| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| rockmusic84 |
Posted - 03/28/2004 : 18:53:30
I did a search on the net, and came across a page where this guy tells stories about L.A., and uses "Los Angeles" as a lyrical backdrop, I think...
Well, here's the link: http://www.biggeworld.com/archive/losangeles.html
It's different, if not interesting.
Have a good one!
rockmusic84.
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| 7 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| rockmusic84 |
Posted - 03/30/2004 : 19:29:50
Nicely done, VoVat! :)
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| VoVat |
Posted - 03/30/2004 : 12:09:54
quote:
As I self-consciously stroll down Rodeo Drive, I calculate my net worth. Watch: $150 dollars. Shoes: $60. Assorted clothing: $100. Camera: $200.
Quoting Frank Black songs: PRICELESS.
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| rockmusic84 |
Posted - 03/29/2004 : 19:29:19
Well, since I've made such a big stink about this, I found a cached version of the page (which is what I posted above, but it STILL wouldn't work!!), so I just copied the text, and pasted it here. (If the original author reads this, forgive me! I'm not trying to rip you off, just wanted to share your work.)
Like I said, it's different, if not interesting. There are some derrogatory/suggestive things written in this story, but keep in mind, I didn't write this piece, so don't take offense (not towards me, anyway!):). It's basically about this guy's experience after spending two weeks in L.A.. The story takes some crazy turns.
I found it by doing a search for "South Patagonia". I never heard of the place until I heard Frank sing about it, and I was curious. One of the first results I got was this. (In case anyone was wondering, Patagonia is in South America, Argentina to be exact.)
So here is the story, entitled "Two Weeks":
Two Weeks
Jan 9-15, 1998
Los Angeles
* * *
I vow to experience gridlock, earthquakes, smog and celebrities. I'm also here to see an old flame.
* * *
I met a man. He was a good man. Sailing and shoring. Dancing the beta can-can. Making me foreign. Oh yeah.
* * *
Sunday evening, 11:10pm at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Vine. I'm waiting for the bus. A police copter has a searchlight pointed at a building across the street. Cops cars start swarming the area.
Twenty minutes waiting for a bus feels like an hour out here.
I'm not sure exactly when I make the epiphany, but partway during the bus ride home I take a good look at the other passengers on the bus. It's then that I realize I'm the only non-vagrant, white person on the bus. Before the end of my vacation, I'll see the same homeless person asleep on the Number Four again.
* * *
I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles. No, not the one in South California. They got one in South Patagonia.
* * *
My mouth is continually dry. Whether from having it agape all the time, or from constantly eating exhaust is never made clear to me.
* * *
I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles. They got a Bunch down in Moleville. They got a bunch more still.
* * *
The Viper Room is a dingy little hole. Black walls create a haute culture of claustrophobia. I try looking petulant and bored, thinking I'll be mistaken for someone famous. Nobody buys it.
* * *
I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles. They got one in twenty-five two five. Works just like a beehive.
* * *
I stumble down Hollywood Boulevard one evening to discover the grand opening of Titanic well underway without me. Japanese girls squeal and shout while I stare impassively at Stallone and Swartzenagger shuffling their heels across the red carpet. I fail to understand weasel boy DeCaprio's charm, despite jealousy oiling my opinion.
* * *
I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles. Counting helicopters on Saturday night. The symphony of the fair light.
* * *
As I self-consciously stroll down Rodeo Drive, I calculate my net worth. Watch: $150 dollars. Shoes: $60. Assorted clothing: $100. Camera: $200. Small potatoes here. I could spend more on lunch if I so chose.
I'm struck by the fact that there really is a store called Van Clef and Arpells. All these years of Wheel of Fortune prizes have primed me for this moment.
* * *
I hear them saying Los Angeles. In all the black and white movies. And if you think they star- spangled us. How come we say Los Angeleez?
* * *
Seattle, 1996. She wore a lime green dress and cat-eye frames. Tall and chic, she followed me out the door of the Crocodile Club and convinced me not to leave. We only knew each other a few hours, but we both wanted something to happen. We never managed to figure out what that something was in the half-day we had together. One year, four months later, my belief in love at first sight is relegated to the scrap heap as we finally meet again. I walk through the baggage claim, make eye contact and being motioning to hug her. She looks at me excitedly and says, "Hey, my boyfriend just got off another flight."
