Beverly Hills, That's Where I Want to Be (Gimme Gimme)
Yesterday I traveled to the heart of Beverly Hills for an appointment. I felt a bit like a Beverly Hillbilly.
Mostly, I was underdressed, a feeling I have not once had in the beach community where I live. In that community, dressed-up means a gothic hoodie. But not so in Beverly Hills. The women wore very tight skirts and blouses, and very high-heeled shoes (not a problem, come to think of it). The men wore skinny black suits and slick sunglasses. One such man had a waist-length black ponytail streaked with grey, and was admiring himself in a bank window. Ironically, this attire tends to mark these folks as "worker bees" rather than the chief muckety-mucks.
In just a few block radius, in front of the numerous jewelry shops and fancy delis, I saw top-of- the-line Benzes, Aston Martins and a vintage yellow Rolls Royce being driven at five miles per hour by a charming-looking old mixed race couple.
I finally escaped Beverly Hills in my now pedestrian German vehicle, back to the land of the beach combers.
With only a cleaned set of chompers and a chicken salad on a whole wheat bagel to show for it, I'm told that I got away easy.