Medium-hot conversation about canaries. “What, they’re totally chill.”
Look. Elliott Smith unkilled himself just to come to this party. He is mingling with musclemen. Probably for the best.
Lurking in the shadows, a skit guy with a web thing, an editor of DVD special features, a PA for projects he refuses to describe.
Los Angeles. Magnolia leaves are become hot dog plates.
Los Angeles. Someone named T-Bone is partying down the street, and babes galore are looking for him. In the foreground: not T-Bone.
Los Angeles. Broad and big-lipped, oozing over the grillables, why not move here? Swim in the actual ocean. The actual fucking ocean. Sorry. This is a wonderful trip. Wish you were on it.
Los Angeles. Meats and ladies, each surprising to the other.
Los Angeles. An immigrant spends his life savings just to feel a clump of this sand.
Los Angeles. We are casting a blonde for our movie. Ahem.
Los Angeles. Snackin’ with the moon and his girlfriend.
Los Angeles. Slumped, nah, just chillin’.
Los Angeles. Mellowing out with Jack and Janet, white wining, letting the slow air just brain us.
We are going back to Cali. Which is to say, California proper. Which is certainly L.A., sorry, yes.
This is but one way to depict a poo. The artists at MAD Magazine, for example, employed a variation which I called, in my head, “crossed buns.” Poo is harder to draw than other shapeless things. Potatoes, for one.
Have I ever met a Costa Rican? What’s a Costa Rican like? Is this a Costa Rican? Why don’t I know any Costa Ricans? Hey!
