I am not a homeowner. Nor do I plan to be one anytime soon. Yup. We're proud renters. Proud-ish. I hate to admit that over time I have become secretly envious of people who can afford to buy homes around these here parts.
We
make enough money to get by in the city. We do pretty well by most
standards, but compared to the majority of L.A. parents with million
dollar homes, luxury cars and nannies, we're practically homeless.
This
obviously didn't faze me when I lived in a studio apartment overlooking
the 101 freeway, a block south of Hollywood Blvd. Getting solicited by
potential johns, flashed by freaks in trench coats and getting caught
in the crossfire of drug busts was just part of the charm of the
neighborhood.
In those days I was more impressed with
living behind Bukowski's former watering hole than crown molding and
refurbished hardwood floors. But I didn't have a kid then. I didn't
even have a dog.
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