I stood in front of a girl with Down Syndrome, speaking in scant Swedish to me, as she tried to forge past and toward a road in the Hollywood Hills, notorious for cars and motorcycles that veer fast and out of nowhere on its narrow ways. I watched as kids painted red the blades of their stick swords — taped together with black electrical tape, one stick as the blade, one as the hilt. Saw a man in an electrical wheelchair crossing the street, a furry spotted rocking horse in his lap. A loft party with a Malamute named Dude, a Dachshund in a backpack.
Driving back from the Comedy Store, saw a car flipped on its side and smoking, young kids with blank faces sitting on the curb nearby. Going to a taping of a Super Bowl commercial in Long Beach, there’s supposed to be a car stunt, but I don’t think a crash or explosion. I need to clean my ears and can’t find any Q-Tips. On the TV, the pigs want to go surfing, and when they’re disappointed they say things like, “Oh Thunderbugs!”
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