I Love L.A. (we love it)

Look at that mountain
Look at those trees
Look at that bum over there, man
He's down on his knees
Look at these women
There ain't nothin' like 'em nowhere

Ah, Randy Newman...my white whale. For years I've hunted him down. I've traveled the seas a deranged madman, sacrificing the resources and lives of others in pursuit. But now I've got you. Your back is pinned to the wall and I'm closing in. You see, Randy Newman, I too, "love L.A.", and now I'm here, and your days are numbered.

Try as I might to like Randy Newman, I just can't. There's something about his fat fucking face that I find impossible to love. And so it pains me a great deal, then, to say that I hands-down love the song "I Love L.A.", which features the following, absolutely true, observation: "Everybody's very happy, 'cause the sun is shining all the time." Yep. The sun never stops shining.

It never. fucking. stops.

How bright is it outside? It's almost unbearable. I'd never been a big sunglasses-wearer before, but the fucking intense sunniness of this place makes sunglasses mandatory apparel, lest your eyes turn into salt like so much Lot's wife.

And the sun never stops shining...unless it happens to rain, and then all unholy goddamn hell breaks loose, because NO ONE in this city has any grasp--however tenuous---of the proper way to drive in the rain. That, coupled with the fact that the accumulated oil and filth on the freeways is suddenly mixed with water makes the usually deadly Los Angeles freeways into a fucking quagmire of certain, unavoidable peril.

And then there's the mudslide threat, but let's not get into the myriad ways the natural world here in Los Angeles can kill you. It's too overwhelming as it is to think of all the many and varied ways your fellow man can end your fucking life at any time and on any given day.

Just head down to Compton if you don't believe me. Make sure to wear white. Oh, but not if you're white. Then it won't matter what you wear; you'll be shot regardless.

In fact, if it weren't for my rabid, crazed quest to find Moby Newman (potentially horrifying collaboration album), I might never have come here. But now, in this giant, celphalopodan hellscape, the quest begins anew.

Is it possible to find one fat idiot in this proverbial haystack?

The quest is afoot once more.