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.


Chuckles said...

ha ha! i always disdained that street as well, didn't find myself on it much, but would often , with horror , find myself on the nade for some 'reason' or another....

Evangeline said...

Thank you for capturing this angst. It's the perfect length to copy with a Sharpie on my three-ring Mead binder. Please send this to the New Yorker.

Anonymous said...


Jula Bell said...

I like the part about the ill fitted pet sweaters. :)