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Poetry is Dead

  That rangey boy  with wild hair and eyes, scampering across golden fields, ducking in and out of hollows, scooping up polliwogs  in the ditches that lined the gravel lanes. An uncorrupted spirit,  exuberant in the dream world of freedom and ideas.  That boy was a poet.
Recent posts

Holding Hands with Los Angeles

  Drive west on Sunset to the see Turn that jungle music down Just before we're out of town. ~Babylon Sisters, Steely Dan Just northwest of Chinatown, immediately adjacent to where the Harbor and Hollywood freeways become a Gordian knot, Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly becomes Sunset Boulevard, one of LA’s most famed arteries. Traveling northward from this transition point, Sunset passes through the neighborhoods of Angeleno Heights, Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Thai Town before crossing the Hollywood Freeway and piercing the heart of Tinsel Town. If you keep driving west, this windy strip of asphalt will take you through gay West Hollywood, the posh Holmby Hills, the UCLA campus in leafy Westwood, and finally to the Pacific Palisades where the blue Pacific ocean crashes against the continent behind Gladstones restaurant.   At the corner of Sunset and Silver Lake Boulevard, a bright lavender building houses Café Tropical, a Cuban café and bakery. I pull onto a side street, stop in for a


  Hullabaloo, and howdy doo! Musty prawns, and Timbucktu! Yeltsy-by, and hibbety-hoo! Kick 'em in the dishpan! Hoo, hoo, hoo!! ~Eustace Bagge, Courage the Cowardly Dog Almost cut my hair It happened just the other day It's gettin' kinda long I coulda said it was in my way But I didn't and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly ~Almost Cut My Hair, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young A few years back, while I was busy yelling at a cloud one day, a compatriot of mine started referring to me as a grumpy old man. I was taken back a bit by that accusation. Sure, I’m old (in a comparative sort of way), but grumpy? Perhaps I was grumbling at the time, but I certainly didn’t feel grumpy. I wasn’t scowling. And I wasn’t rude or belligerent or mad or unhappy. So what made my friend perceive me as grumpy? Just because I said out loud what I was thinking? Because I dared to call a dark cloud a dark cloud? In the past, I would have never been accused of such a crime. From m

Golden Hell (Guest Post)

  Golden Hell By: Noah Christian Rapture Still and silent Breath like the moon Sour lemon Erect she stands Equally I lay Eyes paralyzed Mouth agape. Soaked up to my waist Wading in wet Sweat painting a river Drowning my face. Sun pillar tongue Flesh blazing like stars Summer plums Rotting before dawn. Fever induced Appetite asleep She is the condor I am the meat. About the author - Noah Christian is a multidisciplinary artist from Los Angeles by way of Nashville by way of Los Angeles. His passions lie in performative music, photography, and poetry. You can connect with him on Instagram @_nc142 and @noahnathaniel_

A Moderate Racist

  In order to protect the public and ensure that I am not a drunk, unethical, bigoted malpractice case just waiting to happen, the State Bar of California requires me to complete 25 hours of mandatory continuing legal education (MCLE) every three years. Of that 25 total hours, at least 4 hours must be in ethics, 2 hours must cover the elimination of bias, and 1 hour must address mental health and substance abuse (or as the Bar euphemistically calls it, “competence issues”). At least half of all coursework must be “participatory.” You can’t just pretend to listen to a program as you’re driving down the road or simply read an article on some topic obliquely related to the law. Instead, you have to physically attend a conference or seminar or participate in a live webinar.  The opportunity to get MCLE credits abound. A helpful, yet avaricious industry has sprung up to provide these courses to attorneys in need. My inbox fills up with offers of assistance from these vultures annually as th

The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread (or Old Man Yells at Idioms)

  The other day I heard someone use the expression “put your John Hancock here.” I’ve obviously heard that phrase used many time in my life just like everyone else. It’s a commonly-used idiom that means “please put your signature on this document.” The phrase is an allusion to John Hancock, the first signator to the Declaration of Independence, who deliberately made his signature on that document excessively prominent so that King George would be able to read his name. It was a “fuck you” to the British monarch on top of a “fuck you” to the British monarch. And it had resonance. So much so that almost 250 years later, we’re still referencing it in our daily speech.  As significant as Hancock’s act is from a historical perspective, the phrase it spawned is antiquated. It’s one of those hokey grandmaisms like “get off your high horse” or “living high on the hog” that has been repeated so often that it is now engrained in our vernacular. Use any of those phrases with the current generatio

Skipping Stones

Every summer when I was young, my family would vacation in southern Alberta. The neighborhood kids I called my friends all thought it was quite exotic, but the reality was more ordinary. My parents were both from Raymond, a small farming town on the prairie that, aside from its dirt roads and residents who had the habit of ending every sentence with the interjection “eh?,” wasn’t much different than any small town in America. In fact, because of western Canadians’ contempt for the French-speaking eastern provinces that forced them to suffer the indignity of bilingual milk cartons, they viewed themselves as more American than Canadian. So going to Canada for vacation was about as alien and romantic as going to Tehachapi. For my parents, it was an obligation. We typically tried to schedule our visit around the first of July, the Canadian equivalent of Independence Day. That was when aunts, uncles, and cousins that I knew of but didn’t really know all made the pilgrimage to dusty Raymond