A topic of passing fascination: the down market old school establishment which manages to stay in business as an old school establishment while conceding nothing to modern taste, or a retro makeover, and lacking the patronage of a hipster clientele a la the Dresden Room. I thought they might be getting away with it as a front for massage parlor profits, but at 3 pm on a Tuesday it was doing a brisk business in chow mein, conducted by a James Ellroy character who barked at cook and customer alike and slapped greasy plastic-lined menus on the counter. Interior matches expectations.
Once upon a time you used to write your Congressman. For the price of a stamp and an envelope you could demand your potholes be filled. He would ignore you. Then he would send you four newsletters a year touting his accomplishments with your money and you would have to pay for his postage. Franking, it was called.
Live long enough in politics, and eventually they name stuff after you. After you go. Or so they did, back in the day, in the rare and sparkling occasion of tragic demise. Now, hack politicians contrive to baptise schools, parks and naval ships in their own name while they are still in office, and looking to run again.
Here we have a disaster awareness PSA, city shield right on the billboard, doing double duty as a campaign ad for a sitting councilman.
Los Angeles hasn’t elected a non-machine candidate in three decades. Ever wonder why?
They rode up to Mulholland to take in the sunset. Maybe he said something wrong, or maybe she pushed his hand away, but they quarreled about it. The moment was spoiled, so they stopped talking altogether and she walked away from him. He almost followed her, then reconsidered. Then again, he couldn’t just leave her there. After pacing the lot, he decided to call her.
She let it ring. And ring. And ring. She sat there in her private purple gloaming, then turned the phone off.