I knew I’d become a granola head when I heard the story about the naked man in the Laundromat and didn’t get the punch line.
I’ve always laughed at the idea that L.A. is granola land — a place full of fruits, nuts and flakes. Then, a few years ago, our friend Sue was visiting from Rochester, New York and told us she had an amazing, only-in-L.A. story for us.
That morning — a bright, sunny, summer day — she’d gone to a crowded Laundromat in Venice Beach. As she watched her clothes spin in the suds, a guy walked in out off the street. He was completely drenched from head to toe. But he wasn’t there to do the wash.
He pulled two quarters from his pocket, took off all his clothes — we’re talking totally naked now — and tossed them in a dryer then sat down and waited for the machine to finish. And, Sue said, and no one paid any attention to him.
I nodded my head knowingly and waited for the punch line. Then it hit me. Maybe my idea of normal had shifted a little over the years. But that’s okay. I’ve always liked granola and besides, around here I look downright normal.