Hunting for duplexes, much like searching for a mate, inevitably forces one to compromise. And hunting for property in L.A. really puts the AYYYYY in compromAAAAYse. So while cruising relatively undesirable neighborhoods, with scrawled notes in hand, I noticed something about the places my brother and I had been looking at. Some of the duplexes were like ugly girls with nice clothes on, and these didn't bother me. Other properties were pretty girls with haggard clothing, they had real "potential".
Some were just ugly girls with ugly clothes. Now
these properties truly had nothing to recommend them. I wondered who resided in them and said a tiny little prayer - for myself - in hopes that I wouldn't suffer from night tremors because of the indelible mark the
pooplexes had left upon my consciousness.
When I returned to my own rabbit-hole, I fitfully sharpened all of my knives and felt much better, resolving to look again... next weekend.
Here's just one of the portraits of modern decay. You'd think the realtor would have at least removed the rickety shopping cart or righted the teeter-tottering sign post for the picture.
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