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About Los Angeles

So, where you at? Big city, prolly. Web’s got escorts now, fancy shit. X posts say it’s all “discreet”—yeah, right! Costs like 100 bucks an hour, cheap ones sketchier. I’d be pissed if they scammed me—hate that. “Whoa,” imagine the nerve! Once saw this gal, fishnets, smokin—thought, “She’s got stories.” *Holy Motors* line hits: “What makes me me?” She’s playin a role, like me in *Matrix*. Deep, huh?

Looking for the midpoint between places?

Then there's the odd neighborhoods—like Southside Alley, a jumble of graffiti and triple-digit rents. I hate how its narrow streets, like Elm, twist like a bad memory. But, hell, that’s what gives it character. My fave spot? The rundown cinema at 7th & Vine. It reeks of old popcorn and rebellion. I saw a flick there that reminded me of the raw grit in The Hurt Locker. "No one ever found salvation in a bomb shelter," I muttered. Whatever, it sounded cool.

Obituary | Robert Wagoner of Halfway, Missouri