeping up with you while I tend enough tomato plants to feed a small African country and try to figure out whether to go float down the river which is pretty much in flood stage, but still penetratingly clear, or simply sit in the shade next to the river. Days off pose such difficult decisions.... I think I'm ready for retirement again.
Wonderful post, Tarra! Conspicuous consumption indeed. I always wonder why we see "all the guys with one leg" and the consumers don't. How do they not? As always, you inspire me!
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