Possible celebrity sighting to report today.
As I was cruising through a commercial section of Malibu, I noticed a scraggly-haired guy and a young woman preparing to get on a motorcycle by the curb.
It was Brad Pitt, or his clone.
I caught his eye and tipped my sombrero as I sped by. He nodded back and said: “Hey, man.”
Totally cool.
Another odd sighting: A couple of miles of RVs lined up on the Rincon Highway.
Apparently, it’s a very hot camping spot.
By the time I reached the Santa Monica pier, Brian, mi compadre joven, had already taken the train home.
But I had his address and eventually figured out how to get to the proper metro stop, and he met me outside his building.
He’s living in a converted loft, either in, or close, to LA’s skid row, right across the street from the Hotel Cecil, where the mass murderer Richard Raimirez once stayed. The hotel is closed, but there are still lunatics, panhandlers, human excrement and pee on the sidewalks, and sirens galore.
Considering the neighborhood, Brian and his roommate have a sensible rule requiring visitors to leave their street shoes at the door.
But for some reason, they don’t lock the door to their apartment.
It was unlocked when I went out for dinner. It was unlocked when I returned. And it was unlocked the next morning when I headed back to the metro.
I slept soundly, though.
Thanks, Brian. Best wishes to you and yours.
And fare thee well, LA.
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