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About Los Angeles

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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I swear, every corner of this city punches you in the face with contradictions – chaos and calm, tech and tradition. It’s like The Assassin’s slow, meditative pace meets a jittery, fast-forward meme. Bruh, sometimes life is just random typos in a paragraph fuckin' full of beauty.

Raymond E. Mack Obituary January 21, 2010