GTA means Grand Theft Auto

This morning about 13 police cars and a police chopper descended outside my front door. The cars flew eastbound and out of sight, and then promptly returned, skirting around my corner. Eventually they decided to set up base about 200 yards from my house. Curious, I cautiously made my way toward them, until I was stopped by a police car blocking off the perimeter. (As an experienced production assistant, often told to "lock down the perimeter" I immediately sympathized with my brothers in blockade.) I asked the officer what was going on and he was kind enough to tell me they were looking for a GTA suspect. "Is he running or hiding?" I asked. "He's hiding," responded the officer. "And you're pretty sure he's hiding in one of those houses?" "Yeah. He's not going anywhere." "Great. 'Cause I live here," I said.

I then relayed to my neighbor what the cop told me. "Oh yeah," she said. "A lot of the kids down here are breaking into cars all the time. When you hear my dogs bark at night, they're barking at the kids peeking into the cars."

I didn't realize it until this morning, but this is the worst neighborhood I've ever lived in. The house is nice-ish (it doesn't have heat and it doesn't insulate so I'm basically paying to camp indoors - I literally slept in my sleeping bag until I got heavier blankets), my room is bigger than any room I've had before, but I suppose there's a reason I can afford such a room.

When I'm older and wealthier, I'm going to tell people about the time I lived in the ghetto.

Honestly, though, this isn't the ghetto. That's just what I'm going to tell people. You know, to up my street cred.

Oh - Pop Doyle requested pictures. Here ya go, Pop.

Atwater Village, CA. Jan. 13, 2009. Picture taken from my bedroom window.