Art of the Odd

A couple of weeks ago, I made the decision that I was going to walk for at least half an hour every day. It’s not my exercise regimen (though that is part of it) – it’s more in the way of cheap therapy.

When I was 15, my mother sent me to a psychologist. She was a very direct, often abrasive German woman, with a thick accent and a collection of gorgeous suede skirts, and I hated her. At first. Eventually, though, I realized that making me angry was her way of getting inside my shell, and once she was in there, she did start helping me rearrange the furniture in ways that were, ultimately, beneficial. She ran me through a battery of tests, and at the end of it, she told me I was highly intelligent and clinically depressed. She didn’t want to put me on antidepressants, though – she didn’t like the side effects, and she thought exercise might do just as well. So, she told me to walk, half an hour every day, and she’d re-evaluate me in a few months.

She was right. The exercise helped. I haven’t always been good at remembering that, though, when I’ve started slipping back into the grey places – partly because it’s so difficult to know that you’re depressed. I’ve gotten better at it, though. I don’t want to live there again, and I certainly don’t want to take NovySan there with me. So whether or not I manage any other exercise, I’ve been walking, daily, and it helps.

The other thing it helps with is getting to really know this neighborhood I’ve lived in for seven years, but haven’t thoroughly explored. If you follow me on Flickr, or on Twitter, you may have noticed posts and pictures of things I see when I’m out and about.

Yesterday, it was this one:

I still don’t know for sure, but the Twitterverse has several theories:

The child was kidnapped:

The child escaped:

The child was ejected:

Or, the child was traded for a fifth of JD:

What do you think?

When I first moved to LA, the 101 so confused me that, trying to drive from Venice to Valley Village, I wound up in Calabasas. I’d had my suspicions I was going the wrong way, but the tack store looming up to my right confirmed it.

The 101 in LA County sets deep traps for someone with my notoriously unreliable sense of direction – depending on where you are, it may be labeled as either a North-South highway, or an East-West highway. It took me awhile to figure out that North=West, and South=East; until I did, I had to resign myself to daytripping around the West Valley when I meant to head toward Hollywood. (Though I did get better at realizing I was headed the wrong way, and getting turned around before I drove 20 miles out of my way.)

After seven years in Los Angeles, I think of the signage on the 101 as just part of the scenery – an “only in LA” quirk, of the sort that has spawned columns and photo collections in local blogs and papers. I thought of it today for two reasons: first, this is my 101st post; and second, I needed to find some way to tie the below picture into my 101st post.

When I saw it in a BBC News photo essay about the fires which have charred well over 10,000 acres so far, I said, “Now there’s an LA moment. Or at least a SoCal one.”*

“Does the Segway say GOB?” NovySan asked. “It should,” I replied. “And in just a minute, it will.”

*The author would like to assure anyone who cares that she is well aware that Arrested Development was set in Orange County, and that Orange County is not Los Angeles. But it’s her blog, and she can do what she wants. So there.