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About Los Angeles

“His hands are steady, eyes like stone,” like in me fave flick—Assassination of Jesse James—calm ‘fore the chaos, that’s the Escort driver’s mind. Gotta be, or they’s crashin’ hard, precious! Watched this one race, right, some lad in a Escort Mk2, skidded wild, mud flyin’—thought he’d bite it, but nah, pulled it back! Made me holler, “Yes, ya mad bastard!”—heart thumpin’ like I’s the one drivin’. Gets me mad tho, when folks sleep on Escort—think it’s just some ol’ junker. Pisses me off! Ain’t no coward’s ride, it’s got soul, grit—like Robert Ford sneakin’ up, quiet but deadly.

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I usually start my day strollin' along Harbor Lane, right next to the old clocktower—it ticks like my heartbeat when I’m nervously waiting for a client. Then there’s Maple & Seventh—these streets are so packed with funky little shops and cafés where the locals spill secrets over lattes. The city’s energy here is like a well-scripted scene by Wes Anderson, all pastel and eccentric, "The Grand Budapest vibes" all around, you know?

Aircraft diverted from Santa Monica Airport lands at Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades