Boulevard of bruised passenger doors

Ahhhh, Hollywood. One block north of me boasts multi-million dollar homes with ocean and downtown views. One block south of me leads to Paramount Studios (and for some inexplicable reason, the only thing I can think when I drive by is, "That's where The Brady Bunch was filmed). One block west and east, however, aren't so pretty. I'm on the boarder of what's known as Little Armenia. Thus I have my choice of freshly ground coffee, pastries, fake gold watches and crime. Last night, while trying to find the local Blockbuster, I was suddenly inclined to return home when I witnessed (what I interpreted to be) a gang war. Granted, I saw neither gangs nor war, but the presence of so many police cars on one block in Hollywood was a red flag. So instead of making it a Blockbuster night, I drove around the multi-million dollar homes in the hills and daydreamed about my life there. Where my Oscars would go. How many servants I would have. Where I'd vacation. Why I ran into a brick wall because I wasn't paying attention. So now I have a piece of that fabled mansion land at my disposal. Because it's permanently tattooed on the side of my fucking car. And with the costs I will incur fixing that, I'd have rather taken my odds with the gang war.