Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

The Dude is a Hipster; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down at Coachella He leadeth me beside the fixies, He restoreth my white-boy soul He loadeth me in the tats of righteousness for His name' sake, and shit Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of norm, I will fear no evil: For thou DJs are with me; Thy 'pod and 5-bars, they comfort me. Thou preparest kombucha before me in the presence of whatever; Thou anointest my head with kale; My sideburns runneth over. Surely PBR and 420 shall follow me all the daze of my life, and I'll hang out in the House of the Hip, whenever.

"Which Way LA?" of KCRW in Santa Monica took time out from their busy audio-wallpaper environs to pose a Burning Question: Which is more LA? Eastside or Westside?  Since this is either deadly serious, or a frolicsome ratings stunt, people are gonna get hurt. Think of it as two fat, naked, bald men, slippery with salad oil, fighting over comb.  Already somebody's feeling left out. The Valley, for instance. Better luck next time.  So here are the original questions, with my M-80 answers attached. 1] Which is better, the Westside or the Eastside? Why? Eastside. I sojourned in the People's Republic of Santa Monica, summer of 86. Smug levels were already building. I lived for 28 yrs in the Melrose/Fairfax. Seven yrs ago I moved to the western slope of the Silver Lake Alps.   2] What is the boundary that separates the Westside from the Eastside?   Do you cross those boundaries? What are you willing to drive across town for? 405 ...

Sunset Junction Street Fair, a Gathering of the Hipsters. A full on heat-fest and scrum within a 10' tall chain-link fence and wildly overpriced water and food for the newly-hungry once the sun went down. There were an astonishing number of really cute/hot women and yes, my little woodchucks, MILFs galore. In the midst of the swarm were also girls who looked like they stepped straight outta 1979. The hair, the curves, the clothes, the look in the eye, and none of them were older than 23. There's a cosmic mystery to ponder. Now we are waiting for Morris Day and the Time. Me and 10,000 of my new best friends. Directly in front of us is a swan-necked, alabaster brunette beauty. She has a completely non-generic profile, ringlets, a sensuous mouth. My brain is squirming like the proverbial toad. And she is with a troll who knows that He Is Going To Get Very Lucky, Soon. I begin to notice that her skin is disfigured with utterly generic tattoos. A skull and crossbones. "Califor...