In a world where weight-loss solutions are so highly prized, it saddens me that I don’t see a way to monetize this. So, I will now share it at no additional cost to you. All I ask is that you try to not judge me too harshly.

Like most women (and tons of men) walking the Earth, I’ve struggled with weight gain most of my adult life. To be clear, at no point did my weight pose a health concern, nor did I ever undertake any extreme measures. Once food goes in the hole, it stays. No backsies. But even with an active lifestyle, I’ve always been in the plus-size zone.

When I was in my teens, my mother took me to Weight Watchers. It was me and a bunch of Lane Bryant shoppers, all in their 40s and above. This is not the best messaging to give a kid who’s always on a sports team and wears a size 12 or 14. (I'm 5, 8") I remember my father once telling me that I was built “nice and husky.” That’s a compliment no 20-year-old wants to hear. (Yes, I'm taking the liberty of speaking for all 20-year-olds.)

Nonetheless, ever forward. Like I said, I’ve always been active. One of my favorite things to do is to totally exhaust myself. Half-marathons, sprint-distance triathlons—I’ve even done even a full marathon. (Note: There’s a big difference between running 13.1 and 26.2—even when you’ve been training  in the snow at high altitude and the race is at sea level. But at least I didn’t puke. Winner!) I’m always up for a long-distance bike ride, a hike, or a paddling expedition. And I take my extra pounds with me wherever I go.

Then came the current fad of prescription weight-loss shots. Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, Saxenda, Zepbound—the list goes on. At a monthly cost ranging from $100 to $2,000, people started shooting up and slimming down. Oprah even did a prime-time special on the topic, thus giving permission to those still on the fence to inject the pounds away. (Note: Because I searched Google using the term “weight loss shots” for this blog, I am now inundated with endless ads picturing happy plus-sized women walking briskly. You’re welcome.)

I admit that in the last year, I became weight-loss-injection curious. I’ve had years of being active and eating on the healthier side. (I’d say that I buy only whole foods, but we all know that Mr. Parker does all the cooking and therefore all the shopping. So he buys only whole foods. Until he doesn’t. But mainly he does.) Being about the same amount of overweight my entire adult life, the idea that I could finally hit the target was appealing. But, for so many reasons, I never did anything further about it.

But then, about six months ago, I learned that several of my friends had been prescribed one of the medications mentioned above. Each of these women were farther from their target weight then I was. And in at least one case, I felt that this friend’s health was truly at risk, so good for her. Actually, good for all of them. I want to see my friends have success and live long lives in which they reach out periodically to share a story, a laugh, or a story that leads to a laugh.

Then it was time for my annual physical. I was issued a clean bill of health. Except…my weight was up about 10 pounds from my normal amount of above average. Was I going to ask my doctor? It was almost too embarrassing to say the words. Finally, in my best “It’s no big deal” voice, I queried her about the chances of getting a prescription for a weight-loss drug. She looked at my chart and said, “Well, first thing you'd need to do is gain another 30 pounds.” The best part is that she felt that she needed to add, “But I don’t think it’s worth it.” 

“Really?” The password is: Incredulity Here were my friends, along with tons of people around the planet—including Oprah!—getting to take the “easy way out” to fitness. Yes, I’m oversimplifying. (Remember the password is, incredulity.) But I was mad. No, I was hoppin’ mad. I was glad my friends were getting to cross the finish line, but I wanted to cross it with them. Didn’t my decades of heart-rate boosting, heavy-sweating-without-a-cocktail-at-the-end activity earn me that? 

Are you reading this thinking, “I bet she wasn’t even happy for her friends. I bet she was harboring secret feelings of envy—or worse, hate. I bet she begrudged them every pound.” Please remember, in paragraph one, you promised not to judge me. And the truth was and is, I begrudge them nothing. I want everyone to be healthy and happy. (At least, that’s my beauty pageant answer.)

No, not hate or envy. What I felt was spite. However, I was not spiteful of my friends, but of what I knew to be the hard truth: if I truly wanted to shed pounds, I, Honey Parker, would have to do it the old-fashioned way—diet and exercise, two things that had never worked in the past. While there’ve been times in my life when my weight dropped due to extreme effort or a bad flu (Yay, weight loss via fever and vomit!), I never reached what the charts say that a healthy person my height and age should weigh. And the pounds I did take off eventually returned and brought their friends.  

