I wake up and turn on the TV. L.A. morning shows behave like they have to prove something. They work hard - perhaps too hard. Its almost too much to take in first thing in the morning, like a vaudevillian home invasion. I paint the frames of a few paintings in my underwear, listening to the traffic, then get dressed so I can enjoy the continental breakfast without being arrested. After terrorizing a cute, young Turkish couple by simply standing next to them in the elevator, I get coffee and cold cereal and do some people watching. Its a smattering of folks from countries far and wide, a few of them dressed far too nicely for a continental breakfast at the Hotel Cecil. Then again, a few seem to be dressed like professional wrestlers from the 80s. With a coffee in hand, I wheel around the building to snap some pictures. Im unafraid to look like a tourist. I point and click all the way out the door, wanting to get some pics of the building, but also wanting to embrace morning in L.A. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and begin taking it in. I see a man laugh hilariously at a pigeon whos lost a foot and hobbles along on its stump. I see a man with a troubled look on his face bicycle by while getting familiar with his genitals, his hand jammed purposefully under his sweat pants. I see a well-built Asian man gently support a tiny dogs bottom as it pees on a tree, presumably so it wont pee itself over. Hello, L.A.
Posted on: Wed, 04 Jun 2014 15:30:01 +0000
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