The City of Angels

Part II of simplifying/organizing my life involved getting my vehicles fixed. My bike's rear derailleur hanger was bent -- the result of a CRASH -- which made the derailleur bang into the spokes on the lowest gear. That cost $20. The right rear tire on my car had a leak, which was coming from an old plug job, which necessitated a new tire. That was $72.

The owner of the car shop was on the phone when I entered his office, giving directions to the place. When he hung up, he looked at me and said, "How many directions do I have to give? How big does the place have to be? [Here he recounts the directions, which I omit to protect his identity.] Women are fucking idiots, they don't know anything. I hate them." It's the only experience I've had in my five years in L.A. that might have appeared in the Best Motion Picture of the Year. ("Best Motion Picture of the Year" being used here as a name, of course, like the unholy, un-Roman, un-imperial Holy Roman Empire, or the City of Angels.)