The other day, I was walking down Hollywood Blvd to my class when a British gentleman, looking confused, stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he asked. “Are you from here?”
“Yes,” I replied warily. I hate talking to strangers in Hollywood as most of them are wacked out of their gourds.
He continued, “Is there a fancy part of the Walk of Fame, or is it all like… this?” he asked, gesturing to the grungy, litter-strewn sidewalk.
I felt a swell of pity. He came to Hollywood, land of movie stars, only to find a Walk of Fame that was more like a Walk of Homeless Dude’s Urine.
I shook my head. “It’s all like this,” I said. Then we held each other, weeping.