I went to the Getty Center yesterday. A load of art in some fancy buildings in the hills above Los Angeles. Maybe I’m museum-ed out, maybe I’ve just seen too much art on my trip so far, but I breezed through the place, pausing in front of the odd thing here and there, but mainly trying to work out where in the hell I was, because the buildings all seem to connect, but the map thingy makes it tough to know where you are. The buildings are quite nice. I didn’t like them as much as a couple of people I know thought I might. I dunno, there was something weird about the place. From the tram that takes you from the road, up the side of the hill to the museum; to the subduedly showy nature of the architecture. When all of that $1.2 billion’s worth of stuff is there in front of my eyes, my brain can’t help but get a bit Daily Mail about things and wonder if, for example, the J. Paul Getty Hospital or J. Paul Getty School wouldn’t have been a better way to spend the money. Still, the view of LA was pretty sweet, and the soap in the restroom smelled like marzipan.
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On my way to the Getty, on the air-conditioning-less bus, plodding along down Sunset Boulevard, past all the big, gaudy houses in Beverly Hills, there was this young woman. She was sat a few feet in front of me, on one of the seats that face inwards onto the aisle. She sat down next to a woman with big hair, so I couldn’t really see her face. But, I could see her trousers and shoes and the back of her hair. From those pieces of the jigsaw, I put together a hot chick in my mind. But she spent the whole journey jabbering on and on on her cellphone. Blah blah blah for about twenty minutes. I got the occasional glance of her profile, and yes, she was a fox. On and on and on, though. I dunno how the woman sat next to her put up with it. She was talking about how she likes motels, cos she can stay there for a week or so and move on, “I think I fear apartments.” And that she “can’t do that unless Jesus… unless Jesus and God say it’s okay.” She then asked the bus driver if Marilyn Monroe ever took this bus. Rather than waiting for an answer, she said “she must’ve done,” before getting back to her phone conversation. Then, at the same stop where I was getting off, she looked behind her, out of the window, and then at me, and said, “this was my high school… why are we here?” She got off the bus after me, and I noticed she didn’t have a cellphone or a Bluetooth headset. She’d been talking to herself the whole time, and continued to do so.