The next question: How to use spite for good? This may sound crazy or, again, overly simplistic. But I made myself so mad that I just declared I would not be thwarted. I was mad enough to not eat after dinner. I was too angry to snack. I also made sure I was being active in a meaningful way at least five days a week. I wanted the win. I demanded it.

With each pound gone, I found myself embracing my spite hard. Squeezing tighter. Failure was not an option. 

Feeling a mode come of success, I recalled the first time I attempted surfing. Mr. Parker and I were vacationing in Costa Rica with two other couples. Everyone on the trip was better at sports than I am. When we skied together, I was usually the last one to the bottom. Why I was the first one to surf, I don’t know. But there I was. When it was time to pop up on the board, I planted my feet and made a decision: I was not going to fall off. I was tired of being the less-competent one. Falling simply wasn’t an option. To everyone’s surprise, I rode that wave all the way to beach. Why? Because I decided I to make it so. In a world where the door to easy-to-get weight-loss injections was slammed in my face, my newfound spite was the emotional injection providing the same surf-rider determination. 

Still, I needed a plan for when I desired crunch or wanted to end to dinner with something sweet. The crunch was simple. Most raw vegetables (SIDEBAR: I detest the word “veggies”) have crunch. Carrots are my go-to. I can rip through a two-pound bag of organic carrots in two days. Maybe one day if I have a free hand. (Writing takes both.) Too many carrots, you say? 

Sentences you’ll never hear in conversation:

• “Seriously, that girl is out of control with those damn carrots.”
• “I knew those carrots would be the death of her.”  
• “My old college roommate OD’ed on those things.”
• “I know a good carrot support group.”

And to solve the desire for little hit of sweet at night? It was so simple. It was right under my nose. (If my nose was in the supermarket candy aisle.) Caramel-flavored hard candies. To be specific, Werther's Original Sugar Free Hard Candies. Small. Sweet. Creamy. Long-lasting. The bag lists a serving as 45 calories. And by the way, a “serving” is five pieces. I have never had five pieces at once. Just one, maybe two do the trick. When I go out, I usually have a couple in my pocket, just in case. 

Gradually, the weight started coming off, which let me know my spite hadn’t gotten too out of hand. A pound week, more or less-ish. As of writing this, I’ve gotten rid of those 10 extra pounds—plus an additional 18. That’s over six months.

The big question? Can I keep it up? Is this my new life? Or will I backslide? Hard to say.

I hope the answer is… Yes. As long as I have spite in my heart and Werther's in my pantry, I’ll be fine.

If you guessed hair, you win! Sadly, you win nothing of real value. (Hey, just take the W.)
 
Is there anything more worshipped than hair?
 
Is there anything more disgusting than hair? 
 
But how can this be? How can something go so quickly from being what people often refer to as their crowning glory to something utterly disgusting when found on the floor? Or worse, in a drain? We love our hair so much, until…
 
Allow me to back up. I’ve long had a challenging relationship with my hair. Why? It curls. Back when I was in school, my peers wore their hair in wings or feathered. (You now know my approximate age.) Curly hair neither wings nor feathers. It simply was not made for flight. Nor is it the stuff of prom queens. (Truth: I was more than a few curls away from a crown.) 
 
Hair Sidebar: I have dark-ish skin for a white gal. When I was about ten, my mother cut my hair short, making the curls even bigger. She then bought me peasant tops, which were so not a regular purchase for her. But she loved that it made me look like her little Mexican daughter. I have no explanation beyond that.
 
So, what is curly hair good for? One word: shedding. At any time of day, I can reach onto my head and pull out a clump. (Want some?) Every day, I step out of the shower (meaning every day that I actually shower) and brush my hair to find at least half a wig’s worth of hair in the brush. And it gets everywhere!
 
A few of the places I’ve found my hair: 

• On the floor filled with dust (I should sweep more)
• On my plate
• In cake batter
• All over the bathroom
• On bars of soap (color me thrilled with the emergence of body wash)
• In the shower drain
• On the car’s floor mats
• In the dishwasher
  
• In the cat’s water bowl
• On the cat
• In the litter box (don't ask)
• In corners 
• On my perspiration covered forearm while running (particularly infuriating)
• On my computer keyboard (at this very moment, in fact)

 
If I may share a friend’s story. A good friend. Let’s call him Dog Breath. (Zero reason for that.) Dog Breath and his wife were over for dinner. Dog Breath’s wife has even thicker, curlier hair than I do. It too, gets everywhere. We were sitting at the kitchen counter laughing about places we’ve found our hair. That’s right, curly hair gets so all over the place that it was a topic of conversation. Dog Breath felt we were all close enough friends to share that he once found one of his wife’s hairs in, of all places, his own butt crack. According to him, when he pulled the long hair out, it felt like he was flossing his ass.
 
