On Hollywood Boulevard

I'm high as a kite, dancing down Hollywood Boulevard, arms above my head swaying back and forth like an orangutang. Everyone gives me a wide berth.

It's summer today and everything stinks. All my buds are pacing up and down the run. Like me. Most of them feeling happy and gooood... like me. Like me, all of us looking to get together for a jug of wine and a screw in a room that one of us says he can get today.

The tourists, with their faces looking down into the stars, abruptly stop and whip out their phones to take pictures of Tom Hanks and Alfred Hitchcock. They block the flow. They block everyone's flow in sudden starts and stops. They have no sense of themselves. Some of them with fancy cameras give me dirty looks. Then, shoot my photo. Stealing an image of the whacked out homeless dude they saw on vacation. They try to do it all incognito. But I see you, intruder. You think I'm a piece of shit while it's you who objectifies and invades me.

"It's Brad Pitt!", someone squeals. Phones whip out. Every one of them scrambles to get down on all fours with bare hands and legs crawling through the layers of scum that coat Hollywood Boulevard. Sprawled out in all the sticky piss, smeared shit, bus fumes and sick, they breathe it into their lungs and coat their skin, pressing their mugs against Brad's asphalt face. Everyone gets in the picture. Everyone loses at least one high-heeled flip flop.

And I scream, "It's a sidewalk you dumb asses!" Then, I upchuck with a smile and the pigeons swoop in for lunch.