Destination Hollywood

Melissa and I went on a random, spur of the moment gyrad Friday, part of which included a sketchy ride on the metro (complete with a few brushes with mental illness), a climb to the roof of high rise and a stop at Grauman's Chinese Theater, pictured here (we're on Shirley Temple's square).

It was my first time in Hollywood, and it confirmed the report I've heard from a few others -- Hollywood is just a name. An idea. It's an illusion of glamour and class and tragic melodrama.

But in reality, this place is as plastic as Las Vegas. A leather-clad Elvis impersonator strutted in front of the theater, straining to draw a reaction from passersby. A half-drunk, college-aged girl dangled herself from the window of an empty limo a mile long, pretending she was enjoying herself and shouting for others to jump in. But nobody cared. There was nothing magical about the stars in the Walk of Fame or in the neon lights. This was a tourist trap, and nobody was part of anything bigger than taking their picture on that overrated sidewalk and walking away.

And so that's what we did in the city of starlets and stilettos and silver screens -- took a picture and walked away.