I was in east L.A. There were chickens. There was mariachi music. There was I, alone on the doorstep of an apartment of a friend who was kind enough to let us hang around his place while he was at work. Inevitably, the afternoon sun drew me out in my finest white dress...then urged me to cast it aside and let its rays and the shadows it cast play across my nakedness. Join me in celebrating that which is oft overlooked in Southern California, home of Hollyweird... a place where the driveways are very narrow and suspicious plants that people harvest in the middle of the night behind residences that have seen better days thrive. A place I will not readily forget, and hopefully now, neither will you.