I’m walking up the steep incline of Runyon Canyon, and the path that’s normally crowded with dogs and their masters looks different today. Something is wrong. I feel uneasy. Then it hits me. Where are all the beautiful people?

I do see people.They’re not disfigured. But no one has the kind of beauty that makes you stop, stare, and envy.  All I see are average faces. Men and women with one head, two eyes, two ears, and a nose. Even their dogs seem average. Lacking pedigree like their owners.

I’m sweating now. Not from the hiking, but from a frightening realization. Does this mean I’m one of them?  Could I be average? I wipe my brow and feel smug in the knowledge that it’s free of wrinkles. I touch my cheekbones. Sharp and prominent. Pat my chin. Hmm. Could be firmer. Could it mean I’m — no, don’t say it , don’t think it.  Could I be ugly? Impossible. In Hollywood, ugly people don’t leave the house. They become shut-ins and send their servants to the supermarket or call Pink Dot to deliver food to their doorstep. No, I’m not ugly. Thank goodness. At least I can leave my home.

Then I remember that tonight is Oscar night. No wonder all the beautiful people — the BPs– aren’t here. The lucky ones are attending the Oscars. Maybe they’ve even been nominated or they’re sleeping with someone who knows someone who’s been nominated. The less lucky ones are attending Oscar viewing parties, rooting for friends or hoping their friends don’t win. The least lucky are waiting tables at the Oscar viewing parties and hoping to sleep with someone who will give them an acting gig so they no longer have to wait on the luckier BPs.

After hiking I walk down Hollywood Boulevard and stop at the barricade on La Brea Avenue. Policemen wave away curious tourists. I watch an officer holding a long-handled mirror with which he inspects the undercarriage of incoming vehicles. What is he looking for? A party-crashing BP?

I walk away, thinking this is the closest I’ve been to the Oscars.  That’s so messed up. Then I jog past runaways sitting on the lawn of the Burger King. Their dog looks like it has a pedigree. I turn around and stare at its owners. Beneath the grime I can see their faces.

They are beautiful.

Clean them up. Place them on the grounds of a mansion in the Hamptons. Voilà! Ralph Lauren ad.

The boys and girls shout and laugh, seemingly oblivious to the celebration occurring mere blocks away. What’s their story? Are they fallen BPs? I rewind time and can see them arriving fresh-faced and hopeful in Hollywood. Dreaming of stardom.