A Photo Blog of the San Fernando Valley. With comment.
Jana was filling a water basin for the raccoons who live in her yard when Andy and I happened by last night. She was happy to pose for us in her nightgown, even though ‘she didn’t have her eyebrows on’. She grew up nearby on Haynes St, and has rented this house on Gaviota for 32 years.
When you gotta nap, you gotta nap. Even if it’s the Target parking lot.
Not sure what it is about this particular tableau which says: Italy. Or, for that matter: buried alive in volcanic ash. Then again it does feature the dingy curtains, sagging ‘for rent’ sign, crooked numbering, weedy parkway and painted-over graffiti typical of the mid-valley area.
Suppose you’re a candidate for city council, and have no real campaign to speak of. No power base. No constituency. Your chief competitors are two lavishly funded hack politicians from rival political clans, who inundate the district with glossy mailers. They hold the minimum two debates required for matching funds and use them to exclude other candidates, then take the money and spend it on more mailers. If you were crafty, and just a little unethical, you might come up with a yard sign which graphically mimics the signs for the leading mayoral candidate: similar font, same color scheme; then place your signs adjacent to his. Like you had his endorsement. Or were running mates of some kind. Since a narrow majority are likely to vote for Eric Garcetti on Tuesday, perhaps a portion will make some limbic brain connection to you, some word association established on the commute home on Roscoe Blvd. Perhaps you might scare up enough votes to move from a third-tier candidate to a second-tier one in a seven person race. Then you might have something to trade in the run-off in June. A patronage appointment. A staff job for an endorsement. Cause you sure aren’t looking to win this thing.
Surveying the wares.
The white one knows his place, back at the top of the stoop. The establishment of dominance hasn’t brought either of them much in the way of joy.
Empty lot, arms folded, staring at nothing in particular. Unhappy? Angry? Waiting for an assignation? No idea. She was here for quite awhile.
105 degrees at 5pm, and in the arms of Morpheus. Or something.
At first we thought this might be an old DWP or Post Office building, as it so embodied the civic architecture of the 1930’s. Turns out to be an electrical parts and supply business, and the building has been in the commercial realm from the founding. A different world of form and function from the utilitarian 1980’s post-modern eyesore across the street now housing, what else, another pot shop. Not that we’re judging.