It is 8:20 am, with a pile of messy hair on top of my head I lurch to the most glorious of all square electrical devices, the refrigerator. With just a brief look inside, it becomes quite clear that a half bottle of sriracha and a bag of carrots will not be sufficient for the breakfast of a champion. Donning on my usual Tupac t-shirt, I head outside to the streets. Since I live in LA, you must immediately be thinking “And now she gets into her car and drives to…” but you are missing one, fairly crucial, point—I live on Hollywood Blvd, essentially the Times Square of Los Angeles. It may very well be the only place in LA where it is more efficient to walk than drive. As I step out onto the pavement a car door slams to my left with Darth Vader exiting a Toyota Corolla.
“Good Morning” he says, breathing loudly, as he sweeps past me.
“Good Morning, how are you doing today?” I reply.
“Just heading to work, pretty good thanks.” He answers, already large steps ahead of me.
My sunglasses fall to the bridge of my nose as I duck out of the camera eye line taking a photo of a wax Marilyn Monroe (she is everything here-by the way). I zig zag through the crowd to the Dolby Theatre and down the piano staircase that always sounds out of tune. I finally step inside the corner market and grab my miscellaneous array of items including the Queen Mother of all victuals–the old-fashioned donut–and exit. It is a well-known fact that the minute-to-minute movements on Hollywood blvd are more complex and intricate than those of a Rube Goldberg contraption that routinely does the unexpected. So, I am not surprised when I am suddenly faced with a wall of Ohio state fans arguing with a large group of Halo Space Fighters. Normally, I could have slipped in through the piano staircase again but 15 toddlers and Shrek are having story time so you could very well say I’m in quicksand—the more I try to move the more stuck I become. So I do something that those of us in Generation Y have only done maybe once or twice, I stand still. And I look around. And I shut up.
But with Jack Sparrow tapping his foot in annoyance behind me, I can’t help but realize the astonishing photo we are creating at this very moment—and the fact that this absurd image is was changing every second. That once this Ohio State 20 year-old is finished making his point to a 7-foot-tall alien killer we are all going to get on our way and create a completely different image, quite possibly now with an Ohio State fan on the ground. In effect, this to me becomes almost more shocking than Duchamp’s bathroom appliance in the 1913 Armory Show, not because it is random or funny, but because it is completely and totally unintentional. It is like an Andy Warhol painting brought to life, but better because the characters themselves have chosen to put themselves on display. Rather than Andy re-coloring them and formatting the piece for exhibition, the characters have instead chosen their own color palettes and the type of canned soup and scouring pads they prefer. It is even more bizarre when I realize that I am part of this pop scene with people and performers participating in a series of pop culture relationships—without even consenting to them