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Monday, August 09, 2010

Keep Off The Grass

This past weekend’s road adventure brought me to the San Fernando Valley to the San Fernando Mission. It’s a beautiful mission and within its compound lies the Bob Hope Memorial Garden where Mr. Hope was entombed on July 22, 2005.

I stood in front of the tomb and wanted desperately to crack a joke, a Bob Hope joke, but I couldn’t remember any.

Beside him is the tomb for Delores Hope, though she’s not there yet.

While standing there I was overcome with this feeling that he, Bob, his tomb, looked lonely. I leaned down and whispered, “Hey Mr. Hope, don’t despair, the old girl’s pushing a hundred so it won’t be too long. I promise.”

As I backed up I wandered around the garden wondering if when I die will Los Angeles create a memorial garden for me. I tend to doubt it, and that’s okay because I really don’t want people walking through my memorial garden who never knew me personally and whispering idiotic things at me and about me. And let’s not even talk about the dogs and birds and insects and vermin that’d be pissing and shitting all over my eternal plot of land.

So there I was in the garden looking around when a security guard snapped his fingers at me. I ignored him. He snapped again. I ignored him again. He came towards me.

The security guard was on his cell phone having a conversation. Was it with Bob Hope? Was it with Delores Hope?

He approached and snapped his fingers again. I looked into his vacant eyes and asked him if he was snapping at me or was that part of his conversation. He pulled the phone away from his lopsided ear long enough to tell me that I couldn’t walk on the grass, and then he pointed at a little sign snuggled in the grass that indeed told me to keep off the grass.

Why have grass if you can’t walk on it? Isn't that what it’s there for?


This reminds me of a neighbor I had when I lived back in suburban Boston. His name is Tony M. and he is a total bastard, the meanest motherfucker the earth has ever seen. He was always yelling at the neighborhood kids who dared step foot on his grass.

Tony M. is way old and like Delores he’s nearing death, and all I can say is when he finally dies (and spends eternity in hell) I hope the people who buy his house have a dozen kids who roll all over lawn, tearing up every blade of precious grass.

I’ve decided I want to be cremated.

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