Hair anywhere but on my head will push me to the verge of gagging. And wet hair, OMG. When it’s time to clear a drain, I literally have to turn my head as I execute the maneuver. I first grab a piece of toilet paper (tissues work better—they’re thicker) and with an extended arm, lift the offending tangle, drop it in the trash, then wash my hands. When I stay in a hotel, I want to write an apology note to the cleaning staff. 
 
Worse than finding my own hair in the drain? Finding yours. I have no damn idea where your hair has been. The shorter the hair the worse. (You know what I mean.) I’m also 100% again the entire dog/cat-hair pillow industry.
 
Once a plumber had to come clear out our drain. We were living in LA at the time and it was a true freak show. As I witnessed the tangled mass of hair being pulled from the bowels of the earth, a mass filled with all manner of evil, I felt the bile rise in my throat. I retched uncontrollably. From that day on, when a plumber needs to be is called, I leave the house. Fool me once.
 
I imagined a horror film about it. Working title: The Plumber—A Hair Raising Tale. (Nope. No shame.)
 
I came to terms with the curls long ago. It’s how you can find me in a crowd. Works as insolation in my ski helmet. Makes me almost an inch taller. And it takes virtually no time to “style.” But the second it leaves my head, it’s dead to me!
 
(My husband will now feel the necessity to tell me that technically, since all hair is dead cells that have been pushed out of the follicles, my curls are also dead to me before they leave my head. Thanks babe.)

I run a quarterly Story Slam down on the Gulf Coast. The following is the true story I told at the last Slam. The theme was: Exposed.
 
Back when I lived in the City of Angels, I was freelancing as an advertising writer and creative director. There was a boutique advertising agency for which I’d done several projects. They called me one afternoon. Was I available to help pitch a new client? The team needed a woman. I didn’t ask why. I was indeed available. They were nice people. Plus (and this is a biggie) they always paid on time. I said, “I’m in.”
 
The next day, walking into the conference room, I knew immediately why they needed a woman on the team. I realized who the client was. Sitting on the agency side of the table were five men. On the client side was one very recognizable face I’d seen repeatedly on TV and in movies. I also knew her other claim to semi-fame was a series of workout gyms that featured pole dancing.
 
In this meeting, where she was explaining the business so we could effectively compete for her business, she repeatedly said, “It’s not about the pole.” She spoke of female empowerment and different circles of self acceptance and inner strength. But she was adamant: “It’s not about the pole.” They talk about the pole only because it’s their point of differentiation. (Can you feel me being skeptical?) 
 
She also must’ve seen my face, which was not in poker mode. She looked around the table, stopped at me, pointed and said, “You! You need to try it!”
 
At this point in my life, my main workout was boxing. Two hours a day, five days a week. And this was not aerobic boxing. Nothing in this workout ended with a handclap. This was boxing boxing. A boxing ring with ropes, heavy bags on chains, speedbags, doubling bags, timed bells that keep going off indicating rounds. I’d started boxing in New York. When I first saw a boxing workout, I said to myself, “If I can survive an hour of that without passing out or throwing up, I’ll be in pretty decent condition.”
 
I enjoy being active, but I was never great at any sport. If asked to describe my stride while running, people would use the phrase “lumbering gait.” But, since boxing is the opposite of dainty, it seemed to sit well on me. When I continued doing it in Los Angeles, I actually got to spar with female boxing’s then-champion, Christy Martin. That was a giant sports thrill. Even if she did punch the padded headgear clean off my skull.
 
Sidebar: I recently saw a documentary about Christy Martin and let me say: her power is insane. Getting in the ring with her means I was an idiot. 
 
But back to the pole! (Which it’s not about.)
 
If I’m going to write effective advertising for a product or service, I need to understand it. Which is why I agreed to sign up for the “Intro To Not-About-The-Pole Workout” class. I called the gym to get on their schedule. I explained that I was doing marketing for their boss and needed to book a class. The nice lady on the phone told me available times and I made my selection. Then she asked my name. (NOTE: I wasn’t married yet, and my maiden name was “Cohn,” pronounced like the thing you scoop ice cream in.)
 
ME: My name is Honey Cohn. 
 
