The Weekend of Ward: spotting the crazies
If you've perused the Metromix Party Pics, you'll gather more than enough evidence to convict our staff of excess revelry. Our very first holiday party was on Friday at 86, an underground speakeasy once owned by Rudolph Valentino. There was free booze. And a photobooth:
Suffice it to say that the next day turned out to be pretty mellow for The Ward. I shuffled around in slippers and finally ventured out at dusk. On my way back from the Hollywood post office, I passed by the Capitol Records building, and spotted an apparent crazy person stationed out front.
If you live in Hollywood, you know that it's not unusual to witness crank addicts bathing themselves in the Sharky's bathroom, so I wasn't too shocked to see a guy with fabric tied around his head, in colorful, mismatched garments, tinkling away at a keyboard next to a mound of wilting flowers on a street with zero foot traffic.
All alone. Singing to no one. Bathouse crazy.
But the flowers and long-extinguished candles piled on the sidewalk did suggest a memorial. So I parked my car in a red zone and—wearing my slippers—went to investigate.
I approached, said hello and he looked up from his Beatles songbook, shockingly lucid. "Oh hey." He didn't call me the devil, he didn't mention aliens, and he smelled sober. This was getting weirder every minute.
He told me his name was David. I asked who died, pointing to the lumps of carnations and cellophane. Turns out it was John Lennon's star underneath all that well-intentioned detritus. He died 27 years ago on December 8, and every year—for the past two, at least—David sets up shop to play Lennon's music and talk to people about peace.
A few people with acoustic guitars had joined him earlier in the day, but at this point he was alone on the barren stretch of the Walk of Fame. It was sunset and freezing out, and I asked how long he planned on being there. He said "Oh, probably the rest of the day." I noted that at 5 p.m., the day was over. He shrugged, and said "Midnight, I guess."
I ended up standing against a lamppost and listening to him stumble through verses of "Imagine" and "Eleanor Rigby," then chatted about how he'd moved out from New York a few years ago to study theater here. He also explained the battery life on portable keyboards. I gave him a pair of my gloves, listened for a little bit longer, and when a few stray tourists ambled past to take a photo, I said goodbye, and told him I'd see him next year.
-Alie Ward