Day 41

Hollywood.

A six-foot-tall man dressed as Yoda leers at us and lurches forward. He hands my son a light saber. We snap a photo. His assistant, dressed in a strange cross between ballerina and hardcore dominatrix moves in. On Yoda's palm is scratched the word "Tips." We don't have anything but a few quarters. I shove them into his palm. He grabs the light saber from my three-year-old and says "Aw, come on." He shoves toward us. The assistant says, "We can give you change."

A man with an unwashed beard and dusty hair pulls on his Spiderman mask and climbs up the scaffolding to a building that's being renovated. The kids turn their heads. "It's Spidey!"

Meticulously molded art deco maidens deteriorate beneath city grit, the acidic, inky smog settling in their hair and between their breasts.

Three crows hop in a canyon. Silence is replaced by designer sneakers traipsing, cell phones ringing, points being argued, parts being rehearsed.

A crowd gathers. Nobody knows who she is, but she is definitely a star. The road is closed for the premiere of "Terminator: Salvation." "Who is in this movie, anyway? An annoying husband asks. "I don't know," answers his wife. "Then why are we standing here?"

The New York style pizza folds perfectly, the cheese and sauce dancing on the tip of my tongue. Even the crust goes down quick.

More people photograph Chuck Norris' star on the Walk of Fame than anyone else.

Across from a premiere, you can chop through the animal scent of body odor coming from people who hold huge backpacks on their shoulders stuffed with bedding, hairbrushes peeking out.

Words on the wall. Words in the air. Words on the concrete beneath our feet.

I tell my children to be quiet at the pool so as not to disturb the sunbathing, Gucci wearing teenagers with their perfectly coiffed long hair and shimmering bodies. Then I think they could use some joy and begin throwing my children into the air, which creates huge splash.

The Hollywood Sign is a long way away. We try to walk to it. We don't make it.

I see a comedian whose name I don't know at the farmer's market. Still, I get excited. I know him from TV. Who is he? I still don't know his name.

I am easily the ugliest person in this town. I feel grateful that my children are so beautiful so nobody notices.

The stroller never does fit through the door to our hotel. Each time, it gets jammed. And even if there is a crowd nearby, only occasionally does anyone offer to hold the door open.

There are no children in this town. The woman at the chamber of commerce looks at me puzzled when I ask if there is a playground anywhere.

If you have two feet and a will, you can get anywhere. Crosswalks and walk signals take you from Beverly Hills to the land of the Crips and the Bloods to the beach, though I hear that some inner city kids never have seen the ocean.

You think it's air conditioning, but it's air. The window is open.

Any kind of food you want any time of day. But you have to wait in line.

The women here make good use of head bands and scarves. Note to self: On bad hair days, insert colorful fabric.

L.A. is best seen from the top of a double decker bus.

This is the origin of film and TV as many of us know it. It is a crazy and beautiful and intense place. Consider the source of what you see behind the glass. Always consider the source.

Thank you for reading.

THE END