a sunburnt ode to los angeles with a dirge for forgotten diners and a to-go box of regrets
the sun is a blister on your neck¦ checked the map app and it’s 33.9508,-117.7254 but honestly who cares when the city’s pulse just throbs like a poorly maintained generator. today’s weather report sounds like a cheating girlfriend’s lie: 29.37c with a side of ‘feels like 27.84c maybe if you squint.’ humidity? 23. what. the. hell.
you get used to sweat that evaporates faster than a drug addict’s alibi. walked past a taco truck that smelled like regret and cinnamon sugar. the guy inside was yelling ‘sorry sir, everything’s 7 dollars now!’ at 3am. i asked if he meant ‘7 dollars extra’ and he just stared at the apocalypse through the cracked window.
ea friend of a friend told me that the terminus diner on whittier blvd serves their grease with a side of whispered rumors. tried to order a burger and asked if they still have the ghost pepper aioli. she laughed and shot me a look that said ‘can’t you read the menu written in tears on the wall?’ nearby, a skateboarder with a gimped ankle was filming something for his indie flick. low-budget, high-drama. he shouted ‘cut!’ at a passing cyclist who honked like the tires were in awe of the production value.
the sun beats down like a drunk neighbor with a meat cleaver. i dragged a duffel through a parking lot full of cars that looked like they’d lost a bet. saw a mural of a face made of avocados. told a hipster i liked it, he wheezed some bullshit about ‘resisting capitalist appropriation of indigenous symbolism’ and left.
if you get bored, lateral movement means nothing here, but the valley is a 45-minute Uber from existential boredom. someone told me that the colerain bikes-uh, mean people ride them because the city’s a dumpster fire and bikes are the only way to not look like a gasping mailbox. guess what? indigo gardens sells shampoo shaped like tiny buddhas and they’re all ‘slow-drip activated’ according to their Yelp.
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ended up at a diner at 2am and ordered a plate of diner trash. waitress asked if i wanted the special. said yes. got a piece of pie that looked like it was racetrack tested. someone nearby whispered ‘the owner’s a recovering alcoholic with a vendetta against scarcity.’ tried to compliment the fry cook’s skills and he just handed me ketchup packets that rattled like warning sirens.
weather app said it’s 31.41 now. hope you like the way the heat turns your skin into parchment. los angeles, you’re a paradox with a parking ticket.
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