Miracle on Las Palmas Ave.

From time to time, my work takes me to Hollywood.

That's not quite as exciting as it may sound. I grew up there, so I know the truth about Hollywood's charms.

But you should still visit LaLaLand on your next vacation. Totally. They need your money.

So anyway, the stars must have aligned just right, because I actually found street parking near the unholy intersection known as Hollywood and Highland.  And it only involved a 10 minute walk to get to where I needed to be. Score!

Now, it used to be that walking the streets of Hollywood was something you did if you were:
a) a prostitute
b) a pimp keeping an eye on his merchandise
c) homeless
d) crazy
e) both c) and d) and possibly a)
f) a tourist, often sporting a backpack (if European), a shell-shocked expression (if Midwestern), or a camera slung about the neck (if Asian).

Things have changed, though. Hollywood is experiencing a renaissance to rival Florence, Italy, circa 1500. These days, you can't swing a cat without starting a hipster domino chain reaction. Massive construction projects are in full swing to accommodate the artists and other creative types stampeding to the area like thirsty wildebeests to a remote watering hole.

And the construction projects bring multitudes of construction workers.

On this day, I had dressed for the weather in a sundress and wedgie sandals. I looked kind of cute, I thought. Making my way down Las Palmas toward Hollywood Blvd., I saw before me a line of construction workers sitting in the shade of a wall, obviously on a break.  I briefly contemplated crossing the street so as to avoid walking directly in front of them.

Then I said to myself, "Mustard, you have just as much right to be here as they do. You're a strong, intelligent woman.  You don't take crap from anyone. Now, hold your head up high and get to stepping. And, for the love of corn, try not to let your boobs jiggle too much."

So, on I went, arms firmly plastered to my side to keep the girls in check, gaze gently focused on the middle distance, playing it cool. But, behind my sunglasses, I stole furtive glances at the group of men. Approaching, then passing them, I was surprised, relieved and, I'll admit it, a little disappointed that not a one of them gave me a leering look or a"Whassyonaing?".  Not even a "Uumm, mamita".

In an instant, my world came crashing down. I had clearly lost my mojo to the extent that not even construction workers were interested in looking at me.

How could this be? A single tear welled up in my eye (the left one), and threatened to wend its lonely way down my cheek. Lord, could things get any worse? Tilting my head up and to the side to keep the flow back, I caught, out of the corner of my eye (my peripheral vision is legendary) the scene unfolding behind me.

The stony-faced group of eunuchs had miraculously transformed into a bunch of ogling, nodding, hand-flicking horndogs, appraising me from behind. And, from the looks of things, very much liking what they saw.

Pigs.