Well, that was terribly amusing. Down to LA and back in three days time, thanks in large part to mreenee’s driving. Usually R Man is reluctant to allow me to take the wheel because of my well established opinion that anyone in the left hand lane doing less than 90 is a traffic hazard, an opinion I’m happy to share with them, in sign language, as I shove my way past. This time, though, he was distracted worrying about the trial he was going down there for so he handed over the driver’s seat and, hoo hoo, we were off.
We had lunch at Clifton’s cafeteria, a relic of the Great Depression. Not this one, silly, the last one. They have fabulous terrazzo murals outside, but I was in too much of hurry to get to the steam tables to get any good shots. Sorry.
Naturlement, the interior is decorated to look like a redwood grove. That’s appropriate since many of the regulars look like they came straight from sleeping under a log. Did I mention there’s an animated raccoon that pops up out of a carved rock? Oh yeah.
The Urban Street Pirate and I made a trip out to the Saint Vincent de Paul’s Thrift Store in Lincoln Heights, mostly because the reviews of it were so scathing. All of them accurate, too. Fortunately we are both capable of being amused by how bad a junk store can be. This one just happened to be the biggest, nastiest, scruffiest one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. The level of quality was universally dreadful; everything there looked like it had been thrown away at least once. This was the only time my insatiable love of crap has actually been thwarted.