My office was the living room closet in a huge one-bedroom in a 1920s East Hollywood apartment court, across the street from the big blue Scientology headquarters in the old Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. There were built-in bookshelves and just enough space for a chair and a laptop and an ashtray. The neighbor lady's rescued pit bulls romped outside in the overgrown garden, and that electric L.A. sunlight came filtered through the grimy old French windows to the hardwood floors. It was a very pleasant place to work, my friends lived within walking distance in other cheap apartments in Los Feliz, and I had a bad case of being in [...]
Staffers and free-lancers at two West Coast alt-weeklies are nervously awaiting whatever unpleasant news comes with the sale of those papers to local conglomerates. Like all of the once-mighty urban weekly papers, the SF Weekly and Seattle Weekly are struggling to survive in a time when it's not at all clear what these kind of publications are supposed to do when all of their one-time informational and advertising monopolies—music and movie listings, sex personals, roommate ads, alternative news, restaurant reviews, anti-Republican ranting—have moved online.
Here's another babies die alone in hot cars story, from the New Times chain, regarding which, we are very sorry to bring this topic up. But this supposedly heart-wrenching story, unlike the infamous Story That We Try Not To Mention, in which we learn about how people actually do forget about their babies in cars, is instead about a guy who knew very well that his baby was in a car and, like, went out to check on her and crack the window and then spent a couple hours hanging out with his buddies in the air conditioning at work. So basically you can cool it on [...]