Sunday, October 22
A word to those traveling east on Wilshire Blvd, near Curson: the Tar Pits are busting out all over, and best to mind your puddles, or be blessed with a christening of goo.
I can't really say I was that upset to find viscous lumps of tar all over my pink pants after hopping up a curb through what appeared in the dark to be a regular old water puddle. There is something magical about the La Brea Tar Pits being right here in the city, bordered by an art museum, a pseudo-utopian housing project, and a magnificent east/west corridor. Learning about these pits in science class as a young midwesterner, I imagined them to exist in the Middle of Nowehere. To find them jammed into the urban environment, paved over and embellished with dramatic sculptures of mastadons, was an odd surprise.
It's unfair to blame nature for curdling up out of the ground when you least expect it, but if you want to save your pants from getting extremely soiled, it's a good idea to steer clear of tar puddles.
Thankfully, last night, a generous old time fiddler was on hand with a flask of Tennessee whiskey. Jack Daniels managed to cut the tar pretty well, though further experiments later at home involving degreaser, rubbing alcholol and WD-40, found the latter to be the big winner for tar removal. The bike needed a cleaning anyhow, but this is the second pair of pink pants to be consumed by street stains.
Posted by Lisa at 11:57 AM