Monday, December 28, 2009


I often find myself sentimentalizing about various aspects of L.A., such as Glenoaks Boulevard or TV Café, which no one in their right mind should give a damn about. One place, though, that I have zero affection for and which actually physically sickens me is Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, where every third person is carrying a yoga mat. Here is a sort of bitter high school type poem, which might be scrawled on notebook paper during detention, about the insidiousness of Montana Avenue:

Aromatherapeutic quaint
afternoon latte sipping
organic kitchenware pit of hell
burn boutique burn
Williams-Sonoma face explosion
dog pillow emporium
for plastic surgery victims
eating Tuscan wood-fired
chicken alfredo death burgers
beauty salon where the souls of the dead
rise and ravage the creative hairstyles
of the pilates Nazis
holistic whore with spectacular
collage art on display
your novelty dog and cat sweaters
don’t fit
aren’t cute.