eating hot dogs in black tie — the cultural dichotomy of los angeles, 1961
photo by william claxton, from los angeles: portrait of a city by jim heimann, kevin starr; p. 438
New York has the pizza connection.
LA equivalent: an eighth of weed and a tank of gas.
The cannabis connection!
It’s my one year anniversary of moving to LA.
Before I moved down here, I made a list of things I needed to be happy. My basic needs:
- A hot shower with good water pressure.
- Gainful employment.
- Creative fulfillment with consistent output.
- A handsome boy to get stoney-baloney with.
FOUR FOR FOUR, BITCHES. My shower takes 15 minutes to heat up, my job sucks the life out of me, my sketch group exchanges 97 emails a day/my writing class is chock full of questionable taste, and my wonderful boyfriend doesn’t really smoke (but doesn’t mind that I do).
FOUR FOR FOUR!
It is glorious. It feels like home.
Sunday drive through Laurel Canyon, listening to Pet Sounds, and I think
- This is nice.
- Why isn’t Carney’s open for breakfast?
Look at me now!