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My Dirty Little Secret: I Love Pinkberry

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Every time I go, I quickly scan the faces on the street. Do I recognize anyone in the crowd? Is there anyone approaching that might recognize me? I enter covertly, head down. I try to get in and out as quickly as possible. Upon exiting, I scan the environs again. Who might see me? Who might pass judgment? Who might tell?

As I carry my "goods" home, I do my best to hide the logo and if anyone tries to meet my gaze with their judgment (always with the judgment), I avert my eyes and play dumb. I act like the lowly assistant sent off to secure the contraband and I'm just following orders, can't blame me.

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When I get to my building, there is inevitably someone outside who sneaks a peek at what I'm carrying. Again, I look away. This is more difficult to manage because these people know me. They know what I'm about in our little artist's community where we support independent and believe in buying locally and are trying to convert our building to solar power. I'm an active member of this little enclave that we all cherish and believe in and so it shocks them, pains them, once they've learned my dirty little secret: I dig Pinkberry.

I know, I know. Admission of such a dirty secret is political suicide. I'll never run for office now and LAist might even take my Wine Novice column away. How can I be trusted where matters of taste and decorum are concerned? I should hate Pinkberry for a million different reasons: what it does to neighborhoods, the mom & pops it shuts down in its wake, its fake-yogurty ingredients that are likely very, very bad for me and its off-putting, sour flavor that foodies abhor and I, strangely, adore. I know and I agree and I held out as long as I could.