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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