Then this girl appeared out on nowhere and asked if she could use my phone. She ‘needed a ride’.
So I lent her the phone and she proceeded to talk for ten minutes about how Julio needed to come over right now and ‘smoke her out’. Cause she wasn’t gonna take Araceli’s b******* anymore. She was tired of it. She was done with that, so done with that, you have no idea how loco and she needed to get high and she was tired of everybody’s stupid b******* and no one listened to her anyway.
She got down into a squat and rotated away from my gaze, murmuring and gesticulating. Finally I walked around into her field of vision, and she turned away from me, annoyed to have her privacy intruded upon.
‘I’m just going to be a minute. Okay? Jeez.’
She took another five.
She handed the phone back without thanks and started throwing rocks at a metal pole.
I see two lessons here. Always take the railroad tracks instead of the street. Don’t lend your phone to strangers.
Either they don’t tag in Silver Lake no more, or Beck gets unprecedented respect. #unblemished
Then there’s Wobit, who gets the premium real estate on Sunset Junction, gets paid, and no one messes with his thing.
Up in Van Nuys, he’s relegated to the guerrilla gallery of the Metrolink tracks, where only trespassers see the work.
That is, until it disappears behind weedstalks.
Here’s a swell idea. Let’s market beer to taggers by making tagging look like revolutionary artistic self-expression and not the blight that it is. Let us promote this notion from our happy, comfortable perch in that blighted slum known as Silicon Beach. Then lets take a bike ride down the Strand to Hermosa for drinks with underfed, creamy bosomed girls then back to Playa for some nouveau Vegan fare. We can employ conversational tropes like Guerilla Marketing, Cloud Bank and Transgressive. They’ll love it up there in the Valley. It’s all cholos now anyway, isn’t it? I mean, once you get north of Ventura.