Punch

Thirty-six hours in Los Angeles. Everything's the same. Everything's different. Gritty, if you skip the freeway and drive in through Culver City. Then cartooning, as you move east and climb north. The Mike Tyson statue waiting to throw a punch. The girls perched on corner benches with makeup on their faces that gives them pig snouts and surreal squints. Words carved into the sides of mountains and clouds that look like lines of coke enduring sunsets. On the other side of a mountain, I keep cutting back and forth along an artery of traffic, going somewhere.