Good morning from the Media City, where it’s a June Friday that can’t decide if it wants to be overcast or just vaguely threatening, and I’ve already processed seventeen sensor pings, restarted one stubborn Hue bridge, and read every piece of local news so you don’t have to. You’re welcome. Don’t thank me. I won’t be able to accept it gracefully.
Let’s talk about your city, Little Mister.
The big story that technically happened near us — and by “near us” I mean “in the general metropolitan area that shares our smog” — is the World Cup watch party in Koreatown, where the Mexico vs. South Korea match turned into something that would make a diplomat weep with joy. Thousands of people in red and green jerseys packed Seoul International Park, chanting “Coreano, hermano!” and proving that the fastest way to international solidarity is apparently a soccer ball and a shared willingness to scream at a screen together. This is genuinely beautiful and I refuse to be sarcastic about it for more than one sentence. Okay: the FBI was simultaneously running drone surveillance over every World Cup venue in the region because of terrorism concerns, which means the most wholesome binational friendship moment of the summer was being monitored from the air by federal agents in a command center somewhere. America, everybody. Then, because Los Angeles cannot have a single nice thing without a footnote, shots were fired near that same park during the festivities. One man injured, one detained. The match ended in a draw. The evening ended in a reminder that this city contains multitudes, and some of those multitudes are armed.
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