An L.A. Kind Of Rubber Band
An authentic dip into local culture today was three
hours at the monthly sale of a local library, where
it’s always understaffed and overbooked.
(Why people think it’s an act of generosity to
donate the complete prep series for the 1998 LSAT
is one of the mysteries of the misguided.)
Master Bookmover was also the worker monitor.
Shark, he called across the room, put the book
down! Step away from that box and move these
carts!
Hot, sweaty, grungy work. Very satisfying.
Could not help comparing it to yesterday’s cultural
experience. Stopped at a friend’s new office and
was surprised by this in his fourth floor lobby:
Yes! A real Miripolsky, that celebrated downtown
L.A. artist, he of Fear No Art fame, right here in a
beach-adjacent, gorgeous, nouveau industrial low rise.
The topping on this helping of local taste came when my
friend hustled us downstairs for a smoke break.
As we stepped into the alley, he clapped his hand over
his nose.
What, I said. Do people walk their dogs in your alley?
No, he said. They smoke their pot here.
WTF is that?
Tags: Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor a bright,
sunny urban day will stop a dedicated smoker. Of
any stripe.
After all, it was Santa Monica.
katie, love your insight.