WOMAN: OMG, that’s such a great pole dancing name!
 
ME: So, it is about the pole? 
 
WOMAN: Oh, yeah!
 
For the next hint that this might in fact be about the pole, let’s cut to: the workout studio waiting area. Behind the front desk, most gyms have things like Muscle Milk, energy bars and water bottles. Here, they had red, stiletto-heel shoes and sexy maid’s uniforms. (I chose to wait until after class to do my shopping.)
 
Besides me, there were about 10 other ladies waiting around for the intro class. We all did our best to make no eye contact. Plausible deniability? Witness protection? Sheer embarrassment? All of the above? Probably.
 
Once inside the room, the class started with the lights down low and everyone sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle. The instructor had us take turns saying why we were there.
 
This where I start feeling like a snarky, cynical little shit. As these nice women start telling their stories, I’m hearing things like:
 
FIRST WOMAN: I beat breast cancer and need to feel sexy again.
 
NEXT WOMAN: I followed a guy to LA, he dumped me and I’m alone.
 
OTHER WOMAN: I was the victim of assault and want to get back my power.
 
When it got to me, all I could say was, “I’m helping with the marketing.” To my mind, that sounded like I was declaring, “See, I’m not wounded like the rest of you. I’m just here to observe, then monetize your pain.”
 
The next woman up had a much more appropriate tale of getting beaten up and we were right back on track. The instructor then had us do a few provocative moves on the floor that made me endlessly grateful that the lights were low. 
 
Finally, it was time to take to the pole. We were told that the approved technique is to grab the pole in your right hand, take two slinky steps forward, then spin slowly to the floor. Grab, slinky-step, slinky-step, spin. 
 
As I watched the ladies before me attempt the move, I admit: my competitive side wanted the win.A couple of the women did okay on the first try. But most failed. Then it was my turn. I grabbed the pole, took my two slinky steps (once again, so damned embarrassing) then spun: Around, around, around, floor! Thank you boxing-arm strength!
 
Then, class ended with a pole-dancing show—which was really a closing tactic to get us to sign up for a package of workout sessions. Imagine a dark room. Then, pop! Spotlights! A small stage. Three poles shining in the darkness. Music starts. While I can’t remember the song, I’m somehow positive it was Phil Collins’ “I Can Feel it Coming In the Air Tonight.” Slinking into the light were three women who approached and mounted their poles with confidence and power, and began doing some very sexy, Cirque De Soliel-level shit. 
 
The strength and control they displayed was no joke. It was even more impressive because they were doing it all while wearing shorts made of animal fur. Think: mink-upholstered Daisy Dukes. I was pretty sure I’d be able to buy a pair at the front desk.
 
When I got home, Mr. Parker asked how it went. Was there anything I could share with him. Hmm. There was one thing. So, at this point you know that it was 100% about the pole. And we didn’t have one in the living room, yet. But my instructor had taught us how to pick up something off the floor in a very sexy way. This is what I would demonstrate for my man. 
 
I pretended to drop my keys. I coyly whispered, “Oopsie. My keys!” Then, crouching with my back to him, and keeping my torso straight, I reached for the phantom keys. Then, while keeping my head down, I begin raising my butt into the air. From down by the floor, I look back at him for an extended moment, then finally stand. So, so very sexy. 
 
He laughed mightily. The move did not go into my repertoire. I guess I’m just a throat-punch kind of girl. (Don’t tell the client.) 

Stay Careful-ish,
Honey

Once you witness it, it will haunt you, as it has me. This realization struck in the Atlanta airport where I had too much time to kill. That’s were my first flight had left me well after my connecting flight had taken off. No one’s fault. Just weather.
 
If you’ve been to the Delta lounge in Atlanta’s terminal B, you know that it’s comfortable, well-stocked food & beverage wise and generally a pleasant place to kill time (as long as cellphone talkers play nice and go to their designated area). Having missed my connection, I’d been booked onto the next flight out, which was leaving at 9:00 pm. Hours away. So, off to the lounge I went. 
 
I’d assumed that my biggest challenge for the rest of the trip would be avoiding the hooch. I’m laying off adult beverages for a while, and here I was with free-ish Delta lounge booze and a great reason to drink it. But I held strong. Water and wasabi peas. 
 
Then it was time to head to my flight. At the gate, we were informed we’d be delayed an hour. Shit. Back to the lounge? No. I can spend an hour in the un-rarified air of gen-pop. I’d power down and read on my phone. I’m early into a crime novel, which for me is like word-sorbet between heavier historical fiction reads.
 
