Across from the Beverly Hills Hotel off Wilshire is a rolling lawn with some landscaping. Back in the forties, a cable vault blew up. When such things happen, they usually rebuild them twice as strong. This new one also housed Electric, Gas and Water, along with the Phone cables. Up above, on the rolling lawn, was one other item. The guy I nick named, The Dancing Machine. He danced to James Brown. That was it. He was about six three. Skinny as a rail. Wore dancers stretch leotards with the foot straps. On top. A pink hooded sweat shirt. From noon until two pm, if he was there, get ready to see some KICK ASS DANCING. West side story stuff. If really cooking, spinning kicks into some seventies dance routine. If you tried to talk to him, he would just dance away. If you went towards his stereo, he would dance in a circle around you. Sure, he was a nut. I loved the guy. Think of him all the time…
