Lighting the Hollywood Sign

I’m one of the “local residents” who strongly opposes any further lighting of the Hollywood sign. This is what we endured during the 1984 Olympic Games, when the sign was lit each night from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m.

Each evening at dusk a group of cars would assemble at the bottom of our driveway, blocking it completely. “No Parking” signs were ignored. Litter was dropped. Much loud partying took place while these bored trespassers waited for the lights to come on.

Cigarettes were lit and tossed, still burning, into the bone-dry canyon despite the “Extreme Fire Hazard” signs. Many people invaded our driveway “to see what it was like living up here.” Enraged neighborhood pet dogs set up a constant barking and howling.

At the moment the sign was lit the crowd reacted with whoops and screams. As some cars tried to leave, they found themselves blocked by other cars, which led to fights and arguments. As each evening progressed the partying got louder, the beer consumption heavier.

Drunken daredevils would attempt to climb the mountain up to the lighted sign. The police and fire departments did what they could: the constant circling of their helicopters and searchlights added to the commotion. Police roadblocks and barriers were of little help. Carloads of sightseers experimented with alternate routes through the narrow, winding streets, blocking them completely.

Since sleep or rest was impossible, we sat in our driveway each night with our watchdog and a fire hose, and pleaded with the onlookers to obey the posted “No Smoking,” “Private Drive” and “No Parking” signs. Some people were genuinely apologetic when they learned they were breaking the law. But the usual reaction was drunken belligerence.

Most of the traffic drifted away when the lights were turned off at 1 a.m., except of course, for the hard-core troublemakers who would spend the rest of the night racing around the hills in cars or on motorbikes, slowing only to deface walls and fences with graffiti.

Each morning we picked up the litter left by the previous evening’s revelers and braced ourselves, tired, for the next onslaught at dusk.

The Hollywood sign will be lit again over my dead body--either caught in the cross fire of a gang fight, run over by a drunk driver, or burned to a crisp in a brush fire from which all escape routes have been blocked by sightseers’ cars.

CAROLE ZAHN

Los Angeles