Scratched right shin on some shrubs intruding onto the sidewalk just as I read “Don’t touch me” covering her youthful bouncing bosoms on a pink shirt.  The scratch was more embarrassing than painful and I maintained my stride, hoping she didn’t notice my injury as we passed each other walking in opposite directions on De Longpre.  I looked down, it was long and raw, but no blood was spilt. I looked back at her, ‘no, she couldn’t have noticed,’ I thought to myself. ‘Who am I fooling.  I’ll never have that again. Ouch.’

Later on, after picking up my mail at the Cherokee post office, I passed by a pink tent with a sweet smelling lady inside.  She heard me passing by and muttered, “Wetback” from her sanctuary.  As I continued home, passing her up with my shopping bags in tow, “Wetback!” she shouted toward me venturing out of her temporary abode. After waiting a couple of beats so it would appear I wasn’t responding to the name-calling, I turned around and saw a cute young black lady about 19 years old.  She watched me continue down the sidewalk as I got closer to the IHOP.  She would shout,”Wetback!” as I got further away from her and closer to the corner of Sunset and Orange.  At the cross walk, I was her captive audience as the signal had just turned red.  She walked a little over half-way towards me, “Wetback!”.   I guess my karma deserves it–the name calling zeitgeist on the #twittersphere.  If I were single…I’d probably indulge or console her, but then what would I tell the holy rollers? And the high rollers would roll their eyes like they did before, “You’ll fuck anything,” one partner said.

A squad car passed in front of me eastbound on Sunset, male driver and a Latina or Pacific Islander officer in the passenger seat. She glanced at me and held a laugh with her Mona Lisa smile. I guess I got my comeuppance, sweating in the sun. What am I doing around pink anyway. I wonder if she could see the lady behind me, she didn’t let on.

Pink. My wife and I did see Angelyne in her pink corvette about a dozen days ago. It was the same one she’s had since I’ve been in town. I guess she didn’t sell it poor girl. I heard in the LA Weekly recently she was auctioning it off. She had a twenty-something tattooed guy in the passenger seat…who knows, could very well have been her son.

The next day a blonde showed up late to work with a big pink terrycloth handbag that needed a wash–she got upgraded.

https://johnrubens.wordpress.com/2016/08/16/hollywoodhappenings-august-16-2016