So, I’m walking.  Down a sidewalk.  In the middle of Hollywood.  

And I’m thinking about… well, things.  

I’m thinking about how the air smells like carne asada, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.  I’m thinking about the trees that have uprooted the sidewalk beneath my feet.  I’m thinking that the scarf I’ve got wrapped around my neck is a bit itchy but I’m cold and, well, isn’t that quite the pickle? 

And somehow, before I know it, the world in front of me dissolves into these chilly, itchy, tummy-rumbling-nesses, and I am carried beyond my eyeballs out into my imagination…

What did this street look like before the roots uprooted the sidewalk?  Do the people who live here go for walks, or is it “Not that kind of neighborhood”?  If I were to flit in the windows of the houses around me, would I be able to rest peaceful and prying, a fly on the wall?  Or do the people here keep fly-swatters close at hand?

And then my tummy growls and I think “I should have eaten a bigger breakfast.” but what I really want is something yummy brought to me by a handsome man in a good suit with time enough on his hands to rub the headache creeping it’s way up my neck into oblivion.  I want him to drop grapes into my mouth and whisper sweet nothings into my ear, and when I tell him that I am worried about being unemployed, he snaps his fingers to get the attention of his private masseuse, who rubs away at my feet (and my worries).   

So I’m floating there, with a handsome man alternately feeding me grapes and massaging my neck, and a private masseues relaxing my feet, and maybe Ed McMahon walks in at that moment with my Publisher’s Clearing House check… and when I sweetly protest that “I don’t think the PCH is giving out money any more Mr. McMahon” he simply smiles and says “Tiffany, my dear, for you they made an exception!”

And I’m happy.  I’m sincerely, completely, gustatorily happy  (did I mention I like to bend words) when friggin’ reality reaches out by way of root to bring me to my senses.

Damn trees.

Damn messed up sidewalk.

And who, oh who is cooking that damn carne asada?