When I was a teenager in my sleepy southern city, I yearned
for signs that there was actually life out there and not just the drab
existence I had. I stayed up late sitting in front of the TV watching “The
Tonight Show” from New York with the sound turned low so my parents didn’t wake
up. There I discovered a world of Broadway shows, designer dresses and fancy
restaurants—pretty heady stuff for a kid whose social life consisted of being
dragged to visit boring old relatives every weekend.
As fascinating at NYC was, it couldn’t hold a candle to
L.A., especially the part of it called the Sunset Strip. When I was about ten,
I loved a show called “77 Sunset Strip.” It was about three suave,
handsome private detectives who had a chic modern office on Sunset Blvd., right
next door to Dean Martin’s restaurant, Dino's. Every week, they roamed the most
glamorous parts of the city, solving crimes with the help of a terminally cute
parking lot attendant named Kookie.
Thus began my fascination with that rather short stretch of
Los Angeles county known as the Sunset Strip, an obsession that just grew
stronger in my teens as I watched TV shows like “Where the Action Is” and read
teen magazines filled with photos of all the clubs, boutiques and other cool
places located in the area. All the guys had long hair and cool clothes, unlike
the crewcut jocks I went school with, and the girls wore miniskirts with go-go
boots instead of Villager dresses and Weejuns. I knew then that I’d never fit in
and had to get out.
So after years of plotting, I finally made my escape to the
Sunset Strip. My first apartment was a one-room “bachelor” with a tiny fridge
and hot plate catty-cornered from the infamous Hyatt House, aka the “Riot
House,” home of rock star depravity. I paid an extra $5 a month for a unit on
the back side of the building with a gorgeous view of the L.A. basin, spreading
out like a million sparkling rhinestones on a blanket of black velvet. Looking
out at the city spread out before me convinced me that this was where I was
meant to be.
So now in what should be my golden years, I guess I should
be sitting in a rocking chair in Alabama. Instead, I’m looking out my front
window at the view of the Riot House, now called the Andaz. It’s still standing
and so am I.
No comments:
Post a Comment