
Los Angeles is home to movie stars and rock gods, but one celebrity stands, quite literally, above the rest: the mythical Chicken Boy.
Or, as his admirers call him, The Statue of Liberty of Los Angeles.
With his cocksure swagger and perfect plumage, Chicken Boy rules the roost over Highland Park’s trendy Figueroa Street. The 22-foot-tall kid with a fowl head brings a bit of old school class and – dare I say it – candor to this quirky corner of LA.
So popular is this feathery hunk that September 1st has been declared National Chicken Boy Day. Now that’s something to crow over!
A familiar beak in a rapidly-changing world, Chicken Boy’s story starts way back in the late-’60s. Wanting to hock more of their wings and spicy tenders, the owners of Chicken Boy Fried Chicken in Downtown LA came up with an egg-straordinary plan.
They bought a Muffler Man from International Fiberglass and – in typical LA fashion – gave him a facelift.
A local artist swapped out the human head for a chicken’s, and plonked a bucket of extra crispy in his hands. Perched atop the food shack, Chicken Boy was the bagawk of the town! He did his bit to raise the cholesterol of Californians until 1984, when the restaurant closed after the owner suddenly died.
Well, that’s what eating deep-fried chicken day in, day out, will do to you.
Chicken Boy was on the chopping block, until renowned artist Amy Inouye strutted into his life…
Too Big to Live, Too Weird to Fry
Amy had been an admirer of our rooster-headed homeboy for years. They first met in the mid-’70s, two lonely hearts in the vat of bubbling oil that is Los Angeles.
“Heading north on Broadway, I spotted Chicken Boy,” Amy revealed in her official history of Chicken Boy. “Time stood still as our eyes met. It was kind of like Maria meeting Tony at the dance, only the object of my affection had the head of a chicken and was welded to the top of a three-story building.
“Little did I know it was not a mere flirtation; our destinies were sealed that day.”
Sounds like it was love at first (short, flappy) flight!
“On a trip downtown one day, the shocking sight of a ‘for lease’ sign on the restaurant made me worry for the fate of Chicken Boy,” she continued. “I called the leasing agent to inquire. I kept calling until one day, they said, ‘If you’re so concerned about him, come and get him.’ ‘Okay’ said I. ‘Like now’, said they.”
Amy assumed that Angelenos would be falling over themselves to take Chicken Boy off her hands. Instead, he spent 23 years cooped up in a storage container.
Then, in 2007, a beakthrough. Amy opened Future Studio Design & Gallery in Highland Park and, on October 17 of that year, Chicken Boy took his rightful place on the roof. He remains there to this lay… oops, I mean day!
“Chicken Boy has been my muse, and my contribution to LA historic preservation. This is what I will be known for, even if I were to cure the common cold. I believe this small but mighty gesture is a wonderful tribute to my buddy Chicken Boy. He deserves it.”
I love a story with a happy hen-ding!
Chicken Boy: The Movie
To prepare myself for an encounter with this most unique roadside attraction, I fired up my VHS player to watch Chicken Boy: The Movie. What, you thought Arnold the Murray Cod was the only Big with a movie dedicated to him?
This award-winning romantic comedy follows our feathered friend on a metaphysical journey of personal and sensual discovery – and is utterly, unapologetically bonkers.
“Well, I don’t think I need to see the director’s cluck,” I joked afterwards, walking out of my moth-bitten motel room and into the concrete jungle that is Figueroa Street.
I soon discovered that a muscular teen with a bird‘s head and a bucket of fried chow is the most normal thing in Highland Park. Everywhere you chook, there’s women of ill repute and men in ponchos smoking silly cigarettes.
Chicken Boy is notoriously difficult to take a photo with. During summer he’s completely hidden behind a leafy tree, and even in winter a billboard blocks him from view. Oh, how the mighty had fowlen!
A strange outdoor medical clinic has sprung up in the carpark of the Mexican restaurant next door. Maybe there’s been an outbreak of bird flu?
To get my happy snap, I handed my camera over to Colby, a slightly overweight Filipino gentleman with a beard and a sun dress. When I returned Colby was, to my surprise, a blubbering mess.
“What’s wrong, Colby?” I queried
“Well Bigs,” he wept. “Let’s just say I got my hopes up when you asked me to take a photo of you and your massive –”
“That’s quite enough of that, Colby,” I snapped.