Glorious Glendale...

People wince (and I laugh at myself) when I say, "I love LA!" But it's true, I do. There is a subtle and remarkable thing going on here beneath the hoopla and the cheese I've spoken about so many times in this blog over the months.

But today I'll openly admit, as we all know, that parts of this town are not only godforsaken, they are dead. And by dead I really mean deader than dead - blazing hot concrete shit troughs populated by staggering, open-mouthed, mealy-minded, consumer-addled corpses animated only by the need to defecate all the trans fats and pollutants out of their fat blow holes. Brand Street in Glendale (where I was today) would be a fairly good example of this malaise. I once got a ticket there for jaywalking by a smug midget cop who made me sit in the median between two lanes of opposing traffic while he wrote out the ticket, smirking in his gay black boots. The streets of Glendale are literally crawling with cops who have nothing better to do than uphold the conservative agenda of a sorry township. And it's a shame, because there are some beautiful parks in the area and some beautiful Armenian families who stay away from the city center in their side-street homes. But the main streets in Glendale are sad places where life it seems, is just a nuisance, just another threat to the sacred order of bad air and horribly bad architecture. OK, I feel better now.

(The Glendale Gardens, lovely)