Los Angeles I'm Yours: Part One

But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine
The dolor and decay
It only makes me cranky
Oh great calamity,
Ditch of iniquity and tears
How I abhor this place
Its sweet and bitter taste
Has left me wretched, retching on all fours
Los Angeles, I'm yours

Los Angeles, I'm Yours |The Decemberists|

Thursday

The sun had not even set once on stay in Los Angeles and I'd already overheard the following:

"So it's like, 'fuck you, you're fat, who do you think you are?' "

"They wanted me to carry it home in a sale bag because they were out of regular ones."

"She said it might be restless leg syndrome."

I'm now watching the sun go down, I've already brunched trendily beside the consummate stereotype for a publicist (leathery tan, oft-swearing, 40-plus, chain-smoking Jew)....

been judged harshly by the men of West Hollywood on a walk through their streets

posed arrogantly before palm trees and swimming pools...

taken a wayward jog through Beverly Hills because Runyan Canyon and the beach were too far to drive in traffic...

(this is me running away from the scene of crime...if you can call public urination a crime...it's not they like opt for general use facilities in this neighborhood)

and missed a Kevin Bacon sighting while donning the entirely too large sunglasses of a socialite.

Tonight I will go for sushi; drive four blocks in a Prius for sushi, and valet park the car. This town is superficial, its denizens self-absorbed, its neighborhoods reek of self-delusion and wickedness. There are no seasons here, good weather is an expectation, anything less is a divine short-shrift. I think I've finally found home.