We ain’t smiling today. Rather we’re inclined to borrow that Doughboy helmet from the Legion Hall, keep it on until the shit storm of bad luck abates. So far the Taurus died, the HDTV crapped out, we spit out a filling and the other night somewhere along the Downtown art walk, our never-leave-home-without-it, credit card sized Sony T9 digital camera was lost, and we ain’t to blame.

As the best camera is the one you have on you, this one saved many a day. Took the cafe pic of Heather the Professor(above) and some 10,000 other shots

the past four years. Could say we got our money out of it- sold some pics to glossy mags, like a weasely Macaulay Caulkin at Banksy’s LA show, but gaffer-taped as it was it still had life and we like to think some cholo picked it up and is taking inspired gash shots with it. Now we can’t blame the weak Manhattan at Seven Grand for the loss. Nor the 35 cent gin cocktail at The Edison we quaffed while loud mouthed suited cops from the new police administrative building across the street speculated upon Bratton’s role in the anointment of Chief Beck. And it wasn’t the Tecate at the art school-evoking Hive gallery where we chatted about strippers and El Greco’s figures with painter Alex Schaefer. Nor was it the beer and shot we had at The King Eddie where a cackling pensioner, alerting the bar’s TJ Hooker-like sguare badge, queried our gal pal about the Legman’s record of buying flowers. No, we blame our loss and uncharacteristic carelessness on the City of Los Angeles. It has softened our edge, weakened our guard, remade us into a laid back California type. Soon the Legman will be pounding the pavement in flip flops.