The Hills They Are a-Burnin'

What if the Hollywood Sign had burned down? Would a new sign be built to take its place?

I doubt it.

And we would have been left with no discernible landmarks. The palm tree postcards do not represent any specific place.

The Jetson’s LAX former air traffic control tower would have been really silly as the only remaining iconic structure in this Pacific Gothem. Besides, it’s a frigging airport building.

How about something more personal—perhaps the silicone boob? Too many to be unique.

The divorced blond pushing fifty on Rodeo drive? Why bother! That’s like putting a rat on a flag to celebrate the New York subway.

We have almost nothing. No Eiffel Tower. No Empire State Building. Not even a silly Arch denoting the “Gateway to the West.”

If the Hollywood Sign had burned down, we would have become as indiscernible as our neighbors to the East. Another Monrovia or San Dimas.

Without the Hollywood Sign, Los Angeles would appear only as what it is: a cement town of car washes and 99 cent stores of pure, unplanned function. I do somehow like how unapologetic the place is with its splashing exhaust and slapdash bungalows. It is a poetic city. The civic bone of beauty is so bare. Clarity arrives when there is not much in the way to obfuscate one’s vision. But one does like to hang one’s hat on SOMETHING. The edge of the Y in Holly?

I am glad the sign did not burn. The editorials would have been exhausting. The replacement--maybe something hideously overdone.

I once hiked up to the Hollywood Sign. The letters are very big.