My home is a one-room loft (spacious, but no built-in closets!) on the sixth floor of a 12-story building that dates back to the 1920's. It's located smack in the middle of the busiest part of downtown Los Angeles, where improbable juxtapositions abound. A few blocks west, there are the swanky postmodernist highrises with their sleek, streamlined silhouettes and razor-sharp edges; an equal distance east, there is the blurry border of the grubby neighborhood sometimes known as 'skid row' (although gentrification has been steadily pushing it farther away in recent years, replacing the flophouses and pawnshops with coffee bars, ethnic restaurants and art galleries). Half a mile north, there is the heart of the city's government and culture, including city hall, Disney Concert Hall and Little Tokyo. Half a mile south is the warehouse district with its drab, anonymous concrete hangars. I never go down that way if I can help it.
You wouldn't think people who live in highrise condo conversions in the midst of all this noise and density would keep dogs, but as it happens, dogs are very common in my building. And not just little lapdogs, either -- boxers, huskies and other such good-sized breeds that require a lot of room and exercise are quite popular -- some people actually keep two or three dogs -- and I've gotten used to seeing dog slobber in the elevators.
[Speaking of elevators, the elevator banks are located in their own little lobbies that can be closed off from the hallways; I actually find them to be an attractive feature, although I don't really see the need for them -- the doors are never shut anyway]
And the other day, there was this.
An angry message, but at least it starts with 'Dear'.
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