Outside the post office, though, the LaRouche people had set up their table again. I evaded them on the way in, but upon exiting, one of them tried to engage me in conversation. He was a [presumably] heterosexual black man. I had an impulse to grab him and shake him and ask him what he was doing working for such a racist, homophobic asshole as La Rouche. As I still remember the time during the Prop 96 campaign when I was surround by a bunch of them at the LA County Fair, I have since thought better than to engage them in any way or even acknowledge their prescence. At times I want to tell them that they have some nerve, coming right into the heart of the gay ghetto and getting unsuspecting people to sign their petitions and take their literature. The people working the LaRouche table might be doing it for nothing more than the pay check, and have no idea (or could care less) that he went to prison for fraud, or that he's nothing more than a brilliant opportunist.
Hmmm... I think I have a subject to send to Ryan at WeHo News in regard to this. It would be a lot more therapeutic (and with less chance of being charged with assault) than trying to confront them directly.
But why should I have to chop off yet another piece of my shrinking turf until there is no place left I that I can feel safe? Why should we be made to endure their presence?