I am so full of everything I'm doing, but I keep pushing and going, like there's a center I'm not getting to. This Sunday, I went on my first bike ride since I've moved to Los Angeles. Rode Banch [which is the name of my bike] from Bungalungaloo [which is the name of my bungalow] to downtown Los Angeles [which is the name of downtown Los Angeles] for CicLAvia. CicLAvia is something I don't totally understand, but basically it's a giant block party for the urbanest center on the west coast. And thousands of people ride their bikes and their skateboards and their feet and eat from food trucks and walk by little booths advertising things. It was actually a total blast. I love zooming through city streets on Banch, knowing I won't get hit by any stupid thing that thinks I don't exist.
So many different people showed up.
The city was full of art and color, everywhere.
CicLAvia was also full of various things to do. Like get your photo taken in front of pictures of places that aren't LA. I opted for photographing the city instead. Though I somehow ended up on a tour of what is basically just a house that has lots of little rooms with little pianos in them. It's a "music school." That's what I get for stopping to photograph the man playing piano on what I thought was someone's front porch.
|people watching movie shoot|
After the event, LAPD reopened the streets. As I rode my bike back to downtown from the east side in pursuit of the expo line metro train to Culver City, I was stopped by officers, a fire truck, and paramedics, all of whom had just finished loading some injured person into an ambulance. They told me I had to wait a second before I could ride my bike through because it was a crime scene. They literally meant one second. One second after the ambulance drove away, I was allowed to ride through what had just been a scene of a gang shooting. And the police man was talking to me about the weather. And I felt like I was in an episode of Louie for the second time that day.
I finally made it to the expo line, boarded the train with Banch, and headed west. In Culver City, I took Banch and rode all the way down Venice Blvd. six miles to Abbot Kinney where I briefly witnessed the clusterfuck that was the Abbot Kinney Festival. I was only there long enough to realize that west side hipsters are super different from east side hipsters. Tried to force my bike through a thick crowd of people trying to buy screen printed t-shirts and $300 handmade pottery.
Pushed through the crowd for long enough that I ended up on the other side, rode to Rose Ave, met N at Cafe Gratitude, and [no joke] felt so grateful for the incredible vegan meal I devoured while there. Pictured is my tasty elixer that looks like water but is *way* better than water & my something or other spicy tasty things. Not pictured is the key lime pie that tasted like a cloud.
A six mile bike ride back to the metro, and two trains later, I returned to Bungalungaloo to read Mrs. Dalloway. Which is the third way in which I felt like I was in a Louie episode. The kind of episode where he's so out of it that he conflates the information he's consuming [like TV news] with his own thoughts. Mrs. Dalloway isn't the best text with which to experience that kind of incident. So. Here I am, half a week later, thinking I live in Hawaii. Thinking about things that already happend like I might un-make them. Listening to what has to be the saddest, but most beautiful Mountain Goats album ever recorded, listening to "Kasper," listening to songs from home that I never listened to at home.