My arms drop uselessly to my sides. Flame extinguished.
* * *
I'll wait in Los Angeles. I'll wait in the pouring sun. No way. For not anyone. No way.
* * *
I'm sitting in a New York style pizzeria when the lady on the television tells me that Chris Farley is dead. My order of spaghetti is ready two minutes later.
* * *
I met a man. He was a good man. Sailing and shoring. He got a betatron, man.
* * *
I'm playing pinball at a Long Beach gay bar two blocks away from her house. I'm getting my ass kicked by her and her boyfriend. Her perfume, or her soap, smells like vanilla extract. In some weird way, it compliments her house full of Barbies and angels.
She's built her world upon the legislated nostalgia and polyurethane of the 1950s and 60s. She lives in a museum of thrift store culture, right down to the musty odour. A kitchen full of chrome appliances that promised a better tomorrow that consumerism never quite delivered.
* * *
Talking that foreign.
* * *
She drags me shopping through aggregates of clothing stores on Melrose. I'm greeted by gaping mouths disguised as cash registers.
* * *
Oh yeah.
* * *
Long Beach is eight parts sand, two parts Styrofoam. As the wind blows sand into my already dry mouth, I walk alone for three hours.
* * *
I'll wait in Los Angeles.
* * *
You find yourself having Jack-in-the-Box dreams when your sofa bed is situated under an office window that's kissing cousins with the drive-through speaker five car lengths away. Impatient drivers honk at all hours. I hear a sweet voice whispering in my ear one night as I drift off. It turns out to be the cashier confirming an order.
* * *
I'll wait in the pouring sun.
* * *
"We just got a call from Gonzi, one of our tipsters, that the 134 Westbound is blocked solid."
The radio station we're listening to has traffic reports every six minutes. I mention my surprise but she quickly responds, "You need it here." I watch her surf the dial, bouncing between the station that gives traffic every ten minutes and the six minute miracle.
We're cruising the diamond lane. We pass a hundred gridlocked single occupant vehicles in the span of two minutes.
* * *
No way.
* * *
Hollywood Tropicana presents Female Mud Wrestling. Nightly 8pm-2pm. 18 & over. Free Admission Before 10:00pm.
* * *
For not anyone.
* * *
I defribulate any latent homophobia I might have by waiting for the bus in the gay section of Santa Monica Boulevard yet again. The first time was by accident, the second time was by choice. I'm not disappointed. Despite clutching a full grocery bag, and refusing to make eye contact with anyone cruising the strip, a man in his mid-twenties whispers, "I suck you off, you suck me off" through clenched teeth as he walks by. I chose not to take him up on the offer.
Finally, my 75 cent saviour arrives. A sign above the bus driver warns me that "Unnecessary conversation with operator is prohibited by law."
* * *
No way.
* * *
Sunday, 2pm. My first LA party. A washed out blond with caked on makeup and brown leather pants seems friendly enough...
* * *
Lost
* * *
Movie extras. Needed for feature films, TV, commercials and music videos. All types needed. No experience required. Pays $40-1500 per day! Must be 18 years of age or older. CALL NOW FOR AN APPOINTMENT. (310) 659-1707. Unlimited Hollywood Casting.
* * *
Angeles
* * *
John Tesh has a star on Hollywood Boulevard.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Italicised lyrics from the song "Los Angeles" by Frank Black, 1993. Used without permission
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| rockmusic84 |
Posted - 03/29/2004 : 19:13:54
Try this one:
http://216.239.51.104/search?q=cache:OTDcOrby-AgJ:www.biggeworld.com/archive/losangeles.html+they+got+one+in+south+patagonia&hl=en&ie=UTF-8
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| rockmusic84 |
Posted - 03/29/2004 : 19:11:19
Sorry guys, I'll try and find it again.
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| NimrodsSon |
Posted - 03/29/2004 : 12:39:38
same here
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| PsychicTwin |
Posted - 03/28/2004 : 19:01:27
Page won't load. |
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