Yesterday morning I got on a plane behind two tall, aging, Botoxed-up former model types who were complaining about how awful short people are. When I landed, I was asked for directions by a random woman whose lips were so collagen-inflated they looked like giant cuts of raw liver stapled to her face. I’ve been to L.A. many times over the past decade, but this was the first one where the stereotypes were so aggressive about confronting me.
I figure it must be because I watched The Big Lebowski right before coming here. The natives can smell the freshness of my fear.