Los Angeles has some of the best and most nonsensical public signage of any place I’ve ever been. That’s because in spite of how it’s a mythical city in the American imagination a lot of it is straight-up scrubbin’ good times. The only difference is that there are so many people and places that probably every possible linguistic combination has been expressed. In this way, LA = google. I saw enough signs this weekend that said “102.7 PAYS YOUR BILLS” and “SANDWICH HELP MAN” and “THE GAYLORD” and “EXOTIC PEBBLES” to thoroughly convince me. Seriously, I know that The Hills and Pretty Woman and whatever have probably poisoned my mind and yours regarding what goes on there, but most of it is just people doing stuff. Admittedly you’ll occasionally run into somebody who wants to have a sizing-up-the-competition conversation, but luckily these people are very obvious about what they’re up to, and you’re free to say any ridiculous overly-enthusiastic thing to them and go freely on your way. Mention Willem DeFoe as often as possible. You’ll do great.
So, the title of my first poetry manuscript was, I guess, meant to be prophetic. Because my apartment building isn’t up to code and has to be fixed this summer as mandated by the City of Austin, I have to move out by the end of the month. It’s been sucky, trying to find a new place to live trying to figure out my rights in this situation (pretty slim thanks to the fact that a large entity like the city itself is demanding the renovations), and just being pissed off about all of it. But the upswing is that I’ll be living in a hut, or more accurately a garage apartment, with a backyard and some green space and a lot more windows. Ultimately, it’ll be good. But if you haven’t heard from me in a while and wonder what’s going on, it’s most likely all of this dirty work.