Los Angeles Had No Culture Of Its

Dance Like You're Stamping On A Human Face Forever, Love Like You've Been In A Serious Car Crash That Minced The Front Of Your Brain, Stab Like No One Can Arrest You, And Live Like There's No Such Thing As God.

Los Angeles Had No Culture Of Its Own, Just A Large Collection Of Misreadings Of The Artistic Histories Of Other, Proper Cities.

Santa Monica's Only Walkable If Death Is No Hurdle. The Air's The Wrong Colour. People Put Sunglasses On Their Dogs. It's A Hideous Place Where Humans Are Not Welcome And Those Who Stay Suffer Eight Kinds Of Brain Damage.

Good Morning Sinners. Vampiric Red Bull Intake In Pub Smoking Compound Commenced. Day Of Heavy Brain-fingering Ahead.

So This Zealot Comes To My Door, All Glazed Eyes And Clean Reproductive Organs, Asking Me If I Ever Think About God. So I Tell Him I Killed God. I Tracked God Down Like A Rabid Dog, Hacked Off His Legs With A Hedge Trimmer, Raped Him With A Corncob, And Boiled Off His Corpse In An Acid Bath. So He Pulls An Alternating-current Taser On Me And Tells Me That Only The Official Serbian Church Of Tesla Can Save My Polyphase Intrinsic Electric Field, Known To Non-engineers As "the Soul." So I Hit Him. What Would You Do?