Walking the Walk

I recently tuned in (accidentally) to a taped rerun of the Hollywood Christmas Parade, which I had so strenouously avoided over Thanksgiving weekend. I was confirmed in my skepticism. The event was simply a slow motorcade exhibiting B and C-level TV actors waving lethargically at the onlookers. The convertible I witnessed contained two actresses I did not recognize, and David Michael Kelley, who plays the young Walt, the most lost of the lost on "Lost." It was good to see that he had not yet grown into an awkward adolescence that would totally disqualify him from further participation in the limited time span the series is purported to cover. But growth spurts are a-comin', so his agent had better start circulating those resumes.

I quickly switched the channel and gave Hollywood Boulevard no further thought. For many it is still the Street of Dreams, but for me, a Hollywood denizen of twenty years, simply the name of the nearest cross street I enter when e-reserving a Supershuttle airport pick-up. Occasionally I do find reason to saunter down the boulevard, either to go to the Chinese movie theaters for one of their summer spectaculars, or to head to the metro stop at Hollywood/Highland. This week I had a dentist appointment downtwon, and the subway alternative is far more attractive than dealing withthe bizarre traffic patterns and exhorbitant parking rates on Fifth and Olive. So I proceeded along the Boulevard and, in a more contemplative mood than usual, took in the ambiance. But my perspective was one of a long-time native, not of the googly-eyed tourist or hopeful neophyte, and what I registered was something of a time-lapse reflection of the ascent/descent of the supposedly rehabilitated strip.

The action commences subtly after I pass LaBrea, with the onset of the "Walk of Fame," which has become ludicrously inclusive, so long as the celebrity is able to contribute the $5000 for a star. Not a bad deal for relative immortality. I usually try not to gaze down lest I be mistaken for a tourist, but I did notice this week that a second row of tributes had begun to emerge, which would carry the Walk of Fame well into the next century, and include everyone from the Olsen twins to David Michael Kelly to the actors who portray the reformed honest depositors in the Washington Mutual ads. Since I acted once on a TV episode I wrote, I might consider a 5-spot for me as well.

But as I sigh at the familiar sight of enthralled visitors snapping digital shots of the pavement, I pass an even more pathetic sight, the Hollywood Galaxy Building. This was constructed around 15 years ago as the first effort in the neighborhood commercial redevelopment, and was a disaster from the start. The best thing I can say about it is that it caused the closure of a noted ice cream parlor that sat on that site--C.C. Brown's, which was famous for its fudge sauce (which was actually pretty bland), and the sundaes, which were were one-scoop pygmies. I always called the Galaxy the "Forlorn Theater" because despite its commercially popular movie offerings, it never seemed to draw any people. Nor did its voluminous stores succeed, even as warehouse outlets, despite convenient parking--a major asset in this congested district. The complex does contain an extant nightclub called the "Knitting Factory," so recessed it is almost invisible; and the "Hollywood TV Museum," a subteranean exhibit about as enticing as a 60-year-old prostitute. Currently there's was a major curbside reconstruction project for one of the storefronts. Good luck; the place is cursed.

Moving on depressingly, dodging the camera bugs and the shills for free late-night TV tickets (Jimmy Kimmel plays nearby), one comes upon Lucy Ricardo's favorite Hollywood mecca, the Graumann's Chinese Theater courtyard, with its foot imprints and milling tourists. The area seems denuded since the Highland project renovation, when the colorful red ticket booth was removed, robbing the courtyard of depth and perspective. I try to look impassive as I weave my way through the throngs and past the costumed characters hoping to earn tip money by posing for the most gullible tourists. I don't know whether these folks have been hired by the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce or are freelancing; the icons they represent seem more obscure now, and occasionally unrecognizable. No more can I espy a flat-chested Marilyn Monroe or a scrawny Superman. Now it's a bunch of fantasy figures like (I think) Gandolf from "Lord of the Rings", a storm trooper from "Star Wars," and a mysterious girl in pseudo sexy black police garb bearing some alliterative moniker like "Chief Chick" or something. Maybe it's from a video game. I grow old, I grow old...

My scenic stroll culminates a little beyond the high point of the area, which is the entrance to the Kodak theater, the jewel of the complex and the home of the Oscars. It does not look the same without the red carpet, but at least the entrance bears a certain dignity that's lacking in the other passageway, which leads busily to the white elephant of the Hollywood/Highland mall. I mean "white elephant" both figurateively and literally, as a faux-marble beast looms in the courtyard as an homage to D.W. Griffith's elephantine "Intolerance." It's architectural pastiche at its worst.

And speaking of elephantine (a word, like "denizen"' that I'm not likely to repeat in any forthcoming blog), before I enter the subway, I pass by the latest addition to the Streeet of Commerce, a Virgin Megastore. Lest someone from Mars gert the wrong idea, this is a superstore for CDs and DVDs, and not for the sale of virgins. On Hollywood Boulevard, those would be very rare indeed.