Hey, Old Man.
I see you, Old Man, at the end of the bar.
I think you're kinda cute
The way you gob a whiskey
And how you're trying hard to chew.
Hey, Old Man.
Are you busy later on?I wanna go off-roading with you.
I plan to king your checkers
And wear your blue bathrobe
I'll feed you tapioca
If you let me take you home.
They call me one sick puppy
When I tell 'em your my man
Hop up on my scooter
We'll make them understand.
Hey, Old Man.
© R. Adame/L. Lee 1998 Lyrics appear courtesy of 25 Whores LLC
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Los Angeles
What I once chalked up to NYC/SF bias is now firmly cemented in my opinion as incontrovertable truth: L.A. will strip you of the will to live. Immediately upon exiting baggage claim at LAX, one gets the distinct feeling that the ground will open up and suck the traveler straight into Hell. Or maybe that's just me. I trod lightly on the pavement so as not to activate some hidden latch into the underworld, dodging bottle blondes and aging hipsters whose cell phones appeared to be attached to their heads by an expoxy comprised of ambition and exhibitionism. I was a passenger for four days, and the car window was a viewfinder through which I felt I was watching the last minutes of my life unfold; changing lanes on La Cienega is something you don't want to do without first writing out a DNR and seeing a priest.
The friends whom I was visiting were NYC transplants, mostly. Talking to them gave me the sense that they'd undergone personality transplants as part of the contract with Los Angeles. One friend, who in New York found it hard to walk to the corner bodega, spoke at length of his training regimen for the L.A. marathon. I was party to no fewer than five heated discussions about the merits of various gyms, and whether Winsor Pilates was superior to Ballet Hip Hop Yoga classes. At every social encounter, introductory pleasantries were followed by a cursory discussion of everyone's choice in cellular/PDA technology.
The nightlife incongruously ends at 2 A.M.: The better part of the evening involves parking. I had forgotten that L.A. is a clothing-optional metropolis. I was insulted by a male stranger more horribly than I had ever been by any subway transient. That was my fault - I hadn't gotten my Botox injection yet.
Everything and everyone there looks newly-laminated.Maybe it's just that I prefer cities with a more obvious veneer of outward decay and industrialization: Chicago, New York, London. In Los Angeles, the dissipation is strictly moral, and instead of being etched on the buildings, it is imprinted on the glassy eyes of Los Angelenos.
On coming home, I still feel (two days later) as though my soul need a deep-cleaning, but the only lavage available is the passage of time, whereby the taint of L.A. dissipates and is carried on the wind back to its place of origin.
The friends whom I was visiting were NYC transplants, mostly. Talking to them gave me the sense that they'd undergone personality transplants as part of the contract with Los Angeles. One friend, who in New York found it hard to walk to the corner bodega, spoke at length of his training regimen for the L.A. marathon. I was party to no fewer than five heated discussions about the merits of various gyms, and whether Winsor Pilates was superior to Ballet Hip Hop Yoga classes. At every social encounter, introductory pleasantries were followed by a cursory discussion of everyone's choice in cellular/PDA technology.
The nightlife incongruously ends at 2 A.M.: The better part of the evening involves parking. I had forgotten that L.A. is a clothing-optional metropolis. I was insulted by a male stranger more horribly than I had ever been by any subway transient. That was my fault - I hadn't gotten my Botox injection yet.
Everything and everyone there looks newly-laminated.Maybe it's just that I prefer cities with a more obvious veneer of outward decay and industrialization: Chicago, New York, London. In Los Angeles, the dissipation is strictly moral, and instead of being etched on the buildings, it is imprinted on the glassy eyes of Los Angelenos.
On coming home, I still feel (two days later) as though my soul need a deep-cleaning, but the only lavage available is the passage of time, whereby the taint of L.A. dissipates and is carried on the wind back to its place of origin.
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