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Any chance I get, I quote smart writer of cities Geoff Manaugh who once wrote, "No matter what you do in L.A., your behavior is appropriate for the city. Los Angeles has no assumed correct mode of use." Angelyne, a quasi-mythical figure of obscure origin, feels like the embodiment of that. In a city where we've largely traded in ancient Abrahamic traditions for kooky New Age cults, CrossFit or at the very least a pathological fear of Mercury in retrograde, the presence of her pink Corvette always feels like a good omen. Or at least I feel comforted and absolved of my worldly anxieties when she passes me on the 101 Freeway (yes, it's always the 101, and she's always passing me).
So today should be considered a banner day for Angelenos: Angelyne has a new car—it's still a pink Corvette—she's wearing a body-conscious dress with peace signs that feels like something from Wet Seal circa 1996, and she's ready to strike a pose. She's sticking her hips out, covering her face with a fan and then attempting to spread-eagle in the driver's seat like it's the most natural thing in the world. And in Los Angeles, it kind of is.