Here, on the bench seating is where the horror began. I looked up from my screen to assess those around me. No surprise, most were staring at their own devices. I like to know what people are reading, and I’m nosy, so I glanced at my neighbor’s phone. Not reading, scrolling. I wondered, what would come up in their feed? Are they being served the same videos I am? Skiing, kittens, beekeeping, new inventions in Sweden, octopi? Again, I’m nosy.
 
Nope. Not the same. Between my neighbor’s kitten videos were riots, protests, fires, politicians accusing who-knew-who about who-knew-what. Beyond my neighbor was her partner. His feed was similar to hers. Propaganda cushioned by the intermittent cute feline or person being hit in the head or crotch. Hoping I’d accidentally sat next to the most troubled couple in the airport I broadened my curiosity circle.
 
A scan of the boarding area revealed that the majority of people on their phones where being hypnotized by inflammatory messaging laced with cute fur babies for Pablum. It was like a scene from “1984” or the movie “A Clock Work Orange.” (If you haven’t seen this dystopian 1971 Kubrick film, I have a hard time recommending you watch it. It’s violent and disturbing. But maybe that’s your thing. No judgment.)
 
But fear not. You don’t need to watch a dystopian films to be disturbed by this behavior. It’s happening all around us. I’d just never seen it on mass like this. And these aren’t people strapped in a chair with their eyes forced open. (You had to see the movie.) These people believe themselves to be will participants to the consuming of someone else’s messages. The formula is: nightmare, nightmare, kitten, nightmare, nightmare, nightmare, kitten, kitten, nightmare. 
 
“Screen time, especially from activities like video games and social media, can release dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward. This can create a feedback loop where the brain craves the stimulation and positive feelings associated with screen use, leading to increased time spent on screens.”(This from Ai, so it has to be true.)
 
Am I being alarmist when I say that it seemed we’d all handed over the key to our souls? Maybe, but looking out over the banquet table of propaganda ingestion, I had such a heavy feeling in my gut (or maybe it was my throat, because I wanted to throw up). It was like, the future we’d been warned about was here. I wanted to know if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing. No? Now I felt like the person at the end of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” or the “Stepford Wives” who’s hiding in plain sight by pretending they were are as hypnotized as all the rest. 
 
But I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to yell out. Or at least slap one or two of them. But there are laws against such behavior. 
 
We are either being mass pacified or mass enraged. Is there such a thing as passive rage?
 
On the plane, the hypnosis continued. My neighbor was being lulled by pro-administration propaganda that made it seem like he should be stockpiling weapons against the pacifists. I waited for the flight attendant to bring him a bib for the drool.
 
What to do? In the short term, my plan was to keep my head down (Not really. I binged “The Gilded Age” – Not a recommendation.) and get through the flight without a cocktail. In the long-term, my plan was to tell you fine folks what I saw and perhaps encourage you to take a walk, go for a ride, laugh with a friend, drink a cocktail (for me) and discuss your thoughts. Your very own thoughts from your very own brain. 
 
Note, I’m writing this the day after the president’s parade and the “No Kings” marches across the country. Do with that what you will. Again, work with thoughts from thoughts from your very own brain.
 
If you’ve gotten this far (thank you) and are thinking, Hey, I read this blog for satire and this is feeling rather not-satire-y, sorry, not sorry. I’m sorry that I felt compelled to write it and I’m not sorry for calling out what I witnessed. (And I’m sorry for saying, sorry, not sorry. I hate that phrase.)
 
I’ll finish this with a quote from my father, Jer. A wise man with many witticisms. (89 years in, and we’re still getting fresh material.) Jer tells us all, “Don’t let them shit on your head. Open your mouth.”

Cheers and scroll careful-ishly,
Honey

How best to describe my recent trip to the City of Angels, AKA Los Angeles, California? 
If you’ll allow me to steal from (or you could say, “honor”) Mr. Parker, “Los Angeles right now is Blade Runner without the budget for special effects.” Perfect.  
 
Now, if you’re from LA or live in LA, don’t get yourself in a bunch that this out-of-towner is talking smack. I called LA home for 10 fun-filled years. 
 
While living there, I made friends I still cherish, made my money in advertising, performed regularly at The Comedy Store (with decompression stops after at Canter’s Deli), worked with some extremely talented folks at Groundlings (people more talented then I, which is why they’re famous and I’m…well, my father thinks I’m very talented), and it’s where I met Mr. Parker. He was in my back yard under the avocado tree, but that’s a tale for another time. 
 
