January 4, 2024:

Crowds in the station.

Daypacks, water bottles. They came to march, now they're going home.

Up the coast: Del Mar, Encinitas, Cardiff, Carlsbad, Oceanside.

Good on 'em.

January 3, 2024:

Aged by weather. Gray, shorts, too old for tats. They're arguing about Denny's and Charlie Kirk.

"They changed it! The name now is 'Farmworkers Day'. I say, call it 'Homeless Bum Day' and give us all free food."

So many condos. Condos in the flood plane, condos in the canyons, condos on the hilltops. Once there was nothing.

I wish the trolley went all the way west.

January 2, 2024:

Hefty lady rudely has her feet on the chair opposite. Crowds mill. Thin grandmother with died red-brown hair wears her shades up top.

Young men in hoodies: the Urban Tweaker pantomime of cool. Crowds mill. There's a line at the Information kiosk. Hefty lady leaves, returns with a plate of cake.

Tall girl with smoothie-cup-and-straw checks me out. Closely. Yes you're pretty but I'm too old for you. I'm finally although reluctantly resigned to that objectively ridiculous societal constraint.