A little over a year ago, my wife, myself and my two daughters stepped off a Metro train at the very busy Chatelet station in Paris. From there we walked a very short distance to the Louvre, where my girls were hoping to see the Mona Lisa.
The line to get into the museum snaked through the courtyard and spilled out onto the street. I want to say it was the Champs Elyses, but my Parisiain geographical memory is off and frankly I'm too lazy to look it up.
The point is it would have taken us more than three hours waiting on line just to get in. To see a painting. I didn't travel 8,000 miles to stand in a line next to some chain-smoking, loudmouth Belgian with the kind of body odor that would make a Pakistani day laborer wince.
Art, I told my kids, doesn't reside exclusively in snotty overpriced, over-popular museums.
I spotted this, last week while riding my bike along the scenic concrete sewage ways of Ballona Creek.
Keep scrolling for the full effect.
I don't know what it means. And frankly I don't care.
But it is pretty damn cool.
And there wasn't a line to see it.