This ‘burg is a curious beast. I lived here nary three years. And when I left? Sick, and sick to death, I was of it. Still, here I find myself, on layover between San Francisco and Atlanta - a new world and an old, or so I would imagine the lack of parity. Reliving all the slights and inadequacies I recall from that lost trilogy of annualities can only make one wax philosophical. Or, at least, sophistical.

Today, a particular conjunction struck me as extraordinarily metaphoric of the City of Los Angeles and the bizarre subset of humanity that chooses to call it home. A conjunction involving a rump of pork, frosted and roasted in a most commercial fashion.

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The reason I’m here in LA is to clean up the last loose ends I’ve got before embarking on the more exciting legs of the World Tour. Little things like closing out bank accounts, settling taxes, getting rid of my car, and so on. This means I’ve spent a lot of time tangling with so-called ‘customer service’ systems, more often impotently than not.

Most were the common story, punching information in via keypad in a vain effort to categorize my request, prior to being dumped on Tier 1 and thereafter repeating earlier entries verbally to the peon who was more than likely being just short of actively whipped by some unseen overseer.

Two particularly hostile systems, however, stand out from this Rorschach blot of communication.

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