California apparently knows how to party. Which would probably explain why much of the countryside was a wasteland with just the odd beer can and paper-cup knocking about. Considering the number of people who lived their, a party that size would require a hell of a punch. And considering the amount of band that resided their, I would be judicious in dolling out my own punches.
Part of me was tempted to hunt down the Brian Jonestown Massacre and show them what a true massacre was. But our number one priority was get into LA, get some flights, and then go boozing. Crispian had come down after his truck fear so I let him take over the driving, but I had by then run out of gin.
LA itself was an horrific sight. The smog was terrible. I mean, its a given that Smog are terrible, whinging emo fuckers, but there was a horrible pallor over the whole city. At closer inspection it became clear that this was just the smoke of evil being pumped out of the top of the Capitol Records building.
We went straight into and came straight out of Compton on the way to the airport. I sent Crispian inside with some traveler’s cheques we had stolen from some traveler’s and set about finding a bar. It was only after three much need Bombay Sapphires and Tonic that a realised what I was doing, and the horror set in. I was Drinking In LA…
Drinking In LA – BRAN VAN 3000
Picture a Van made of Bran. Or indeed a van full of bran. Either way, its a lot of Bran. “A lot of” is emphasized by the number 3000, which is in the scheme of food, on the whole a pretty big number. Imagine eating 3000 Bran flakes. Or 3000 stubby twiglets of All Bran.
All that Bran. In a van. What would it make a human do?
That’s right, shit a lot. Which is exactly what Drinking In LA sounds like. The biggest load of shit you’ll ever hear.
What the hell am I doing Drinking In LA
I don’t know Mr Shit Wagon, but it may well be preparation for drinking on the streets of LA for the rest of your “I had a hit once” loser homeless life.