While I remember a few positives from my year in L.A. (driving year-round with the windows down, always a good time for a Jamba Juice, the first apartment where I put up my own Christmas tree, etc.) mostly, when I think of my year on Findley Street in Los Feliz, I remember sheer craziness.
The landlady was certifiable.
Truly.
She made no effort to conceal the fact that she had been institutionalized for mental health problems.
Lacking sympathy and loving alliteration like I do, I wasted no time nicknaming her "Crazy Carol."
Basically, Carol told me that the job of managing the building was all she was really capable of. And even the nagging responsibilities of us tenants were sometimes too much to rouse her from her hill of blankets and pillows that I occasionally caught sight of through her open apartment door. And rent was free for Carol, so, you know, that's good for The Crazies. Not so good for us tenants.
She took great pride in "hand-picking" the residents of our very small and incredibly well-priced apartment units, which I took as a compliment . . . until I met some of the other guys. Another Crazy on the floor above me routinely attracted police and emergency vehicles. He saw alien spaceships.
