“Textiles and maple syrup that’s why I’d leave LA, really that’s all it would take.” Not heard from the white powdered restrooms at Hyde, not heard from the quasi Euro Trash tempting each other with E in the shape of their family crest in a dark corner at Le Deux, and definitely not heard from the celebrities and new money spilling out of Kress. Me, yes I, and no not you; you’re too convinced otherwise. I would leave LA’s brainwashed streets and it’s piss stained walk of fame. I wouldn’t miss the tourists sporting that initial look of wonderment then the inevitable snarl after visiting the city that harbors their allergies worst nightmares and their brain and ego’s biggest let down. The other day I swore I saw a bum making a dirt igloo, It’s not impossible to find that much trash in Hollywood; seriously look behind a door, an alleyway, at your dirty white keds, (yes you, you post post hipster style guru you), and you can find enough shit to create a two story trash mansion elaborately furnished with central AC and a dishwasher dignified enough to light up the eyes of even the most regal of homeless royal blood.
Again textiles and maple syrups, a small store in the countryside maybe Pennsylvania, or Maryland, or Connecticut. Who doesn’t like maple syrup; and textiles well you’re wearing a shirt and pants aren’t you? If not how bout a t-shirt that says “Not!!!!” for 9.99 and some MC Hammer parachute pants circa 1989 for 7.99. Pants, t-shirts, scarves, hats, assless chaps, and maple syrup, that’s why I’d leave LA. I’m not even talking about that “Vermont” maple syrup; you know the kind that’s supposed to be amazing because it’s authentic but really ends up tasting like a sticky Molotov cocktail jammed into a glass maple leaf. I’m talking about the buttery sweet fake shit that makes you feel like McDonald’s wasn’t only a bad idea but you have no idea if you will be able to get your toilet as white and sterile as it once was after ingesting maple syrup.
“I love LA,” “I love LA?” come on Randy Newman specifically what do you like about this crotch sweat wasteland? “If your balls don’t stick to your leg, you’re not in LA”, that’s what mom always used to say. “Look at that mountain, look at that tree, there’s a bum over there down on his knees?” Excuse me, Mr Newman I can’t see the fucking mountain unless I go up to the Griffith observatory after a fresh rain and cross my fingers that a 3-day coughing fit haze won’t be yellowing my view. The trees are nice when they haven’t been herded behind some celebrity’s mansion so they can breathe fresher air then their “two-bit reality star neighbor.” And that bum on his knees well he’s praying to Allah because even he’s more religious then the devil worshippers that run this town.
I know what your all thinking “If you don’t like it that much then leave!!” Right, right the same shit they say to people when they bash America. Well I fucking love America so close your tight-pursed botox lips asshole. Ya know obviously I've been thinking maybe I should leave; textiles and maple syrup right? Well I exaggerate, and leaving would be too easy, I've always been a bit of a masochist and gosh if Newman doesn't have a pretty voice when he spews bullshit. I’m not leaving; this is my town; my new song: "I'm Secretly Ok with LA." You get the fuck out, the smell of hot piss and rotten sushi has grown on me, Miley Cyrus spottings give me half stock, and I like the excitement of that tuberculosis cough I get fighting my way to the ocean. “I’m trying to make it,” I live here, get used to it I like to complain, and you can take your vegetarian ass and sun kissed face out of my view so I can watch the slowly dying sun set. Besides I can’t sew textiles, obviously don’t understand the word and maple syrup will be around for another 3,000 years until the earth is swallowed by your neighbors giant cat after the nuclear war of 5008. Thanks Randy.