Downtown, Los Angeles

Remnants of the Gatsby-times survive on Seventh, near Spring Street. Grand buildings, brick-faced and hand crafted, where close to a century ago all the Hollywood-blockbusters got their premier, still loom like guardians of the city. But the theaters have been refurbished into novelty souvenir shops. Once glamorous hotels now house the most privileged of the lower class. The paint on the brick is peeling and chipped, advertising places and products long out of business.
But look closely and you'll see what downtown used to be. A place to celebrate with champagne. Splurge. Go for a stroll with a date after dinner and admire the lights draped from pole to pole.
Now, the street slips into a coma past midnight. The vendors, having packed away their discount T-shirts, leave debris like tumbleweeds. Even cars steer clear. And the only ones left walking the streets are drunkards and panhandlers and people in a haste to get home.
No more strolls.
No more red carpets.
As the city of Los Angeles grew, did everyone grow bored of Seventh? The same music? Same cocktails? Same scene?
Were they all so hungry for something different that they'd let this place -- a piece of history, a piece of themselves -- slowly starve?
On my way home from the SevenGrand, I promise myself to never make the same mistake.
Hunger is one thing. Gluttony another.