Land of Dyed Chops and Sunglasses
I have to say it is interesting to find yourself living in a city where seeing the occasional Elvis impersonator is not at all an odd thing.
This morning, on the way to work, I stopped at the convenience store and saw an Elvis impersonator wearing coveralls, getting out of an exterminator's van.
When I first moved here, I went to a karaoke bar with a couple of old friends. We were singing along -- admittedly schmaltzily -- to some song of the King's when he himself turned around -- he had been sitting there all along -- pulled out a knife and told us he'd slit our throats if we made fun of the King of Rock and Roll again.
That was the same night Beth went into the restroom and found a lady, dressed entirely in black, crying. Beth asked her what was wrong and she said that her boyfriend had beat her up -- she lifted her Wayfarers to show off the bruised eyes -- and taken every penny she had before skipping town. Beth consoled her a second before the lady rushed out of the restroom. Two minutes later, the same woman was on-stage, glasses down, skirt riding up, singing the most perfect and lively version of Tina Turner's "Simply the Best" I have ever heard. As soon as she was done, she smiled, waved, and turned heel and left the bar just like that.
***
I talked to Beth recently about how I want a return to a certain brand of realism. I told her that I think many of our artists are suffering from a defecit of deep observation. In fiction, in film, almost all cities are brand-name cliches; almost all countryside is cliched pastoral. You can't really distinguish one place from another. Our descriptions seem to be expressions of ideological product nostalgia.
Of course, we have New York City, Los Angeles, New Orleans, San Francisco. But those cities have such a tradition of portraiture that they seem just as tied -- economically even -- to reproducing those same old images of themselves.
All these places are real, have their own current-moment funk. Why can't we read something -- see something -- that rips the covers off and lets the real sights, sounds, and smells of their right-nows fly?
This morning, on the way to work, I stopped at the convenience store and saw an Elvis impersonator wearing coveralls, getting out of an exterminator's van.
When I first moved here, I went to a karaoke bar with a couple of old friends. We were singing along -- admittedly schmaltzily -- to some song of the King's when he himself turned around -- he had been sitting there all along -- pulled out a knife and told us he'd slit our throats if we made fun of the King of Rock and Roll again.
That was the same night Beth went into the restroom and found a lady, dressed entirely in black, crying. Beth asked her what was wrong and she said that her boyfriend had beat her up -- she lifted her Wayfarers to show off the bruised eyes -- and taken every penny she had before skipping town. Beth consoled her a second before the lady rushed out of the restroom. Two minutes later, the same woman was on-stage, glasses down, skirt riding up, singing the most perfect and lively version of Tina Turner's "Simply the Best" I have ever heard. As soon as she was done, she smiled, waved, and turned heel and left the bar just like that.
***
I talked to Beth recently about how I want a return to a certain brand of realism. I told her that I think many of our artists are suffering from a defecit of deep observation. In fiction, in film, almost all cities are brand-name cliches; almost all countryside is cliched pastoral. You can't really distinguish one place from another. Our descriptions seem to be expressions of ideological product nostalgia.
Of course, we have New York City, Los Angeles, New Orleans, San Francisco. But those cities have such a tradition of portraiture that they seem just as tied -- economically even -- to reproducing those same old images of themselves.
All these places are real, have their own current-moment funk. Why can't we read something -- see something -- that rips the covers off and lets the real sights, sounds, and smells of their right-nows fly?