Just out on the westside. Lotta white people over there. Even the Mexicans speak English, and when they speak Spanish they leave spaces between the words. We stopped at the beloved Santa Monica-adjacent Norms. The usual assortment of customers. The protagonist of the novel was based upon a real Los Angeles murderer shouted a weirdo a couple tables over. I ordered salsa with my omelet. It was watery and about as hot as a maraschino cherry. So I poured Tapatio all over everything. The people around me stared like I was some kind of dangerous masochist. Maybe I was that real Los Angeles murderer. Then a drop dead gorgeous blonde walked by. And another. And a third.  Wow. They come in batches over here.

We wandered about getting back, looping one way across town, then the other. Driving just for the hell of it. At Sunset and Vermont there was a Transsexual Liberation rally. Hey hey, ho, ho the guy screamed through the bullhorn, something something has got to go. He screamed it over and over through the traffic din. Around him stumped a couple dozen protesters waving signs. Transsexual Rights Now, etc. None appeared to be transsexuals. They just looked like regular frumpy people, computer nerds, couch potatoes. Either they have gotten remarkably realistic with the surgery, or none of them were transsexuals. A blazer or two wouldn’t have hurt any. It’s certainly a good cause. They just need a little fashion sense. Dress to impress, even at a protest rally.