We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
Comet robbed: meteors schmeteors
Merrily surfing the interwebs at 2am, leisurley pantless and drinking iced tea, I got a text from a traveling Gemini. Fresh off a mini-tour and laying in some unknown grassy location in San Diego, he asked if I were watching the meteor shower. I texted back, reminding him that I am in L.A., where at any moment, there are more police helicopters visible in the sky than astronomical bodies.
Curious, and not one to miss a party, I located some pants, and propped open the rusty window to the third floor fire escape. The bars were just letting out on Franklin Avenue, and drunk couples were stumbling to their cars, motorcycles were stirring up noise on the busy avenue below. I looked up for an unbroken seven minutes.
Nothing.
I sent a chagrined text to Gemini, and received these words back: "Be patient."
So on my rickety steel basket fire escape, I continued to stand suspended over my street, neck craned, scanning the sky. After a carload of bawdy drunks honked and bellowed up at me, I realized I looked like a 3rd story hooker. I waited another moment, and at the faintest streak of light, ducked back through the window in inside. I'm pretty sure it was a plane, but that was enough.
Miss Alie Ward
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