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Laurel Canyon Transvestites

As my car stops at the Laurel Canyon intersection and waits for the light to turn red, it has a tussle with a transvestite. Once is strange. Twice is stranger. Thrice is just plain creepy. More so because I haven’t seen any evidence that this intersection is a tranny hotspot. You go about your business. I go about mine. No problemo. Except if your antics grossly infringe on my schedule. Like I am waiting to make a right hand turn on a red light. All the slow-walking grannies, nannies hurling babies in strollers in front of street racers, immigrant workers and valley punks have made it to the sidewalk. In any other city I would have gunned it. But here we have hidden moto-cops lurking around every corner, all too eager to wave moving violations and citations for not having a front license plate. They’ve got me at least twice before. They’re not going to get me again.

And so I have to wait, blood aboil, as the dude-d up Transvestite in the pleather miniskirt, fishnets, high-high heels, mesh shirt, thick iridescent eye shadow and bad wig decides to cross on a flashing red hand. This is a major intersection. There’s no way Tranny’s going to make it without getting plowed down by an uninsured van when the light changes. But it might be fun to watch him/her try. The Transvestite, walking extra slowly, with a deliberate swish of the none-to-fit hips, stops… not just slows down… but STOPS in the middle of the crosswalk.

The hand is now solid red. The Transvestite just doesn’t care. I am concerned for a moment… until he/she pulls out a cigarette and casually lights up. What the hell? This is just not right. The light turns green. The Transvestite yawns and takes a bored step or two closer to my car. I give the cursory short beep-beep, get the frig out of the road, hoping to shove this disaster back to reality. My alert only causes The Transvestite to hustle with unbelievable speed in front of my car and let out a barrage of foul-mouthed Spanglish.

Luckily my car has an amazing turning radius. I peel out and swerve, missing Sr. Senorita by a half an inch. In my rear-view mirror I see that The Transvestite has refocused his/her rant on an angry-looking tattooed car stereo installer in a cargo van.

Wishing them both the best, I drive away.

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