The road to Hollywood is long and exhausting.
I have started writing this post a dozen times already.
“If I hear myself on NPR, I’ll shoot you!”
Here I am, two thousand miles later, almost at my destination.
Spoiler alert: that awesome disco helmet is from New Orleans, not Hollywood Park.
Conservatively, I calculated that my trip across the country would be roughly seven thousand miles. To answer your next question: yes, that may be only …
Say what you will about Hollywood being a bad part of Memphis, I didn’t see anyone in Hollywood doing coke in the bathroom.
Here is an incomplete list of things white people told me about Hollywood Street in Memphis, Tennessee:
“A mess, a mess,” Eric says to nobody in particular. “Life’s a mess.”
IDIOT KILLED BY REAL AMERICANS; PRETTY MUCH ASKED FOR IT.
Nothing like a good night’s sleep. I feel like a million bucks!
“Brunch?” they ask, incredulous.
“The snickersnee is rusted shut, and your borogoves are completely stripped,” Kenny might as well be telling me.