Politics of the Valley
Los Angeles, California — one of the best and downright dastardly places on earth. It is home to stars and scum, friends and foes. 243 years have come and gone since a group of 44 individuals journeyed hundreds of miles across the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts to settle these hills that kiss the Pacific’s golden shores.
I’m no stranger to Los Angeles. I spent the Summer of 2022 here, haunting Sunset Boulevard, hounding Venice Beach, and sleeping in my car at a Walmart parking lot in the western San Fernando Valley — where I am typing this from. Since Valentine’s Day, I’ve holed up among the hills, winding roads, and tropical desert foliage of Calabasas. When I’m not working, my days involve strolling the neighborhood, bound by Mulholland Drive, the highway, and Old Topanga Canyon Road. The Kardashians own this town, Justin Bieber used to live here, and so did Kanye West for a while. I’ll leave it to the reader to figure out why he left.
Straight off the plane a scammer solicited me at LAX— I think the bastard was a scammer — scammer at best, homicidal human trafficker at worst. But that crisis was quickly averted. On a night out in Santa Monica, I stumbled across some Londoners after they beat some poor devil within an inch of his life. A Santa Monica cop swooped in and almost took them to the slammer for attempted murder. A companion of mine spoke with the lawman and he peeled…
