![]() ![]() The kids used to spill out into the road so you couldnʼt move. “That island,” he says, motioning to a blank triangle of land marooned in the intersection of Sunset and Crescent Heights, “was where they had a little club called Pandoraʼs Box. He is 77 years old and is driving barefoot. One radical soul, however, defies the cruising ban and rolls westward at lawn-mower speed in his black Lincoln Navigator, pointing at things like a tourist. The Strip in daytime is mostly worker-mobiles shuttling hurriedly between Beverly Hills and Hollywood, which was actually the original purpose of this 1.7-mile stretch of road: to get movie people swiftly from their homes in the palmy west to the studios in the sunbaked east, and back again. But in the glare of business hours, the scourge of “cruising” isnʼt much of an issue. The Sunset Strip is officially a no cruising zone, as cautionary white signs remind you every quarter-mile or so. ![]()
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