Stay Cool, Los Angeles

I woke at one to the steamy sensation that my apartment has been replaced by a broiler room.  I have no air conditioning so I must sit around in my skin in the heat and slowly melt. It’s hard to get creative with sweat dripping down your body while you sit at the computer brainstorming, wishing you could instead jump in a pool of ice water, the keys swimming in your sweat.

I’m headed to the beach. To the cool ocean breeze.

There is an infestation of aggressive kelp taking over the beaches and harbors across California. A stowaway from China. Used in Miso soup. It means more dead fish and dead otters and more smelly, fly-buzzing strands of the stuff piled up on the pristine sand. There was tons of the stuff when I was up in Pismo Beach last month.

As the world changes and mutates and becomes a butterfly of death, I’m just thrilled to breath the air and feel the soft feathery effects of time. In the face of so much chaos it’s a blessing to walk around and squint at the sun, it’s a treat to look at history and see how easily we link lines… I’m the 2-ton anchor, keeping us close to shore.

California battled and killed a patch of mutant, killer seaweed by covering it with tarps to block out the sunlight then poisoning it with chlorine from underneath, killing all surrounding seafloor life as well, collateral damage in the fight against this mossy destruction. It’s a genetically manipulated assassin that is taking over the Mediterranean. We’re lucky we nipped that shit in the bud!

Crooked smile, but white teeth, it’s amazing how easily I slip into a wobbly falsetto. When the voice in my head spills into song, I’m caught humming into a hairbrush.  We are all stars in our show, but mine’s the best! Do you remember the scene where I took a stand against injustice, inspired a revolution, and swept the damsel away from the flames?

The orchestra was drunk so it came out a dirge.

Cake sings about an Alpha Beta parking lot as I stare at a bottle of Goldschlager, wondering, what the hell I’m doing with a bottle of Goldschlager? I remember getting drunk on odd concoctions when I was 23 and going to play an illegal game of golf; I remember neon and fluorescent colored drinks in rowdy college bars while Garth Brooks crooned about his friends in low places; but I can’t remember ever enjoying Goldschlager.

Why don’t I throw it away? Because it’s booze and that just seems wrong… you never, ever know. I’m keeping it around in case of apocalypse.

The ear is a sensitive orifice. You shouldn’t put anything smaller than your elbow in it. The nose is a dumb, gaping hole; you can stick pencils up there.

That’s pretty much it for the day; I told you, it’s too hot to think. I just want to walk in my loafers on the boardwalk and enjoy a cold beer on a patio; but I want to leave you with one thought: I love you. And I want to leave you with one question: when you dance in front of the mirror, are you dancing alone?


Stay cool, Los Angeles.


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