Life on Hollywood Boulevard proceeds apace. I’m going to miss it here. (I’m moving next month to Santa Monica.) Why, in just one evening stroll last week I witnessed: a) A shirtless guy cruising along on a bicycle, and resting calmly on his shoulders a cat dressed in a devil costume. b) A red carpet with a cadre of sorta trashy-looking models with logos body-painted over their chests, where a person scanned in vain to try to identify some part — a wrist, a kneecap, a toe, anything — possessing some semblance of naturalness. I was put in mind of Jonas, the interstellar sailor from Book of the New Sun who at first appears to be a man with a few mechanical parts, but turns out to be a robot who’s had to replace almost all of himself with human parts. c) A diminutive Russian woman who got pulled over and booked for a hit-and-run DUI. The frame of her car had been completely torn away from the right front wheel, which lingered, skeletal and lonely. d) The torch-wielding host of Survivor (don’t know his name, don’t care) filming a promo where he bickers with a transvestite.
…And that’s not even counting the regulars, such as the costumed characters who prowl about outside Mann’s Chinese Theater. The best of these is the giant black guy who paints his skin a sparkly bronze and dresses like Conan except with crimson/black bat-wings. The silver robot tuxedo guy with the digital lightshow chest is pretty good too.
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