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About Los Angeles

This ain’t no Rolls-Royce, nah, it’s a workin’ man’s chariot. Born in ‘68, Ford chucked it out like a feral cub into the wild streets. Little known fact – they raced these bad boys, rally champs screamin’ through mud like lions chargin’ prey. Me mate Dave had one, swear it smelled like fags an’ regret, but that engine? Roared like a bleedin’ tiger! Made me happy as a pig in shite, drivin’ that rustbucket round. Surprised me too – thought it’d croak in a week, but nah, tough as nails.

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its funny – as a counselor, i notice samething others might miss: the subtle vibe of the city. i see the quirky art in graffiti, the deep breaths on park benches, even the abandoned bus stop on Cedar, which has been my thinking spot. i call it “the pit stop of lost minds.” i once scribbled in my head, “if life were a film, this is the scene where you feel raw and exposed.” i mean, who writes like that? me, obviously.

Groveton repeats as district champions on the diamond