The kind of guy who was once
cool but moves to Los Angeles around age 30 under the auspices of a UCLA graduate program and rebels against his
parents, society, and traditional values for the very first time in his life. After his first ever encounter with a
woman, Mr. California immerses himself in retrograde sociopolitical ideologies and affects a taste for
lame lo-fi music. He consciously begins to speak with an unrealistically heavy California accent and is careful to sprinkle conversations with references to Noam Chomsky and Naomi Klein. Mr. California makes it a point to speak at a higher register than everyone else, which he attempts to mitigate with stylistic usage of the word “
fuck.” On the rare occasion that you receive an incoming call from Mr. California, your first inclination is to cast your cell phone into the East
River.
Guy #1:
That album is so fuckin’ superlative, so trans--fuckin--cendent, really. I can’t wait for Elliot Smith to come through town again. He’s
hella relevant, dude.
Guy #2:
He died almost eight years ago, Mr. California.