25 Oct

Sunday in MacArthur Park, Central America Day.  There’s a band playing a Mexican-polka version of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.” I loathe that piece of music – but it’s not so bad with a dance beat and a thumping bass. I’m pushing the edge, hanging out in this part of town, but it seems I naturally end up where the Anglos don’t go.

Two nights ago I stopped into a Korean bar – once again – the only white guy. Pretty soon I had a microphone slapped down in front of me, with the barmaid asking me to sing, “Yesterday” and “My Way.” They liked my style.

It might be years before I make it down to the Walk of Stars, although I’ve caught a glimpse of the Hollywood sign as I bomb up and down the 101.



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