Earlier this afternoon, my snapshot digital camera was swiped (stolen, snagged, taken without my permission) and I spent a good deal of an hour chatting with locals, store owners and innocent passers by in the overly optimistic hopes that I’d catch up with the gang of kids I suspected had it.
Resigned, I head to midtown to meet up with Davy, who’s sitting at Young Avenue Deli, waiting for 4:00 to roll around when he can check into the hostel. And, just for my amusement, a classic stupid human makes breaking news in a high-speed LA car chase.
The bartender, clad in a Pabst utility-man work shirt, is overly excited about the first car chase of the year and revs up the crowd, which includes a table of police likely on their break since the station is across the street.
I’ll admit, the enthusiasm of the bar has lifted me from the photo-loss blues, or perhaps it’s the Pilsner Irquell. Either way, I decide to stick around town for one more night. It’s supposed to be 65 tomorrow and the dinner a fine gentleman asked to buy me sounds relaxing. We only get one shot at life, right?