Hollywood Piracy

The thing you have to understand about Los Angeles is that it is, in many ways, a microcosmic representation of the entire universe. There are heavenly bodies, more stars than you can count and – unfortunately – a ton of moons, typically courtesy of crazy people as they shout at you from street corners. The county’s most striking similarity to the cosmos at large, however, is its seeming endlessness. Stretching across 4,061 square miles of roadways seemingly designed by M.C. Escher (the artist, not the rapper), LA manages to have more complexity and broader horizons than the vast majority of its inhabitants. This fact, combined with the curse of an internal compass permanently set to magnetic north – something to do with the amount of fillings I got when I was a kid – means that I find myself hopelessly lost on pretty much a daily basis.

Autopilot, of course, also plays some role in my status as a navigationally challenged member of society. Triggered by equal parts crippling boredom and exhaust fumes, it’s that trance-like state of near-catatonia that sets in the instant traffic starts to slow, releasing you from its powerful hypnotic spell only after you realize you missed your turnoff three exits ago. You’ve probably seen the trademark slack-jawed expression that accompanies this phenomenon staring back at you from the rear-view mirror from time to time, its eyes making the silent promise that – yes – one day you’ll always look like this. Fortunately, that day is postponed every time the sweet siren song of rumbling motors, roadwork and the Spanish station blaring in the car next to you is silenced by something so out of the ordinary that you can’t help but snap to attention.

Earlier this week, I was heading from Culver City to the Miracle Mile when autopilot kicked in. Aside from some vague recollection of wondering how the size zero soccer mom in traffic next to me managed to talk her husband into getting the girly vanity plate HUMNBRD for their three-ton black Hummer, I have literally no recollection of what happened on the drive. I suppose, then, it should come as no surprise that I somehow found myself on Hollywood Boulevard – a navigational error on par with NASA forgetting to carry the one and firing that Mars probe into the center of the Sun a few years back. The surprise was what snapped me out of autopilot.

It was Captain Jack Sparrow, weaving his way in front of my car as he used a compass to check his bearings. He then boldly pointed a course to the opposite side of the street and said something I can only assume was hilarious, since Zorro – walking with him and carrying a half-dozen plastic swords – burst into laughter before diligently following.

Even though I realized about a half-second later that they must be some of the celebrity impersonators who hang out in front of Mann’s Chinese theater and charge tourists for photos, there was a single, glorious instant when I was convinced that Captain Jack and Zorro were alive, in Hollywood, and roommates.

Such is the unique magic of autopilot.