Wilshire, what a miracle mile that once was.

One Wilshire Blvd. is located in the financial district of downtown Los Angeles at Grand. If you drove west to its very end you find yourself up against a decision of which way to turn on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. A left takes you to Venice Beach and the funky locos on rollerblades; a right heads you to PCH and up the coast as far as you are willing to go. How much more L.A. does this get?

I have always had a fascination with this route, mostly because of it's ability to get you from Point A to Point B, which at one time, felt like a major excursion like the time my friend Val and I made our way to the Santa Monica Civic for a Mink DeVille concert with the help of a Thomas Guide and sheer luck. Hey, we were teens. Now it has become a daily routine for getting to and from work riding Metro's Red Rapid (west) from Boyle Heights, over the 6th Street bridge, smack down the crusty crack of skid row, through downtown, along the Miracle Mile, and finally to the pits of La Brea where I disembark. Normally I tune out with whatever CD I can grab before running out the door or keep my eyes focused on the pages of a book I'm struggling to finish. Today, though, I kept my head up and eyes open studying everything in sight.

People, so many people, some sleeping on the filth of the streets waiting for their morning rations at the homeless shelters, others carrying lunches in recycled plastic supermarket bags heading off to do some form of slave labor in downtown sweatshops, teenaged kids ditching their last day of school headed to the beach -- summer is here, the occasional suited man with a stiff upper lip about to enter his heart attack of a work day, and me...wishing I could join the teens and forget my adult responsibilities...my own 9-5 routine.

Beyond the foot traffic I see the facades of buildings erected during the hey-day of Hollywood. This is the other reason I loved Wilshire Blvd. so much. I still admire the 1929 art deco magnificence of the old Bullock's Wilshire where customers like Mae West and Greta Garbo were catered to by young sales clerks, possibly Angela Lansbury, displaying designer gowns in the loungy woman's department now the site serves as Southwest University's law school.

I cringe to see the hideous strip mall where the famous Brown Derby once stood with the insulting miniature derby perched in the corner as if paying homage to the piece of L.A. history it destroyed. On my left stands the remaining walls of the Ambassador Hotel currently being demolished to make way for Central Los Angeles Learning Center. I wonder if the children attending this new school will be educated in the event which took place on that very land on June 5, 1968 when Democratic presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated before the eyes of BBC reporter Alistair Cooke and football star Rosie Greer tackled the gunman, Sirhan Sirhan.

Luckily the Gaylord, Talmadge and Los Altos apartments have survived the wrecking ball which is more than I can say for Perino's restaurant. In the year and three months since I've been taking this route I witnessed the destruction of Perino's restaurant and the construction of the condos planned with the same name. This was the place where Tyron Power had a booth and at any time you could see Frank Sinatra lift a martini glass in toast to his pack of rats. If I'm not mistaken, a couple of my uncles worked there when they train hopped their way to L.A. from El Paso, TX, so yes, there is a bit of personal history here.

Los Angeles, the city with a short lived history is not very kind to the things and people who helped create it. I can bitch and moan all I want about the changes to the things and places I remember and none of it really matters. It will all be history some day just like the fossils that get regurgitated in the pits of tar right in the heart of Museum Row on the Miracle Mile.