(no subject)
I had the most Lynch or Coen brothers experience last night. Is that LA, to describe an experience in response to a director? I do know that it is very LA to use LA as an adjective.
I had to retrieve some banners for the office from someone in the Silverlake/Hollywood Hills last night. I live in the Echo park hills, filled with near-broke artists, graphic designers, and commies. The Silverlake and Hollywood Hills are filled with rich weirdos. So the person I was supposed to meet gave me the most detailed directions (including "65 steps to my front door"). Which I ignored and did not count. I parked at the bottom of looming stairs. Did I mention it was 10 at night and raining? The stairs wound around a jungle. Plants overflowed into the path as it winded upwards. beside the stairs, going straight up the hill was a railway. And when I reached the top, there was a mining cart at the top. There was a dungeon-like door with an arrow painted on it that pointed to the right, which I went toward. In front of a wall of glass was a couple making out. ? thinks I. I stood dumbfounded in front, in the rain, all in black. The man spotted me and opened the door, 'May I help you?!" he said as menacingly as possible, menacing as someone in sweatshirt and pants in Silverlake can sound. "Does Deborah live here?" The girl slung herself around the guy, swung around him, leaned out the door and smiled, "oh, you mean De-BOR-ah" she said in that stereotypical snotty artsy voice. "She lives upstairs, dahling." I added that dahling part to emphasize the accent. she would have said that, oh she would. So I climbed up stairs that I swore I did not see before, and up to a faux Morrocan palace. Candles and sofas littered the outdoor area. Lanterns hung from the pergola.
I walked up to another glass wall, with a door that had a comically large knob on it, think the size of your head. A fat russel terrier lunged at me behind the glass, barking and screeching. A woman lounged on a chez that was in the middle of a huge room. Opera blared from the speakers. She lifted herself up and came to the door. I was hesitant to even step inside, afraid I met have to listen to an hours worth of talk from her and her operatic voice. She was on old Jewish lady with too much money and no sense of design, or I should say sticking to one type of design. Her house was a hodgepodge of mirrored and jeweled furniture and vases, And chandeliers. I stood in the rain so as not to be invited in, I feared what the rest of the house looked like. To see if the dog had its own rhinestone laden and silk bed.
I decided to run back down the stairs as soon as the roll of posters was in my hand. I took the hills back. I screamed as I careened down Baxter (the steepest street in LA). I did it twice. I love those noir nights in LA. When the rain reflects the moon in every drop, and just enough people are out to make you not feel like the only person alive. To make you question if you want these people straggling in the streets on a Wednesday rainy night as your kindred spirits.
I had to retrieve some banners for the office from someone in the Silverlake/Hollywood Hills last night. I live in the Echo park hills, filled with near-broke artists, graphic designers, and commies. The Silverlake and Hollywood Hills are filled with rich weirdos. So the person I was supposed to meet gave me the most detailed directions (including "65 steps to my front door"). Which I ignored and did not count. I parked at the bottom of looming stairs. Did I mention it was 10 at night and raining? The stairs wound around a jungle. Plants overflowed into the path as it winded upwards. beside the stairs, going straight up the hill was a railway. And when I reached the top, there was a mining cart at the top. There was a dungeon-like door with an arrow painted on it that pointed to the right, which I went toward. In front of a wall of glass was a couple making out. ? thinks I. I stood dumbfounded in front, in the rain, all in black. The man spotted me and opened the door, 'May I help you?!" he said as menacingly as possible, menacing as someone in sweatshirt and pants in Silverlake can sound. "Does Deborah live here?" The girl slung herself around the guy, swung around him, leaned out the door and smiled, "oh, you mean De-BOR-ah" she said in that stereotypical snotty artsy voice. "She lives upstairs, dahling." I added that dahling part to emphasize the accent. she would have said that, oh she would. So I climbed up stairs that I swore I did not see before, and up to a faux Morrocan palace. Candles and sofas littered the outdoor area. Lanterns hung from the pergola.
I walked up to another glass wall, with a door that had a comically large knob on it, think the size of your head. A fat russel terrier lunged at me behind the glass, barking and screeching. A woman lounged on a chez that was in the middle of a huge room. Opera blared from the speakers. She lifted herself up and came to the door. I was hesitant to even step inside, afraid I met have to listen to an hours worth of talk from her and her operatic voice. She was on old Jewish lady with too much money and no sense of design, or I should say sticking to one type of design. Her house was a hodgepodge of mirrored and jeweled furniture and vases, And chandeliers. I stood in the rain so as not to be invited in, I feared what the rest of the house looked like. To see if the dog had its own rhinestone laden and silk bed.
I decided to run back down the stairs as soon as the roll of posters was in my hand. I took the hills back. I screamed as I careened down Baxter (the steepest street in LA). I did it twice. I love those noir nights in LA. When the rain reflects the moon in every drop, and just enough people are out to make you not feel like the only person alive. To make you question if you want these people straggling in the streets on a Wednesday rainy night as your kindred spirits.