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But if you are, you and your wife or family will have something to discuss at dinner. This letter will discourage you from returning. Soliciting for sex in our neighborhoods is not okay. Since my car is frequently seen on Sepulveda Blvd. Meaning, hookers and johns. A blogger we all know is biking to the gym. The van driver honks at the woman. Two short demanding beeps. Turn your ass around, business is at hand. She slaps the front of his van. Nury Martinez has Good Hair. I just toss it carelessly over my shoulder along with my sensible bag and push my own grocery cart across the lot to my minivan.
Now wait a minute, you might be thinking. What kind of misogynistic nonsense is this? These women are professionals. One of them is your councilperson. How dare you dissect their appearance. Tough decisions need to be made. It requires further study. Developing Van Nuys Blvd? We should work with the business community to improve it. We should be very concerned, but…yes. Er, unless it takes away American jobs. Cindy, I have to say, came off well in that respect.
She grew on me as the meeting wore on. This may be an entirely political calculation for all I know. In the absence of policy differences, each side appeared to be utilizing semaphores to hint at who they were and whose votes they were seeking. Not an attractive look for an incumbent. The goods, always at rock bottom prices. Van Nuys, the land of the hustle. The Classy Lady was a valley institution for decades. It would be difficult to imagine a sadder strip club.
There was no cover, which should tell you something right there. There was no VIP room. Cheapskates would hang out by the pool table in the back, pretending to play while taking in the view free of charge. The ladies would wander by with a tin cup and ask for money for the jukebox, and by money I mean coins. They would clomp the two steps up to the pole and grind it out for a couple singles on the tip rail, or frequently nothing at all.
There were women working with fresh C-section scars and moonscapes of acne on their derriere. The place was annexed to a gas station and a store which sold rims. Sort of like wandering in to your own private David Lynch film. For the women it was not even a waystation on the road to perdition, but perdition itself, in which one panhandles naked without remuneration.