A knock at the door

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One morning after yoga, there was a pounding at the doorMrs. Upinthevalley ventured out to see what the woman wanted. Agua! Agua, por favor!  She was holding a full water bottle in her hand,  which created some confusion. There was a brief tete-a-tete, then she shuffled on her way.   She knocked on every door on the block, asking for water, while noshing on a bag of churros. No one knew who she was.

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No man’s land

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Consider this flag, at the midpoint of the Mulholland Bridge, at the entrance (or exit) from the Valley, halfway between here and the City, between two cranes raising a needless four-lane span on a two-lane road,  an exercise in fraudulent contracting borrowed against the earnings of children not yet born, carried out in plain view of half a million cars a day.  I took this picture on my way to a church picnic, a denomination dividing in half over the issue of gay marriage, which I support. Then I went home to Van Nuys, the Sanford, Florida of Los Angeles, and spent the remainder of the evening being angrily lectured by One-percenters on cable TV about what a terrible American I was for not disagreeing with a jury who found, based on unimpeachable forensic evidence, George Zimmerman shot Trayvon Martin in self-defense.  I longed to be back on the bridge, noisy as it was, and remembered it was Bastille Day.