Celebrity

I Saw Lance Bass at the Women’s March and Didn’t Know WTF to Do with Myself

This chronicles only a sliver of my experience at the Women’s March Los Angeles. If I were you, I would read my first post all about the Women’s March of Los Angeles before reading the below so I don’t come off as a complete and totally superficial idiot in your eyes.

After the march, Ben and I were trying to get to Clifton’s, one of our favorite spots in Los Angeles because it’s a glorious trifecta: 1. It has an actual cafeteria with decent food, 2. It has vast space spanning three floors, and 3. We could really use a drink. We randomly strolled over to 6th and Broadway, a block away from Clifton’s, where we saw a small crowd form behind a medium-sized, shrouded stage.

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Los Angeles, Ruminations

Why I Marched and What Comes Next

I’d advise you to read this post, then read this post on how I accidentally ran into Lance Bass and the universe aligned itself perfectly for just a few seconds. Enjoy.

I wanted to chronicle my experience at the Women’s March Los Angeles—not just so I remember it in detail, but to give it the spotlight it deserves. I can name the many reasons why I marched, but here’s a truncated version: for women’s rights, climate change, inclusiveness for the LGBTQ community, and for immigration and embracing the diversity that was supposed to be the blueprint of the United States of America. Yes, walking was liberating, but the march was a moment—we’re in a movement. If we take no action as a constituent, what’s the point?

I started walking to the Palms Metro Station holding my cardboard sign in one hand, and holding Ben’s hand in the other. The Los Angeles sun obliterated all evidence that it rained heavily the day before, allowing us to revel in its rays instead. This was a good sign.

As we approached the station, only a block away from our apartment, my eyes immediately took notice of the huge mass of people already waiting for the Expo line toward downtown Los Angeles. Sprinkled in front of me were a sea of women, men, and children, many holding signs and wearing knitted pussyhats, each in various shades of pink. Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, African-American, Middle Eastern—it was a scramble of different shades and it felt encouraging.

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