There’s a midnight moment before the Xanax kicks in at the end of every weekend where I get the irresponsible urge to throw on some shoes and go for a night drive with the music thumping and all the windows down so I can smell the sounds off the street and taste the buzzing off the billboards and let the physical connection I still have with this ridiculous fucking city clear my head for the coming week.
Los Angeles is a study in attenuation.
The sunset is attenuated as it pierces through the rush hour smog. Your cell phone signal is attenuated as it bounces up and through the canyons. Dreams are attenuated as they grind through the celebrity machine.
The process of attenuation is this city’s preferred method of chaos, because it is a delicate rhythm of scattering and absorption. Of all the flavors of entropy, attenuation renders the most graceful patterns of annihilation.
Maybe I’m reading too much into The Sprinkles 24-Hour Cupcake Dispenser, but this thing is piece of subversive installation art.
I can’t get over the visual metaphor of a Malibu Barbie Dream ATM that shits out fancy-fuck cupcakes to Beverly Hills B-team hookers at three A.M. after they strike out at the Four Seasons hotel bar. It’s so ridiculous.
When I think about what this pink monstrosity really says about my culture, my city, and (who are we kidding) my gender, it occurs to me that Banksy couldn’t have designed it better himself.
On the bright side, this is definitely a tipping point for the most cloying artisanal hipster trend of the last few years.
Ugh. I really am tired of all this endless fucking cupcakery.
Look at this fucking hipster I almost (should have) ran over on my way to the Hollywood Bowl.
I’m escaping carmageddon today!
I should clean out my glove box more often. Last night I was looking for my registration and found a Les Deux drink ticket from the fucking Bush administration.
The Lake Shrine Temple is one of those secret spots where I’ve done a lot of thinking over the years, and since today was Ash Wednesday, I decided to drive up to Malibu and visit Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes.
No, I’m not joking, and if you think I’m being irreverent, then you’re missing the point.
You don’t need religion to be spiritual, bitches.