Go Away, Coffee…

All you Betabrand-wearing white folks from the other side of the river, begone. Begone, gentrifiers, and take your french press and chocolate lab  with you.  Shimmy off in your skinny jeans  and spend your money  elsewhere.     Shoo, flies. Shoo!  The arabica shall not cross Cesar Chavez Blvd.

Begone artists!  Begone patrons apologists! We shall not be art washed! Safe spaces do not gentrify.

Meanwhile, the city is building, at fantastic expense, a modernist bridge literally marrying Boyle Heights to the Arts District, in which no artists reside. 

Artist-filled Boyle Heights watches the money bridge approach each day, like manifest destiny…

..and in the advance, seeding the ground before it, the bungalow teardown trend going vertical…Venice East, in motion, and the answer that pops into the heads of the Defenders of Boyle Heights is…no coffee, dammit!    No hanging your work in galleries. Yeah. That’ll stop it.

Coup d’Etat, By Churro

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The churro of death! At least I think it’s a churro. Perhaps it’s an elote with spinning metal kernels, like a tunnel boring machine.

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Once Trump is dispatched, urchins will breach the yet-to-be-built wall bearing Mexican flags.  This might be a case of being too truthful for one’s own good.

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Like depicting a mournful pig contemplating mortality at the entrance of your carniceria.

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Or portraying sex symbols as eight-nippled dispensers of milk.

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Udder-ly unironic.