A wad of gum

Had one of those surreal evenings last night, with middle aged men threatening violence, bottles breaking crazily on concrete, a very drunk clown chick, and an angry man shouting about a vomit covered floor. Inside, a man was singing Black Sabbath songs in a Santa suit. Outside a group of guys discussed Ollie Halsall, which I didn’t think was even possible in Los Angeles. At one point I stumbled into a cloud of weed smoke so thick I thought I was Bob Marley as a guy was telling me how somebody fucked somebody and somebody was mad that somebody fucked somebody even though somebody wasn’t fucking somebody anymore so why would somebody care who was fucking anybody. I said I didn’t know. Finally, at three in the morning, I received a call warning me that there might a wad of gum in my car. I didn’t pick up, but let the caller prattle on about the wad of gum (and his words now remain, like oral literature, among the blinking messages on the machine) as I sat on the sofa in the dark, wide awake, listening to Heinrich Schütz.

I love this town, I really do.

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