As exciting as it sounds to be “Living in Hollywood,” only those of us who live here really know what it’s like. One day the neighborhood is blocked off to have every famous star alive dressed up to battle for a gold man with no genitals, and the next day we have to move our cars for street-sweeping. Whether it’s conversations at the dog park, characters walking down Hollywood Boulevard, or reminiscing of life here since 1985, I’ll take a look at our neighborhood in a somewhat different way.
Drip, drip, drip.
As the storm rages outside and the honking continues on Highland, the drip, drip, drip is coming from inside. Internally.
It’s dripping on my dachshund Charly, and I reach over to pet her, trying to figure out why she’s sopping wet.
There’s a drip, drip, drip, seeping through the roof. And so it is, living in a flat-roofed Mediterranean-style house in historic Whitley Heights. My house turned 100 a couple of years ago, and now it’s feeling its creaky age — as am I.
The roof has turned into a mini pool of sorts, perhaps not unlike the rooftop pool at the new Dream Hotel on Selma that all my neighbors are complaining about because they can hear the partying going on all the way over here on the hill. I shed no tears for my neighbors who chose to live across the street from the Hollywood Bowl.
Is anyone enjoying this rain? My plants are drowning, great old trees are flopping over, and Angelenos have no idea how to drive when there’s moisture on the road. A gent at the Las Palmas Senior Center parking lot belts out “Singing in the Rain,” and yes, he’s dancing and singing. He seems happy but is drenched.
I now know what it feels like to be one of the people Noah left behind. Unrelenting rain. Drip, drip, drip.
And when the rains take a breather, it’s not only the tourists, but all the locals too, who look to the hills to capture a selfie of themselves and a rainbow that may be arching over the HOLLYWOOD sign. Or, better yet, a Double Rainbow — now that’s the pot of gold.
I’m amused at my friends posting on Facebook as they declare themselves “Safe from the Rain.” Well, I got news for you kids, it’s not over. More sky rivers are coming, and you may still drown. Mudslides will swallow cars, and boulders will fall onto Mulholland Drive.
My handyman who has patched my roof at least a dozen times, is fixing the latest drip, drip, drip, before the next deluge. He asks if he can use the cover of my barbecue to put over a hole. I haven’t used the barbecue since the city was proposing to ban them to lessen smog.
As long as it keeps my dog dry.
The rain is not refreshing; it’s not washing away the sins of the streets. The rain didn’t wash away the homeless — they are now crowding under the Hollywood Freeway at Cahuenga. The rain didn’t clean off the sidewalks — it just washed piles of clothes into already-clogged storm drains. The rain didn’t flush away the filth — in fact the Laurel Canyon Dog Park smells more like piss than ever before.
It does rain in Southern California. Rainy days and any day always get me down. Raindrops keep falling on my head, and yeah, it’s worrying me. But I made it through the rain, so far.
Drip, drip, drip, from my rooftop, which is now becoming a pool.
But for now, at least, the rusty lid of my barbecue is keeping me dry.
You can reach the author at mikeszy@aol.com.
