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the skunks of los feliz
I was walking down Hollywood Boulevard on Saturday and I was struck by the level of affection I have for Hollywood itself (as opposed to my sometimes ambivalent feelings about Hollywood the business).

Hollywood is like the barmaid at your favorite dive. She looks better in the diffused glow of neon than in the harsh light of day: a few drinks can quickly up the attractiveness quotient. Her glory days are behind her, but she's had a little work done, and her cunning use of makeup disguises many of her blemishes. The lines that are still visible speak to her hard-earned experience and wisdom, gathered over ten thousand smoky nights spent in front of and behind a bar.

She's funny, hard-bitten, and cynical. She ain't buying what you're selling. You appreciate her sexuality, and know that she'll never go home with you (she's probably better in bed than you are, anyway, and you wouldn't want to embarrass yourself). She's not the settling down type. She could have been someone else, had chances to change course, but let them go. Ennui, rather than some master plan, has led her to drift across your path. But she's okay with that. She's lived. She had some great times. Partied with some famous people.

They come and go.

She stays.
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