baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dreaming On Sunset Sunset Boulevard epitomizes everything that is stereotypical about Hollywood. Even at 12:02 a.m., the sidewalk in front of the Whiskey-A-Go-Go is crowded with strangely beautiful humans; people so steeped in their own street-defined stylishness that I feel as if I'm trapped in some sort of Andy Warhol-inspired dream whenever I stroll by-elbow to elbow with those primed and ready for their 15 minutes. Sunset Boulevard is romantic to me. The Whiskey is romantic to me-with its odd and familiar scent-a weird combination of nicotine, alcohol, perfume and sweat-enveloping you the second you step inside. And, sometimes, even the alleyway behind the Whiskey seems oddly romantic-filled with shadowy silhouettes of would-be-rock-stars walking here and there-any assortment of guitars, amps or snares cradled in their hands-like passports to a gloriously vague future filled with hit songs, royalties and arenas filled with screaming fans. Yes, it's a huge helping of the rock and roll cliche it is. But, I love it. And last night, after making our contribution to the noise pollution with our own passports to stardom (yeah, right), I had an even greater pleasure of meeting a fellow romantic, an artist like me, but so very much unlike me in millions of ways. He was sitting on the sidewalk, pencil in hand-making thoughtful strokes of charcoal along the wrinkled posterboard serving as his canvas. He smelled vaguely of alcohol, but spoke with a directness that easily betrayed a clarity of thought far superior to mine. On his canvas were a beautiful pair of eyes-Albert Einstein's eyes. And my girl, with her superior knack of zeroing in on the details I may have stumbled over, led me to this odd stranger-a person who stood out amongst the attractive hipsters like a zinnia still alive and blooming in the wintertime. We spoke of his homelessness, the *character lines* of Albert's face, his experience with art, other locations he chooses to occupy while drawing, and the city of Los Angeles' way of treating sidewalk artists like bags of contaminated trash (put them somewhere-anywhere but here). He's in love with Sunset Boulevard too. He likes the people he meets. He says that the young musicians and lovers of musicians are good to him-offering rides, cups of coffee, nicotine and companionship. He has a job interview soon, and hopes to be self-sufficient in a few months time. During our conversation, he sucked on the end of his cigarette, promising completion of the portrait by the time the Marlboro was spent. I watched him turn seemingly random scribbles into an amazingly accurate portrait of Einstein-a turn of the hand there, a rub of the finger here-all done without the benefit of an eraser. The drawing now sits on my desk-rolled up and ready for framing. At the end of our conversation, I emptied out my wallet (as well a Girl-unit's) and handed him the not so grand total-$41. I had purchased gas, paid a debt, and had a double-double burger courtesy of In and Out prior to the show. My wallet was tapped, and I was embarrassed to offer such a paltry amount in exchange for his abilities. Here was a man with artistic talent light years beyond my own-and yet he was homeless, while I, with my simple, computer-rendered pictorials of all things mechanical,would be in a warm bed within a short drive. It just doesn't seem right. Like, God had made a mistake somewhere in the Grand Plan. I offered him a ride afterwards-partly out of pity, but mostly because I wasn't ready to relinquish our conversation. As we headed east on Sunset towards the 101, he pointed out a frame shop on the north side of the street just west of the Guitar Center. There in the front window, gleaming underneath bright display lights and framed in an elegant gold, was a portrait he had done of Marilyn Monroe. *I hope they sell that for a lot more than they bought it for,* he says without any hint of regret and bitterness. He asked to be dropped off near one of the shiny, bright new 24-hour superstores lining Sunset: perhaps the newest shopping trend for people too busy in the daytime to purchase things like band-aids and milk. *They have a great art supply section in there,* he said, *And I need some pencils. Thank you for the ride.* Girl unit-much quicker than I in matters of sincerity-beat me to the heartfelt, but stereotypical farewell *No,* she said, *thank you.* 5:05 p.m. - 2001-04-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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