Each time I walk Huck the wonder dog through my stretch of Studio City, we run into familiar faces that have no name.
In no particular order, my neighborhood cast of recurring characters include:
The Gypsy. He packs and unpacks stuff from his pick up truck all through the night, lets his pitbull run free, and gets into a screaming match with his bleach blonde girlfriend at least once a month.
Mensch and Grinch. Middle-aged couple speed walks down the street. Man (Mensch) always says "hi." I always say "good morning" back. Grim woman (Grinch) plows straight ahead.
Barry. This pitbull gets walked every morning by a 12-year old girl dressed invariably in shorts and tee-shirt. I don't know her name but wonder why, at 10 in the morning in November, she's not in school.
The Gay Astronomer. Friendly real estate broker has a beautiful house with an observatory on top.
The Artists. Shirtless and drunk, they throw loud parties nearly every weekend. When I complain about the noise, the hipsters stagger over in their buzzcuts and promise to make cookies, explaining that we should all get along because they are Artists.
The Mayor. My wife Marla chats up so many people about their gardens or dogs during her twice-a-day strolls that it's like she's campaigning for office.
Then there's all the semi-famous TV character actors, but that's another post.