But lo, these many years later, I’m seeing my old town with fresh eyes and, wow. It’s like when you haven’t seen someone’s kid since they were six and now they’re 16 and have a beard. (She should really shave that.)
 
Allow me to frame the picture. We landed in darkness along with a staggering number of other 737s that apparently escaped Newark at the same time. We all disembark (a retro term for what they now call “deplaning” because education in this country is at such an abysmal low that disembarkation is considered a microaggression against the illiterate—Again, thank you Mr. Parker) into a dimly lit terminal. 
 
To find an Uber, you now must make your way through the fluorescent gloom of LAX amid the crush, all in a hurry to navigate what looks like a blinged-up Euro-mall in Singapore stocked with gold-scented perfumes and thousand-dollar T-shirts for the gazillionaire on the move with a minute to burn on their way to the waiting Porsche Cayenne that will transport them to some gilded ivory tower that’s low on toilet paper. (That was one sentence, folks.) 
 
Next, we’re outside inhaling ocean-scented exhaust fumes and herding ourselves into a groaning, hissing shuttle bus jammed with people whose faces are cast in the sickly blue glow of their screens while being transported to the sorting lot. 
 
Once there, escaping passengers and obliging drivers are zippered together in an effort to penetrate the night. And that was just the first 20 minutes of the trip.  
 
After that, the entire time we were in town, it was overcast. Not LA’s fault. Probably. And everywhere, there were artifacts of cold, impersonal automation. 
 
It started with the driverless cars that are now hauling temporarily orphaned teens from here to there without fear of having to make small talk about their lives to another human—or worse, having to listen to small talk about their driver. No requirement to share stories. You know, those things that bring people together and foster understanding. 
 
These autonomous vehicles creep all over town with multiple automated cameras mounted around the car and their navigation hardware spinning away on the roof like an AI zoetrope. (Look it up.) Watching them in action forces a sentient human driver to say things like, “Is that thing actually going to stop in time?”
 
Oh, hey! Need dinner delivered while in LA? Good news! You don’t need personal interaction for that, either. Now navigating the sidewalks of the town in which “nobody walks” (thank you, Missing Persons) are four-wheeled aluminum bins that look like weaponized baby carriages sporting flashing orange lights and, either to be safe or to camouflage their true, sinister purpose, little orange caution flags mounted on tall, fiberglass whips. Honestly, their stop-start movement and swaying flags were almost cute in an R2D2 or BB8 kind of way. (Come on. Star Wars. Can’t believe some of you needed me to tell you that.) 
 
Is this me just not cottoning (yes, a porous, old-timey word) to inevitable progress? I remember my father complaining when the internet removed much of his social interaction back when he made his living in B2B sales. But his real bread and butter was getting in front of people and sharing stories. And while the ease of online purchasing is undeniable, so is the power of face-to-face interaction. It’s a trade-off. 
 
But when do we cross the line? When do we stop knowing how to know people? 
 
Here’s my next question. With all this automation, how is it that no one has invented a robot that cleans all this shit up? 
Everywhere you look now, Tinseltown is covered in perma-grime—yet I didn’t see one bot with a broom, or a shovel, or a flame thrower. 
 
The last Blade Runner-like change we noted in the most populous city in the Golden State are the pop-up sidewalk kitchens. They’re everywhere: flimsy, art-festival tents sheltering a couple working a grill or a griddle or bisected 55-gallon steel drum over an open flame, and stackable plastic café tables and chairs. The only difference between these ram-shackle eateries and the noodle shop frequented by Harrison Ford in the movie (why not go back to the original) is that the ones in the actual LA of today don’t have a gravity-defying hover function. These vendors are firmly planted on the sidewalks populated only with autonomous weaponized pizza delivery bins. Again, nobody walks in LA.
 
That was my experience of Los Angeles 2025. And here’s an interesting note. Back in 1982, Blade Runner was “set in the dystopian future Los Angeles of 2019.” What say you, Ridley Scott? (Director of Blade Runner. Must I explain everything?) And if you’ve seen the movie, the replicants were the bad guys. Yet all they wanted to do is stay alive. Living. Experience the world. Like you and I are supposed to be doing.

​Alexa, beam me up. Fine, I'll walk. 

The fine ladies of the Philadelphia Delta Lounge

Maki the Therapy Dog / One of the thousands of hopefuls