Hard core on the streetcorners. Weatherbeaten, prison ink. What the real cowboys looked like.
Busker every other block, but there's no-one to play for, the street is empty.
Kid at the excellent restaurant says they're closed, although the sign says lunch till 4:30. "It's 4:51 now," he says, but it's actually 3:45. I take the hint and leave.
The heat, I guess, I dunno. They don't want to deal with you.