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Tuesday 200 - #14

It’s like one of those art films. No soundtrack, just the buzz of tourists and helicopters.

“Have you had your fifteen minutes?” shouts the madman.

Typical Griffith Park whack job. Fat undulates beneath his bright yellow tee. Brown stains creep down the rear of his gray sweats. Grime grows from his fingers up past his elbows.

Was my fifteen minutes really only two nationals and three episodes of The West Wing? Just thinking about that last night. How did he know?

I pass a crowd of hipsters who mutter in German.

Ducking behind a tree, I tap a bump onto the back of my hand. It’s gone in a flash, a comforting burn in my nostril. Chemical-fresh breath’s just a few drips away.

Probably should’ve gone to that audition. Oh well.

The yellow-breasted Warhol inquisitor holds court on a bench, smoking a hand-rolled.

People swirl around him, speaking Italian. A family jabbers in Spanish. A Japanese couple walks by, two cameras each, lost in unintelligible chatter.

“You just don’t want to!” he bellows, pointing toward me.

Nobody speaks English anymore. No one but the greasy fingered loon who screams thoughts I’m trying to stifle.

And no one yells “cut.”

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Last week's Tuesday 200.

What is this Tuesday 200 thing?