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Why My Father Hated LA: A Love Story

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Traffic in Upstate New York. Also, my parents' favorite restaurant. ALSO, Amish people think getting their picture taken is a sin. Whoops.

When you live in Los Angeles for too long, your mind starts getting clogged with the smoggy air and fake conversations that surround you, and you lose the ability to make reasonable assertions about the rest of America. I've been here for a year and I'm already forgetting the small stuff. Is Wichita a city or something I ate downtown on a dare? Probably both. Or neither. See, I don't know anymore!

And if you're from California to begin with, may God help you. I bet if you had to draw a map of the United States it would just be the great Golden State with a pair of sunglasses on it, a little bubble for New York City with a skull & crossbones and question mark next to it, and the rest is vaguely defined with large white crosses and guns that shoot cowboy hats at you.

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The truth is, most of America is comprised of hard-working folk who have to do manual labor to survive. I didn't move to LA because I wanted to give handjobs for promotions at Fox Studios, I came because I was lazy. I know what a cord of wood or an unplowed acre looks like: work. And I'll be damned if I'm going to take any job that means I can't wear my Chuck Taylors. However, my father doesn't believe in Chuck Taylors. He believes in Red Wing boots and Wranglers and facial hair in an unironic way. I don't know if he believes in God, but I bet if he did he would think God was lazy too. He also believes that Los Angeles is the worst place in America to live.