Now that we are really adults, husband and wife with a little furry family, we decided the next step was to relocate to southern california, where the sun always shines and the glitz and glamour is totally hidden beneath the pile of garbage on the corner, crawling with cockroaches and a stray cat, who lays peacefully underneath a parked truck, bearing a permanent snarl and reddish eyes. Tiny barking Chihuahuas race back and forth behind chain-link fences, bearing their miniature teeth and barking at Dexter as we walk past, sniffing out the neighborhood. Physically fit men wearing snug-fitting activewear strut to the gym in pairs and size up the competition behind dark sunglasses. It seems that 99% of the people in Los Angeles are between the ages of 25 and 38, the young and old are sprinkled about behind closed doors and tan faces.
We moved to Echo Park. Technically Los Angeles, Echo Park is one of those hipster neighborhoods occupied in general by poor hispanic families and people like me. Whatever I am. Directly across the street is the neighborhood handyman, Victor, his son, also Victor, is probably 9 years old and likes to tell me all about the neighborhood animals and visit with Dexter, but Dexter knows better than to trust someone with such small hands. Victor's family has a yard sale every Saturday, enticing the passersby with junk that Mr. Victor has picked up during the week or collected from new tenants moving in who don't want the stuff that was left behind. Next door to the Victor family live the hipster rock n' rollers who provide me with endless entertainment. I have no idea who actually lives there, there used to be a white fluffy dog who I haven't seen in a while, but I am guaranteed to see some skinny guy wearing dirty black jeans that appear to have been painted on, no shirt, although maybe an open black vest, and long greasy hair. It's not just that his hair is greasy, it's more like his entire body is just dirty and the grease from having not showered in however many days sticks to him in the hot L.A. sun. There is also a girl, who I would assume to be kinda pretty if I could get close enough to really see, but that's of no interest to me. It's her stupid trendy hipster outfits that humor me the most, such as high-waisted bellbottoms paired with a big floppy sun hat and sunglasses... at midnight on a Tuesday. I get to watch them hang around with their friends who stop by and smoke cigarettes and strum on the guitar or tap a tambourine while Dexter farts around in the yard. They used to have a couch on the front porch, the maroon velveteen type that resides on every front porch of anyone who ever lived in a house during college, but that disappeared a week ago and I can't stop thinking about what reason they could possibly have for getting rid of it.
Los Angeles is proving to be pretty awesome, I'm learning all sorts of things about human nature and the way people live who aren't me. The food so far is amazing, the people Dexter forces us to meet on our walks are proving to be great acquaintances, and every where we go my thoughts are reaffirmed that I love it here.
I would still classify myself as restless, pushy and optimistic; I'm reminded of my nature on a regular basis. My intentions are to impose my thoughts, beliefs, and L.A. findings on you, my reader, whenever I can find the words.
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