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About Los Angeles

We’re chattin’, and I’m thinkin’ *Boyhood* again—“It’s always right now,” y’know? This moment, her laugh, the cig smoke curlin’—it’s real, raw, fuckin’ alive. But then—bam!—some wanker in a beat-up Jag rolls up, yellin’ at her. Ex-pimp or some shit. I’m pissed, mate—nobody fucks with my night. I step in, all cool, “Oi, mate, piss off or I’ll rearrange ya.” He bolts, tires screechin’. She’s laughin’, says, “You’re mad, you are!” Happy as a pig in shit, me—saved the day, Bond-style.

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Btw, Cos-Cob (us) is an odd mix. Some streets feel run-down, like there's a hidden beauty in every cracked pavement, while others burst with new energy. People here? They ain’t pretentious, they’re just themselves. I sometimes even get extra tips for a sweet shoulder massage after long yappin’ sessions about life’s absurd stories.

Cos Cob Library hasn't been renovated in decades. Its tattered carpet, battered parking lot need work.