day two.
As a child, I dreamed of Hollywood.
I was fascinated by fame – that concept, so foreign to a child, that society could deem one man more important than another, elevate him for his capacity to sing a song, or scale a cliff face, or look pretty, or pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
To be noticed was to have value. To be talked of was to have significance. To be remembered was to be relevant.
And so I dreamed of being a famous actor, a famous writer, a famous film director, a famous inventor, the Prime Minister. I even contemplated becoming Catholic just so I could become the Pope.
Fame is superficial. I get that. At its best, it reduces the brilliant to easily digestible morsels of unreality for public consumption. At its worst, it glorifies the vacuous, the hopeless and the passionless.
And yet the concept of celebrity interests me. Why do we paw through magazines to find the latest lass Radcliffe’s pointing his wand at? Why is it we keep up with the Kardashians, gleefully counting down the days till marriage meltdown?
And why does the sight of Jennifer Aniston at a movie premiere on Hollywood Boulevard have me gibbering like a git, teetering on my tippy toes, trying to immortalise the moment on camera?
This is a press photo of the lovely Jennifer:
I was fascinated by fame – that concept, so foreign to a child, that society could deem one man more important than another, elevate him for his capacity to sing a song, or scale a cliff face, or look pretty, or pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
To be noticed was to have value. To be talked of was to have significance. To be remembered was to be relevant.
And so I dreamed of being a famous actor, a famous writer, a famous film director, a famous inventor, the Prime Minister. I even contemplated becoming Catholic just so I could become the Pope.
Fame is superficial. I get that. At its best, it reduces the brilliant to easily digestible morsels of unreality for public consumption. At its worst, it glorifies the vacuous, the hopeless and the passionless.
And yet the concept of celebrity interests me. Why do we paw through magazines to find the latest lass Radcliffe’s pointing his wand at? Why is it we keep up with the Kardashians, gleefully counting down the days till marriage meltdown?
And why does the sight of Jennifer Aniston at a movie premiere on Hollywood Boulevard have me gibbering like a git, teetering on my tippy toes, trying to immortalise the moment on camera?
This is a press photo of the lovely Jennifer:
Yes. I am aware that is in fact Jennifer Love Hewitt. But right up until I googled that picture I thought it was Ms Aniston who I’d spotted on the red carpet. Because here is my photo:
Still, one Jen’s as good as the other.
I remember Jako rolling his eyes. “Celebrities just don’t interest me,” he condescended.
Of course, later in the trip, he was reduced to a simpering school-girl, gushing over a pro-skateboarder, Kilian Martin, who sat next to him on the train.
“I can’t believe that just happened. OH. EM. GEE. I just brushed thighs with one of the best freestyle skate-boarders in the world. So what if I’d never heard of him before today? My heart’s aflutter.”
But today’s tale is not one of star-gazing. Today’s tale is born in the pursuit of a different Hollywood dream. We were headed for perhaps Los Angeles’ most quintessential attraction.
I remember Jako rolling his eyes. “Celebrities just don’t interest me,” he condescended.
Of course, later in the trip, he was reduced to a simpering school-girl, gushing over a pro-skateboarder, Kilian Martin, who sat next to him on the train.
“I can’t believe that just happened. OH. EM. GEE. I just brushed thighs with one of the best freestyle skate-boarders in the world. So what if I’d never heard of him before today? My heart’s aflutter.”
But today’s tale is not one of star-gazing. Today’s tale is born in the pursuit of a different Hollywood dream. We were headed for perhaps Los Angeles’ most quintessential attraction.
We parked at the bottom of the hill. The air conditioning flicked off and nature’s heater kicked in. I glanced out the window at a faded sign. “WARNING: Mountain lions and rattle snakes.”
I looked down at my flip flops. “Anyone have shoes?” Silence.
“Water? Sunblock?”
Silence.
Undeterred by our lack of caution, we piled out of the van towards the sloping path, cameras and confidence in hand. The gentle rise was ours for the conquering.
The dusty white-orange path stretched up and around the rocky hillside littered with sparse brush and well-hidden squirrels – no doubt avoiding the equally covert mountain lions. The sun beat down on the backs of our necks and legs.
About an hour in, we reached a split in the path which would later serve as a slightly forced metaphor for the whole experience.
One path continued its gradual meander around the curve, while the other headed directly up a steep precipice. In continuing with our previous abandon of common sense, the choice was simple.
And so, in the spirit of Robert Frost, we took the road less traveled by.
The air thickened with a certain testosterone-fuelled bravado and notions of heroism flitted above our headspace. For a moment, childhood fancies of daring legends and bold idols became reality.
