At precisely five minutes before the crack of ass, or stupid o’clock, as it’s known in these parts — which is to say a sylvan street of houses perched regally near the entrance to Griffith Park — a Lululemon-clad whirlwind with a spinner-sinewed frame clatters downstairs two steps at a time. Uggs bumping carpet, she makes her way toward the hothouse warmth of a brightly lit, dorm room–sized basement space, a cup of coffee cantilevered in one hand against a page freshly printed with Donald Trump atrocities in the other, two polar bear–white Great Pyrenees lumbering behind her like a furry snow front.  Read the rest of the story at L.A. Weekly.