Dear Mysterious Billboard:
I saw you today on Riverside near Fulton in Sherman Oaks, while waiting in the El Pollo Loco drive-thru for a manly skinless chicken breast meal.
I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. You looked so old and sad. I wonder when you last got plastered. That must have been a fun night. Now, you just sit there, rotting away. No longer useful to anyone.
Does the city even know of your existence? Are you legal? How do you feel about the whole billboard moratorium thing? Do you secretly hate those Statue of Liberty ads and miss the care-free days of the Coppertone girl? Would you like to come down and help us clean up the neighborhood?
I feel for you, Billboard. You are a slave to the machine. But, then again, so am I.