A blast of hot air enveloped me when I exited the bus station.

It was a bright, sunny California day, the kind you think they only have on postcards. June in La La Land. Musta been hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Since I didn't have any eggs with me at the time, I couldn't tell you for sure, but it felt like it.

Ever flash-backed like you were in a video that you'd seen?

If it hadn't been for the blinding light, the cloudless turquoise sky enveloping the world, and the mind-numbing heat, there I was— Axl Rose in Welcome to the Jungle.

If you haven't seen it, he gets off a bus in LA suitcase in hand—dressed as a naïve newcomer to the city complete with what looks like a piece of straw that he's chewing on. He looks around lost, then a bank of TVs in a store window catch his attention. There he is suddenly on TV, in a straight jacket, watching himself in what looks like an electric chair, shaking his head . . . I guess at the condition of LA sidewalks. I don't know.

Dad told me they shot it on La Brea. Part of my "To Do for the Family Now that I'm in LA List" is to go take a pic of the location for posterity. Or my dad's posterior. Or what all he needs it for, I have no clue.

My dad's a heavy metal fan from way back. His idea of baby-sitting was to plop me and my brothers in front of MTV in the late eighties when they played the heavier stuff. There I was, at seven, banging my head with my dad and then mom'd come home, switch to country/tex mex. Am I schitzo or what?

Anyway . . . .

I'm traipsing along Hollywood Boulevard, watching the fascinatingly mixed crowd all around me, occasionally glancing down to see who all I was steppin' on.

Particularly happy to stomp on Andy Griffith, didn't care much at all about Carol Burnett's dull and dirty star—but I walked reverently around Will Rogers.

Yeah, daddy didn't have much influence. I'm a bit of a country girl. Little more rock n' roll. Gimme Shania Twain and Mutt Lange, or good 'ol Southern Rock, nothin' too twangie and nothing too metal like my dad. But I do confess, I'd rather drink my dad's Bushmills Irish Whiskey rather than good 'ol traditional Jack.

I'm kinda a mutt, I guess. So the mutt makes a fast left at Wilcox, with the light so I don't become a flat mutt, and head off toward the world famous Sunset Boulevard.

Not much exciting to see along the well-traveled route, even less exciting at the corner. And downright boring the rest of the way. Gotta tell you though, they've got long, long blocks in Hollywood—I felt like I walked miles. And in my own shoes too. :-) Hum, Hollywood looks just like most towns and I'm seriously disappointed 'cause I was hopin' for more.

Life's like that, isn't it?

You buy into the promo of the dream they're all trying to sell you and then . . . .

Then you get to the LAPD Station.

What dream?

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NEXT POSTING ON WEDNESDAY, APRIL 25TH. PLEASE COME BACK.

Thank you for reading, Jada

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