Yogurtland is not, and will never be, Swirls and Scoops of Grafton, Pinecroft Dairy of West Boylston, Uhlmans of Southborough or Kimball's of Carlisle; the mom and pop ice cream stands of my youth, manned by the blond and tanned cheerleaders of their respective burgs. However its by-the-ounce thrift (if you spend more than $3.50, you are a fatty), combined with its smorgasbord of self-serve, fat-free flavors and toppings and myriad locations (including around the corner from my office) make it generally a worthwhile destination.
My roommate and I, in the mood to satiate our sweet tooth, were pleased to find the Yogurtland on La Brea blessedly devoid of the normal throng of be-Vanned, be-acid-washed 'tweens one usually encounters there on a cool Monday evening. After making my way through the oddly L-shaped toppings inlet, I tried to secure a table on the sidewalk. There were five tables, three occupied; one by three asian people, with six chairs at it. The two unoccupied tables were entirely devoid of chairs. I asked the Asian table if they were using all of their chairs.
"Yes," came the response.
Taking pity on me, some folks from the other tables down the way eagerly pushed their empty chairs towards me, and Richard and I took a seat.
As I continued to shoot the chair-hogging Asian table dirty looks, another couple came outside looking for a seat.
"You using all those chairs?" the man asked.
"Yes, came the response.
But this guy wasn't having it.
"Right now?" he asked.
"We are waiting for our friends," came the heavily-accented response.
"Are they here right now?" they guy pressed.
"No," the Asians sheepishly acquiesced.
"I didn't think so!" And he yanked two chairs away. Instantly, I was smitten by this man, and could not contain my smote-ness.
"We got the cold shoulder before you," I whispered at him conspiratorially. He turned around and looked at me, a little more wild-eyed than I might've expected.
"Well, you know, I just won't take no shit from no one!" He said, looking me square in the eyes.
Oh no. I had made a fatal social miscalculation. This man was not the ballsy hero I had hoped for, but, in fact, a slightly deranged lunatic. The pleated khaki shorts and white shirt I thought had been ironic were serious. I looked down at his shoes - you can always tell by the shoes - although I only had a brief moment in which to register his footwear before being compelled to resume his death stare. I couldn't tell you what they were, but my subconscious definitely registered something olive-colored and unfashionable. He continued:
"Sometimes you just gotta get up and say to yourself "I won't take shit from no one today!" he thundered at me, his oddly demure wife concentrating intently on her mochi. I had little time to shift my ire at the Asian table into anxiety that this crazy person would somehow morph his inability to take shit onto me.
As I nodded ferociously in an attempt to mollify this unfortunately shod, disquieting Libertarian, my heart sank somewhat. While I respected this man's attitude towards the chair-bogarting Asians, he was just another let-down in the Los Angeles ice cream seeking population; a city with whose inhabitants I am becoming decreasingly able to interact in a civilized fashion.
Unlike the soccer teams of Swirls and Scoops, the families of Uhlmans, the eccentric Concordians of Kimball's, the patrons of the sundry Yogurt Lands are foreign and uncouth. 'Going out for ice cream' remains a tradition relegated to the humid summer nights of the east, forever caught in the crosshairs of more innocent times. But we all need ice cream, end of story. So next time I go to Yogurt Land, I'm bringing my own picnic table. 
Sincerely,
Dear Crabby
