I walk past the stately movie theater and read the marquee
once again. It's there, in all Capital letters,
SAFETY NOT GUARANTEED,
Is this the name of a film, or something necessitated
by the construction zone immediately next to the theater's entrance?
I've been wondering this for a couple of weeks now.
This aging Norma Desmond of a movie palace just might be protecting its patrons. This condo being built right next door to the theater is rife with cement blocks, nails, and all the scraps of metal and wood such a project can provide. The two are just a few feet apart. This condo will literally be backstage. (well, almost)
Then again, this warning phrase could just be a film title for the 8:25 showing.
Why the marquee?
People don't read the marquee standing under it.
Safety Not Guaranteed is the story of a disaffected WWII vet new to Los Angeles.
He begins his postwar career as a private investigator whose insomnia
Takes him over the hilly streets of Hollywood to the fast decaying but barely detectable LAPD.
Chinatown Olvera street, City Hall, Griffith Park, Hollywood Bowl, Brown Derby, Santa Claus Lane Parade, UCLA, Pacific Coast Highway, Santa Monica Pier, Mulholland Drive, and
He stalks them all...
Like the butter flavoring in the popcorn,
Like the wine stained allies,
the sidewalk in front of the theater,
Safety Not Guaranteed.
I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical. This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair. I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself. At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office. But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter. So I fidget. Then I begin a tour of myself. Scars are tattoos. I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12. Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife. The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life. 50 years later ...

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