Not special effects. L.A. burns.
Hollywood is burning.
Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.
Gazing from our bedroom window, we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.
“Look how close they are,” says Karen.
“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”
Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:
“What do we do if they come here?”
My mind is racing away. The truth is, we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.
“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”
Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”
To read the complete story, please head on over to Big Hollywood.
Karen and I wish all our friends a happy and joyous Purim.
And in honor of Purim, Muslims desecrate holy Jewish texts in the Tomb of the Patriarchs.
Hey, I have a novel idea: let’s divide Jerusalem.
What could possibly go wrong?