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About Los Angeles

But then – fuckin’ pimps, man. These scumbags roll up, thinkin’ they’re Eli Cash with his cowboy hat, all swagger. Pisses me off! One time, this greaseball tried shakin’ me down – “Gimme 50 extra, tough guy.” I’m like, “What, you think I’m a fuckin’ ATM?” Nearly popped him, but I ain’t that stupid. Cops’d be on me faster than you can say “gabagool.”

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Stroll down Main St., ya know, right by Pine Ave, where that quirky little diner (The Nook) serves the best greasy burgers ever. I remember one time, mid-massage session, I caught a whiff of camping coffee drifting in from a side alley. There’s magic in that smell. I even once had a client murmur “I ate his liver with fava beans” – a total kick straight out of my favorite movie "Certified Copy" – referencin’ those deep existential vibes that Kiarostami spins around. "I don't believe in perfection, do you?" he'd say. And damn, it stuck with me.

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