Maybe I connect emotionally too easily. I pity the discarded sweatshirt and broken coffee cup. Maybe I always wanted a house. A place where I understood the rules and cared gently about sports teams, where I felt nostalgic about cooking. Maybe I just moved here at the right time. Regardless, I love my city and it hurts me when you complain about it mercilessly. That doesn't mean you shouldn't complain, of course. I am a complaint advocate of the highest level; that's how things get bigger (or better) when you rebuild them after they're torn down. And of course the LA budget is in the toilet, it has become the toilet, we take decades to find serial killers and oh how you hate traffic, no one reads a book anymore, everyone has a agent – ​​you might use the word "soulless", or invoke Bret Easton Ellis, and man, you never even think about what Tupac would say to you. KDAY this afternoon felt like Tupac was nobody's business. Nothing other than Tupac would do. Tupac after Tupac after Tupac, and I didn't change it while I was sitting in traffic - God, you think, how horrible it is to be in a car with your thoughts, unable to get out of them get away! Don't you hate it when cars and stillness converge! Doesn't that attract your goat almost as much as murder! - I wonder why I should take so personally the fact that a day spent in Los Angeles without hearing someone question why God would make a place so inhospitable to humanity is a day spent at home without reading the internet or talking with anyone. Why should I care? I live here and I feel like this is my hometown. It's not my hometown, not technically, but it seemed so happy to have me that it somehow became mine. New York never loved me as much as Los Angeles... middle of paper ...... To the north were the mountains, to the west there was a highway underpass with a guy passed out on some trash, to the south was an American Apparel ad featuring a topless Asian toddler, and to the west was a damn rainbow whose width implied a pot of gold was freezing at Cypress Park. The fruit seller was in front of Citibank, after being stuck between the bank sign and a badly driven car a month ago, chatting with a child who was buying a coconut. Miles away, Molly Lambert, sometimes a staff writer at the New York Times, worked on a science corner. In Pasadena, a child stuck a photo of the Empire State Building on his wall. At home, six ripe lemons fell from the tree and were devoured by ants. In Westwood, an actor told his friend he would kill himself if he spent three more hours on the 10 Freeway. Through my radio, Tupac said, "Tupac cares, if no one else does." don't care.”