porn, super porn
a supposedly fun thing I'll never do again
2004-04-03 | 9:59 p.m.

There is a scene in the movie Fitzcarraldo in which a man tosses a fistful of thousand-dollar bills into his pond to feed his fish, and I can think of no other appropriate analogy for Beverly Hills, where the recommended 'first stop' is by the bank to buy sheets of pre-cut hundred dollar bills to use as wrapping paper. Like an amateurish orinthologist, I will swiftly and carelessly summarize the three types of people I find here. All people here show their money in one way or the other, and my favorite types are the people that simply show their wealth in every well-fed flab and crevice, jovially obese, squeezing in and out of their bentleys like cumbersome balloons. There are also the shapeless columns clad in juicy couture tracksuits, looking like they just emerged from the gym, sweat glistening on their foreheads, yammering on their cellphones. And then there are the hopelessly mawkish tourists. They look so pitifully star-struck, clutching their maps and cameras, gaping at every little landscaped detail. I rode a bike on venice beach this afternoon and I am unable to describe the myriad of people I found there, most of which were drunk. I'll be back in Austin on Monday, and until then, LA remains cold, drab, dreary, missing you.

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