L.A.-Day 1

Here are my impressions of Los Angeles after my first day in her smoggy womb. Actually, before I talk L.A., let me say a few words about my flight over: I’ve never had pain in my head during a plane’s descent like that in my life. It honestly felt like my right eye socket was caving in and the rest of my skull was soon to follow. Think Scanners meets the scene in Eastbound and Down where Kenny Powers throws a fastball that knocks out the eye of his archrival Reg Mackworthy. Once I was out of the fetal position and armed with my trusty best friend teh Intarwebz, I Googled what the hell could lead to such agony. Turns out it was the cold that’s been clogging my sinuses the past few days combined with the changes in atmospheric pressure that accompany descent. So to my friend Rich Harmon who came over last week to hang out with me without warning me he was sick, giving me said cold right before I left, fuck you, pal. How about the next time I’m going on a vacation you drop all pretenses and just hand me some blankets infected with smallpox?

-Los Angeles is a fast-food paradise. There are Jack in the Boxes everywhere. The Carl’s Jr. star shines down upon you like the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg did on Gatsby, omnipresent (don’t act like you aren’t impressed by my reference to a book I had to read for high school English). Tragically, my hostess is vehemently anti-fast food, so it’s going to take some creative maneuvering to that delicious oinkslop in my belly, but I think I can find a way.


-The ghettos of Los Angeles don’t seem all that scary. Sure, I simply drove through them and didn’t stop looking to score, but I just wasn’t impressed. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent a lot of time in the shittiest parts of DC and Baltimore (doors locked ala Michael Bolton in Office Space whenever possible, natch) but…I expected more. Stack an episode of The Wire against Boyz n the Hood. You’ll see what I mean.

-I had my first celebrity sighting within hours of arrival: Alfonso Ribeiro, aka Carlton Banks. I’m sure some of you reading this are thinking “who gives a shit?” and would have preferred seeing a Robert Pattinson with throngs of female worshippers around him and a visible cloud of poonstank wafting about his genitals or someone of that ilk, but to me, seeing a sitcom icon I grew up with was the tits. He was at a Mexican restaurant with an unfathomably skinny blonde chick, the two of them standing outside, waiting for the valets to bring them their car at the same time I was waiting with my friend for hers. He and I locked eyes for a moment and, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I caught a little “Dude, if you make a big fuss about seeing me in front of this girl I’m with, I’m so getting laid” in that gaze. Sadly, I didn’t acknowledge him or do the Carlton Dance before he and his date climbed in his Range Rover, but I did catch myself humming the opening bars of “It’s Not Unusual” moments later. Godspeed you, son of Philip Banks. May your night have consisted of laying waste to some young new starlet’s vagina and then “accidentally” flipping to an episode of Fresh Prince moments after climax to seal the deal.

Tagged as: Los Angeles.