Look Away, Down Gower Avenue

Sometimes, for reasons I don’t feel like disclosing here, at least right now, I read this intertubes thing called laist, self-described as a Los Angeles-centric web portal covering “local news, events, food and entertainment; targeted at young urbanites.”

A worthy thing about these people, is that they have a i love lasense of humor about themselves.

For instance, they offer a recurring feature dubbed “Overheard In LA.” In which readers submit things they have heard fellow Lost Angels emitting, while out and about.

And this stuff: it’s pretty much jaw-dropping. What they reveal about themselves.

And a coupla hand-claps, for them, for that.

For we would never, for instance, get anything anywhere near like this, out of New York City. For those people are so arrogant, so supremely unaware, they could never permit, such naked self-reflection.

Anyway. Here’s a sampling. Culled from the past couple months or so, of “Overheard In LA.”

—”There’s nothing worse than bad lighting. Well, except, like, war and hunger.”

—”Country clubs are really hurting right now.”

—”Oh my god, the walk of shame is so much worse in LA, because no one walks here!”

—”The problem with Karl Rove is that his face looks like canned ham.”

—”We were having so much fun! But then that stupid girl died and ruined it for the rest of us.”

—”You know how a few weekends ago it was incredibly hot out? Well, I slept with an ex, because I wanted to use a pool. So LA of me, and totally worth it.”

—”I really want to lay down, but I just got Botox, so I have to be upright for a few hours. I’m so mad!”

—”I don’t want to act anymore. I just want to model.”

—”Do you need me to demonstrate that I’m willing to do nudity?”

—Small child: “These pockets aren’t big enough for my cellphone.”

—2-year-old: “Let’s go to brunch.”

—”No, Sarah. Pet the bunny gently. Like an iPad.”

—”What’s with all those cars with pink mustaches on the front bumper? Is that a Trayvon Martin thing?”

—”Can you please get rid cocaine. party.of whatever cockamamie phone you have and get an iPhone so I can iMessage you like a regular person?”

—”I want to do a photograph project down in skid row. At like, magic hour. When the bums come out.”

—”He just really likes the smell of cocaine.”

—”He’s a manager at Taco Bell, but he’s also a real artist.”

—”I really respect men more after the first time I wore a strapon. That’s a lot of work!”

—”It’s a vegetarian Dalmatian. Isn’t that amazing?”

—”There’s food over here. You eat, right?”

—”I need to go get my raw milk. I haven’t had it in three days and I’m, like, shaking.”

—”Are you gluten-free, or Jewish?”

—”I would love to experience an earthquake, but in a safe environment.”

—”Yeah, we gave the dog ecstasy, too.”

—”Can we sit with our backs to the sun? I just spent a shitload lasering my face.”

—”Larry bought her a BMW, so she loves him again.”

—”No you can’t buy a $40,000 horse. The budget is twenty-five.”

—”The first date was good because I didn’t know his income level yet.”

—“You’re dating an aspiring actor? You need to date an established actor.”

—”I wanna learn how to speak Braille.”

—”I’m gonna get a tattoo. But I’m doing it in mom won't get madHebrew, so maybe my mom won’t be as mad.”

—Guy: “I don’t have issues, she only does lesbian porn, for the most part.”

—”I am so excited to be dumped! I haven’t been single since Grindr went online.”

—”I hope my therapist googled me so she knows who the fuck she’s talking to.”

—”I either do the right thing and call LAPD, or have his legs broken.”

—”Having an Egyptian father is so indie.”

—”I wasn’t sure if I should go have Italian food because I’m also starting a cleanse this week.”

—”I can’t believe that picture of my balls is still on the Internet!”

—”He left me for someone who sleeps in headgear.”

—”I’ll probably go out to dinner with him, but I Zillowed his address.”

—”I slept with my agent so he knows how much I’m really worth next time he negotiates my quote.”

—Black woman describing The Blair Witch Project: “Some foul-mouthed white children lost in the woods.”

—”Is that a smelly pen? Because if it is, it’s going to wreck my whole coffee experience.”

—”Thinking about dirty pink panties makes my carrot taste worse.”

—”My mouth tastes like I made a bad decision last night.”

—”I want a dog that’ll question me and what it ismake me think.”

—Someone on hold: “Fuck this Christmas music! I’m a Jew!”

—”I want to look a little gang-bangy.”

—”He would eat at the influenza truck if it had a good Yelp review.”

—”My husband doesn’t really like my boyfriend.”

—”Quinoa is kind of 2011.”

—”I feel like I wasn’t tweeting organically.”

—Woman to her screaming 5 1/2-month-old: “We’re not on set right now. Knock it off.”

—”I didn’t realize for over an hour that I was at a memorial service.”

—”I feel like seahorses are gonna be the next new thing.”

This: this is why Warren Zevon, in the last song on his first album, envisioned the apocalypse commencing in Los Angeles. As the air conditioner hummed . . . .

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September 2013

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