Rambo scratched his forehead and grinned. He nodded at Action Man and Hercules. “Up it is, then.”
I adjusted my bat mask and headed forward, dodging the billowing dust clouds being kicked up by Hercules’ flip flops. Chuck Norris and Jet Li followed behind, scaling the incline on hands and knees, testing various tree roots for strength.
We clawed our way to the top and dragged ourselves around the final bend, shaking dust from our bodies like dogs after a dirt bath.
And there it was. The Hollywood Sign. The international symbol of the entertainment industry. A collection of metal rods and sheet metal on a hill.
We had made it – like so many before us – and like finishing a novel, like completing a final exam, perhaps like achieving fame, the feeling of accomplishment was bookended by a sudden sense of futility and insignificance.
I looked down at my flip flops. “Anyone have shoes?” Silence.
“Water? Sunblock?”
Silence.
Undeterred by our lack of caution, we piled out of the van towards the sloping path, cameras and confidence in hand. The gentle rise was ours for the conquering.
The dusty white-orange path stretched up and around the rocky hillside littered with sparse brush and well-hidden squirrels – no doubt avoiding the equally covert mountain lions. The sun beat down on the backs of our necks and legs.
About an hour in, we reached a split in the path which would later serve as a slightly forced metaphor for the whole experience.
One path continued its gradual meander around the curve, while the other headed directly up a steep precipice. In continuing with our previous abandon of common sense, the choice was simple.
And so, in the spirit of Robert Frost, we took the road less traveled by.
The air thickened with a certain testosterone-fuelled bravado and notions of heroism flitted above our headspace. For a moment, childhood fancies of daring legends and bold idols became reality.
Rambo scratched his forehead and grinned. He nodded at Action Man and Hercules. “Up it is, then.”
I adjusted my bat mask and headed forward, dodging the billowing dust clouds being kicked up by Hercules’ flip flops. Chuck Norris and Jet Li followed behind, scaling the incline on hands and knees, testing various tree roots for strength.
We clawed our way to the top and dragged ourselves around the final bend, shaking dust from our bodies like dogs after a dirt bath.
And there it was. The Hollywood Sign. The international symbol of the entertainment industry. A collection of metal rods and sheet metal on a hill.
We had made it – like so many before us – and like finishing a novel, like completing a final exam, perhaps like achieving fame, the feeling of accomplishment was bookended by a sudden sense of futility and insignificance.
We had made it – but we were still so far from the actual sign. The letters were propped up some 20 metres down the hill, under 24/7 surveillance and bordered by a tall fence with razor wire.
Official-looking signs detailed the security system: infrared lights and cameras, monitoring microphones and bullhorns, web cameras, motion sensors, patrolling helicopters and police cruisers.
The choice was simple.
“I wonder how many people have actually touched the sign...”
Action Man made nervous eyes at Jet Li, and then glanced at a shallow ditch a previous adventurer had dug under the wire fence. “I guess we’re only here once.”
Perhaps it was the lingering remnants of bravado, the offensively heavy-handed display of security, or the prospect of later being able to tell the tale nonchalantly while portraying us as free-spirited adventurers.
I suspect the presence of four young American women watching on may also have had something to do with it. “Are you going to touch the sign?” they giggled.
We scrambled through the hole, one by one, glancing back to make sure our new friends were watching. To be noticed is to have value. To be talked of is to have significance. To be remembered is to be relevant.
We all skidded down the slope. “Just for the record, I think this is a bad idea,” Rambo shouted from the back.
I slid to a stop beside the giant H, took a deep breath, reached out my hand and touched it.
I had achieved the Hollywood dream.
Official-looking signs detailed the security system: infrared lights and cameras, monitoring microphones and bullhorns, web cameras, motion sensors, patrolling helicopters and police cruisers.
The choice was simple.
“I wonder how many people have actually touched the sign...”
Action Man made nervous eyes at Jet Li, and then glanced at a shallow ditch a previous adventurer had dug under the wire fence. “I guess we’re only here once.”
Perhaps it was the lingering remnants of bravado, the offensively heavy-handed display of security, or the prospect of later being able to tell the tale nonchalantly while portraying us as free-spirited adventurers.
I suspect the presence of four young American women watching on may also have had something to do with it. “Are you going to touch the sign?” they giggled.
We scrambled through the hole, one by one, glancing back to make sure our new friends were watching. To be noticed is to have value. To be talked of is to have significance. To be remembered is to be relevant.
We all skidded down the slope. “Just for the record, I think this is a bad idea,” Rambo shouted from the back.
I slid to a stop beside the giant H, took a deep breath, reached out my hand and touched it.
I had achieved the Hollywood dream.