Peanuts In My Pocket

I visited Hollywood over the weekend with my family to enjoy Hamilton at the Pantages Theater. Navigating the tourist trap that is Hollywood isn’t exactly my idea of fun on a Saturday, but for a great show and quality time with my family, I’ll endure almost anything.

My wife made everything easier. She took care of the logistics, which made the whole experience surprisingly smooth. Traffic, noise, parking, and the crowds all seemed like minor inconveniences this time around. Even my well-known struggles with social anxiety in crowds were eased by her thoughtful planning. I simply enjoyed what felt like a perfect outing. Hollywood’s quirks? Irrelevant.

Hollywood, for me, has always had an air of strangeness, and part of that is its smell. Walking the streets, you’re hit by waves of odors—some pleasant, others downright nasty. Together, they form a pungent, unmistakable fingerprint that identifies a place, a time, or a memory. Hollywood has its own distinct scent, just like many other places.

“Ooh that smell Can’t you smell that smell Ooh that smell The smell of death surrounds you” – Lynyrd Skynyrd

The smell of cigarette smoke takes me back to being 10 years old, stuck in the back of my grandmother’s old Ford Thunderbird with my two sisters, as she puffed away indifferently. We used to beg her to crack a window.

Food smells trigger memories too. Some, like the smell of grits or corn dogs from my childhood, make me anxious, but most food scents bring back happy memories. More recent associations come from adventurous eating while traveling abroad. I will never forget the smell of stinky tofu in China or the sharp odor of Vieux Boulogne on a delicate cracker in France. Just thinking about them still makes me retch.

Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. – Helen Keller

People’s smells linger with me the longest. I remember how my grandparents smelled—my grandfather’s mix of grease and Lava soap evokes many good memories. I recall the heavenly scent of my sons as babies, though I’m happy to forget how they smelled as teenagers. Then there was a nameless European friend who smelled so bad that, when a mutual friend unexpectedly encountered his fungal nastiness, he fainted. Once revived, he retched for 10 minutes.

This friend, unofficially dubbed “Mr. Stinky,” set the standard for the worst smell I’ve ever experienced. I never thought anything could top it, and I’ve survived encounters with durian fruit. But this weekend, while people-watching on Hollywood Blvd after Hamilton, I encountered something worse. It was as if death itself passed in front of me. A homeless man pulling a wagon walked by, and I was overwhelmed by a smell so foul it redefined my understanding of horrible. I couldn’t take it. My eyes watered, my head spun, and I genuinely thought I might throw up. It was a smell too terrible to describe. I’m convinced he was either pulling dead things in that wagon or was death himself.

Hollywood… wow. Hamilton was great. I’d do that again, but without the Smell-O-Vision.