SWARTHOS

We launched into the hot, smog-choked morning of Los Angeles like a couple of escaped circus clowns in a Cyberpunk Camaro, the air conditioning blasting at full power, a blessed oasis in a sea of heat and madness. It was 9 AM and the pavement was about to buckle under the relentless sun—another day in this beautiful freak show we call home. Beside me, my loyal companion Urt, a four-year-old wiener dog stacked like a torpedo in the passenger seat, was licking his chops and watching the smog dance like a lunatic’s dream just outside the window.

We barreled up the 605, a beast unleashed, the skyline looming like a deranged deity watching over its chaotic children. Firestone Boulevard was calling, a siren song of mothballs, motor oil, and the promise of distraction. It was a good morning to blend with the masses, to abscond with the mundane. And so we veered into the Stonewood Mall, our winter retreat from the summer roast, seeking a quick walk around the perimeter.

Much to our chagrin and delight, we stumbled into the 4th Annual Los Amigos Car Show, where the asphalt was vibrating with horsepower and the scent of gasoline hung heavy in the air like a fine wine. And there, beneath the sweltering gaze of the sun, was none other than Jay Leno—a gargantuan carving of a man with a voice that could soothe a rabid fox. We skirted the perimeter of the event like mismatched spies, ogling the lowriders that seemed to breathe to the pulsing rhythm of the local culture, the hot rods glimmering like jewels beneath a haze of delusion.

Everywhere we walked, machines sprawled like beasts in love—sleek classics from every era, their painted surfaces gleaming under the scorching eye. I snapped a few clandestine photos, trying to capture the essence of this wild affair while Urt engaged in his usual diplomatic relations with the lovely women who inexplicably found themselves smitten by his dashing little stature. What is it about wiener dogs anyway? The power they wield over the fairer sex remains one of life’s great mysteries.

Exhilarated from our impromptu adventure, we began our trek back home, hearts light, Urt’s short legs trotting proudly alongside me. A smile stretched across my face—broad and foolish, emblematic of a morning well spent amidst the glimmers of La La Land’s vibrancy. We basked in our small triumph, a couple of misfits navigating the chaos, lost in the oily embrace of youth. Another day in paradise, off-kilter and on fire, like a bad trip in the land of the sun.