The weekend started at the Aquarium of the Pacific, where AK, her sister Lori and I elbowed small children out of the way so we could feed the lorikeets.
The bait was taken.
But despite their dependence on $3 cups of nectar from tourists, the birds maintained a certain formidable dignity.
As did the sisters Ybarra.
I'm sort of fascinated with museum signage, like how the Body Worlds exhibit took such pains to explain that the dead guy in a top hat was science not (god forbid) art. So I especially liked the "journal excerpts" posted in the lorikeet forest, in which an unnamed 19th century explorer washed up on Australian shores and quickly went native with the local lorikeets, which he and his cook, Finnegan, miraculously knew all sorts of facts about.
AK and I got a couple of the lorikeets he sketched to sit on our arms.
I was going to say that I wish I could have an entire wall of jellyfish in my house because they are like nature's beautiful, moving wallpaper. But in this picture I realize they sort of look like entrails.
The Aquarium of the Pacific asked the hard questions.
Sunday we tried to see Dazed and Confused at Hollywood Forever, but apparently every person in L.A. who wasn't out of town for the weekend had the exact same idea. They sold out early on, so we picnicked outside the cemetery gates and found that the movie itself was not terribly essential to our evening. A woman walked by with a wooden box--like an old-fashioned cigarette girl--asking if we wanted any weed. Then she looked to the locked gates. "I've got to get in there," she said. "Those are my clients. I've got $700 worth of pot to unload." "You could hop the fence," we suggested. She double-knotted her shoes and took off.
Monday we camped out at the corner of 3rd and Rossmore to catch our friend Craig at mile twenty of the L.A. Marathon.
He did not look like a guy who'd just run twenty miles.
Then he took off, and we did too. For Denny's, for hash browns and coffee. Because that's how sane people spend a weekend morning.