We start today's post with the iconic NIMBY poster. Only because I could not locate a meme for NIMFY, Not In My Front Yard, which I will explain momentarily.
I became acutely aware of the NIMBY phenomena years ago when the city of LA was threatening to revamp the old Red Line trolley and install a light rail system that would extend from Santa Monica all the way to downtown. The fact that a previous line existed and that the land had been properly zoned speaks volumes of the wisdom of our 20th century ancestors.
The fact that the Red Line and the notion of mass transit in a city of more than 20 million people had been abandoned, speaks volumes about the idiocy of modern day Angelenos as well as the avarice of Big Oil and Big Auto manufacturers.
Long story, short, the neighbors in Cheviot Hills, a ritzy neighborhood, that had always been a bit too rich for my blood, with their pools and their abattoirs and their Tony Jacklin golf clubs, started raising a stink. A big stink. These are, by and large, limousine liberals, who talk a mighty game about wealth equality and conservation, but didn't want any of that if it was going to be in their backyard.
But it was. And it is. And guess what? The light rail system is a huge hit. And none of the imagined ills of a mass transit system so close to their precious neighborhood, came to fruition.
But let's talk about my front yard.
Because last week, I woke up to my front yard looking like a landfill. There was garbage everywhere. I stood on my steps in a bit of shock, as Carlson Park, my neighborhood, is about as sleepy, and clean, and non-eventful (except for my neighbor's damn car alarm) as any west Los Angeles community could be.
After we cleaned it all up and scrubbed our hands with half a bottle of anti-bacterial soap, I retreated to my office to check the security cameras. It didn't take long.
Turns out a crazy, vagrant guy, white, thin, mid fifties wearing camoflouge pants, had rolled his big duffel bag up to my next neighbor's yard. He boldly strung a hammock between two palms trees and and looked like he was going to camp out there for the night.
Then the apparent schizophrenia kicked in and at about 2:30 AM he found some more desirable sleeping arrangements on the strip of grass in front of my house. That's the legendary Siegel luck.
At 6:30 in the morning he was awakened, as we all are, by a murder of crows who fight and yack at each other for a good 20 minutes. They always seems to arrive and wake me up just as dream Cardi B. is about to motorboat me with her ample frontage.
Vagrant, homeless schizoid Guy was not happy. And as you are about to see, he was keen on letting the crows know exactly how he felt.
Was I upset? Initially, very. But I've come to chalk it up as just another adventure of life in the big city.
Sadly, my NY Times got wet and I missed out on a recipe in the Food section about Habanero-infused Strip Steak. Fortunately, the recipe was also available in the online version of The NY Times, but when I tried to commit it to paper, my Canon MX490 Series got jammed.
2020 sucks.
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