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    • CommentAuthorDon Kelly
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2008 edited
    The parking roulette goes like this: Street cleaning every Wednesday and Friday for street cleaning that never seems to happen. Protest or negligence costs forty bucks. My neighbors stack the game, leaving their cars on the safe side for days at a time.

    Ticket time begins at 10 a.m., easy for most people, but I am not most people. A) I work at night. B) My overactive thinker makes sleep an uncertainty. Never sure when it will happen and for how long. Most days I'm okay with 4 or 5 hours, others, well no alarm exists that can rouse me from my crash.

    I crashed last night. Woke at 9:58. A quick internal budget provided the funds for continued inertia. Pride made me stand. Axe body spray, a fresh fabric skin, the pre-packed survival satchel, and I was off, drowsy and muddled.

    The great thinkers of LA congregate in coffee houses. You can tell their quality by the ones they choose, funky or independent. The problem with the funk is the employees work to their own standard. The Latino kid at Psychobabble on Vermont kept his low. The wifi and parking are the only reasons to go there no matter whose working.

    He vanished, simply vanished after putting my bagel in the toaster. A line of thinkers formed in his absence. They called out for assistance and whispered strategies to procure the network passwords. Finally, the kid appeared, oblivious or reveling in the malevolent stares.

    Then, she arrived, a whirlwind that cut the line with unmedicated fury. She wanted nothing but to express her world view to the under caffeinated and that view pertained to Psychobabble and how she hated it, the employees, the owners, and all the great thinkers who toiled there.

    She'd been burned by bad service, used as a sperm dump by some guy called Gary, and fuck us all for not appreciating all she did for Los Angeles, Los Feliz, and the generality of the world. It was the type of performance that reminds you exactly where you are. LA is a city of well-groomed crazy, generally isolated in their cars and homes, just looking for a stage.

    And since that crazy's been honed in pursuit of some craft, public displays come furnished with headshots on request. At the door, she spun around, paused for the proper beats, and said "I hate this fucking place." Several people thought about asking for a glossy at that moment. You could see it in their eyes.

    And me without my headphones.

    I went to the counter where the kid remained, a little shellshocked, but grateful for the buffer the counter provided.

    "Puta," he muttered. "Crazy, huh?"

    "Yeah," I replied. "Can I have my fucking bagel, kid? It's been 15 minutes."
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2008
    this is terrif.
    • CommentAuthorDon Kelly
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2008
    Thanks. I appreciate that you took the time.