Last night I went to a concert with Lori, up at the Gibson Amphitheater. It's a long drive, north of North Hollywood, but there wasn't a lot of traffic (thank you, L.A. traffic deities), at least until we got to the 101. What has eight lanes and never moves? The 101. Ha, ha. Anyway, it was a good chance to study some of those funny old apartment buildings in Koreatown/NoHo as we crawled past.

I like looking in people's windows after dark — not to be creepy, but for the same reason I like dollhouses and editorial portraits. Framed unsuspecting in their windows at night, people are unguarded, out of context. Anyway, in a high window of some ancient building with a name like "The Fauntleroy," hung a picture on a wall. I couldn't see exactly what it was of; it was at quite a distance from us. First I saw the picture, then I saw a man. He was standing next to the picture, staring off into space, hands on his hips. What was he looking at? As we passed (sloooowly) I saw some shelves — no, cabinets! — and a counter, and then ... a microwave. He was watching the microwave, waiting for it to finish. Don't you do that? I do that. That's the thing about staring at strangers — the longer you look, the more you realize you're looking at yourself.