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March 28, 2002
IT NEVER RAINS IN SANTA OCEANA. It's a sprawling dystopia for whining neurotics. And a playground for the cool, calm and imaginative. A huge, flat surface on which to roll the bones. A breeze whispers from the beach all day every day. A million mini-mall parking lots. A million places to sit on the hood and get high. Used book stores. Quiet pizza joints. Seedy taverns. Drawling, stammering Bukowski wannabes. Grime-encrusted jukeboxes with old jazz and soul tunes that never made it to NYC. Stop-action service jobs you could do in a coma. There's nowhere else I would ever live.