Welcome To Laguna


Welcome To Laguna.

or

Another Fucking Day in Paradise

 

Lacuna is a Latin word that refers to a kind of cavity, like a piece missing or an emptiness where something once was. Lacuna is where we get the word Lagoon. Hence, Laguna.

 

The old Laguna, the art colony sprinkled with beach cottages perfect for afternoon getaways where eager starlets fucked balding Warner Brothers executives is gone. The new Laguna, where tanning salons and laser hair removal outlets compete with yoga gear emporiums and plastic surgery chophouses for space on the grid locked Pacific Coast Highway is here.

 

And so are the people, who, every weekend, come down from L.A. craving to somehow fill whatever lacuna in their own lives has not been satiated during the weekdays with drugs, sex and conspicuous consumption.

 

Actually, there are two Lagunas.

 

The week day Laguna,

Where trophy wives with bodies as bulbous as the Maseratis they drive to Whole Foods to pick up their organic Bok Choy, while they balance genetically altered miniature Lahsa Apsos against the two flesh covered synthetic bags that bobble obscenely like Macy’s parade balloons where their breasts should be.

 

Where rows of identical townhouses stand like gravestones along the stoic ridges of Leisure World, a kind of purgatory city, where gigantic Buicks and Lincolns scrape against each other in cafeteria parking lots driven by ancient, desiccated zombies with glaucoma clotted eyeballs shrouded in sunglasses with enough UV protection to view an A-bomb test.

 

Where for every freckle faced kid making a sand castle on Main Beach there’s a homeless guy in a windbreaker scouring the dumpster behind some overpriced bistro looking for a piece of barely nibbled croudite.

 

Where for every gristly old-timer barking out tired tirades from the end of the bar at the Blue Hawaiian there’s an eyebrow plucked tummy tucked soccer mom tapping her french tips on the dashboard of her Escalade while  screaming fashion advice into a cell phone reciever dangling from her perfect ear.

 

This is where the ghost of plien aire painter Edgar Payne lurks in the purple shadows of a toll road underpass and you can still hear, on warm summer nights, with the top down and the radio off, a chorus of bullfrogs throbbing in the darkness off El Toro Road.

 

Weekdays in Laguna I like to drive recklessly down Laguna Canyon Road, my tires flicking gravel at the easels of the lousy painters that litter the roadside in their four hundred-dollar goddess-wear smocks. Painters whose talent, if collected in the asshole of a gnat would rattle around like lima beans in an oil tanker.

 

I like to watch 50 year old health nuts cultivate melanoma patches the size of  sand dollars while they suck their stomachs in for the passing waitresses, fresh out of high school, scurrying to work in their starched white shirts and food stained black aprons.

 

And that’s just the weekdays.

 

On the weekends a new Laguna pops up like a sun blister on the corner of Forest and the P.C.H.

 

Welcome to Laguna.

 

Where gangs of accountants in over-embroidered Harley Davidson vests park in front of the Marine Room on freshly armor-alled crotch sleds whose engines idle only as loud as a migraine on the deck of an aircraft carrier.

 

Welcome to Laguna.

 

Where bullet headed hyper-Asians in their modified Toyotas with sport wheels as shiny and barbed as their pit bull’s choke chains jostle in traffic with lowered Subaru hatchbacks painted in hues of yellow and orange as subtle as terrorism alerts.

 

Welcome to Laguna.

 

Where fragrant euro trash steroid junkies wearing formfitting v-neck sweaters open the doors of their rented Ferraris for brainless blonde stewardesses bulging with botox in all the more or less right places.

 

Welcome to Laguna.

 

Where The Greeter is just a road-killed ghost and where every weekend people just like you and me, desperately trying to fill the yawning lacunas in their lives arrive to get drunk and get tan and get lost and fill more cavities than a credit dentist at a sweet tooth convention.

 

This is the new Laguna.

You’re welcome to it.

 

 

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