Zeno
05-26-2005, 02:21 AM
‘Well they all just hate Bush and that’s all they know’, said the punchy large man in line at Starbucks. Apparently this was his take on ‘Liberals’. How did I get here in this place, at this time, to eavesdrop in on this munchkin political comment?
Building homes on hills of contoured and mashed up mica schist along one of the world’s most active faults is not a wise idea. But this is LA and wise ideas are rare and also frowned upon as dated concepts propped up by unfashionable people with dubious agendas, bad hair, bad teeth, and bad lifestyles. None of this is evident on Sunset Boulevard down Santa Monica way early on a Saturday morning. The air is crisp with a hint of ocean flavors, flowers are blooming, and every lawn manicured, every tree beautiful. Joggers are outfitted in body-sculpted suits and adorned with hip packs bulging with flasks filled with the latest body-enhancing power drinks. It is all so perfect. A Paradise. The Garden of Eden, with God and Satan, and the rest of the world safely regulated to the outskirts of town, or even out of existence, by the locals.
I soak all this in while smoothly pacing the car through all the many turns, munching on an unlit Dunhill cigar, and wistfully wanting a canister of tear gas to toss at the natives and shock them out of their heavenly stupor. Suddenly struck by a revelation I park near an opulent tree, get out and join them instead. I can be just as perfect can’t I? It’s not that hard is it? My teeth are reasonably white, my shirt and pants all proper, and my nose hairs all neatly trimmed. I can talk snappy too. I belong. I’m one of them. So I eat a bagel for breakfast, have a Dr. something power juice drink, and then lounge at Starbucks to listen in on all the local gossip. Nirvana at last. But, perhaps, enough of this self-indulgence. See how easily it all rubs off and the lure dangles and the trap springs. Los Angles, Mecca of the perverse and sweet seductress of folly. I love LA.
It is a marvel I made it back unscathed. But I did have a brush with death in a rather unexpected place. I physically reeled and became emotionally shocked when I observed a sign near Andy's front door that stated in no uncertain terms: ' <font color="blue"> Armed Response </font> ', shown in a pleasant blue against an innocuous white background. I had left my .45 auto at home, banking on the supposed goodwill of my host. But now, a deep ugliness suddenly loomed in the most unexpected of places and I almost bit my cigar in half, a bit unnerved. I was now under the distinct impression that Andy would be sticking a shotgun in my face when he answered the door, bellowing ‘what do you want infidel’. I was not prepared for a gun battle nor did I wish to do physical violence, but I must be prepared to defend myself I thought. These dastardly liberals are a tricky and underhanded lot I mused, and this just proves that you never know what kind of knuckle ball they will heave unexpectedly towards your noggin. This Andy character may turn out to be a cad and a bounder. I knocked on the door and set my feet.
As so often happens in narrative the build up is suspenseful and keen but the resolution lacks punch. Such is the case here. I was welcomed with courtesy. Andy smiled and all was smooth and pleasant. Then Rick showed up. So much for happy endings.
-Zeno
Final installment tomorrow.
Building homes on hills of contoured and mashed up mica schist along one of the world’s most active faults is not a wise idea. But this is LA and wise ideas are rare and also frowned upon as dated concepts propped up by unfashionable people with dubious agendas, bad hair, bad teeth, and bad lifestyles. None of this is evident on Sunset Boulevard down Santa Monica way early on a Saturday morning. The air is crisp with a hint of ocean flavors, flowers are blooming, and every lawn manicured, every tree beautiful. Joggers are outfitted in body-sculpted suits and adorned with hip packs bulging with flasks filled with the latest body-enhancing power drinks. It is all so perfect. A Paradise. The Garden of Eden, with God and Satan, and the rest of the world safely regulated to the outskirts of town, or even out of existence, by the locals.
I soak all this in while smoothly pacing the car through all the many turns, munching on an unlit Dunhill cigar, and wistfully wanting a canister of tear gas to toss at the natives and shock them out of their heavenly stupor. Suddenly struck by a revelation I park near an opulent tree, get out and join them instead. I can be just as perfect can’t I? It’s not that hard is it? My teeth are reasonably white, my shirt and pants all proper, and my nose hairs all neatly trimmed. I can talk snappy too. I belong. I’m one of them. So I eat a bagel for breakfast, have a Dr. something power juice drink, and then lounge at Starbucks to listen in on all the local gossip. Nirvana at last. But, perhaps, enough of this self-indulgence. See how easily it all rubs off and the lure dangles and the trap springs. Los Angles, Mecca of the perverse and sweet seductress of folly. I love LA.
It is a marvel I made it back unscathed. But I did have a brush with death in a rather unexpected place. I physically reeled and became emotionally shocked when I observed a sign near Andy's front door that stated in no uncertain terms: ' <font color="blue"> Armed Response </font> ', shown in a pleasant blue against an innocuous white background. I had left my .45 auto at home, banking on the supposed goodwill of my host. But now, a deep ugliness suddenly loomed in the most unexpected of places and I almost bit my cigar in half, a bit unnerved. I was now under the distinct impression that Andy would be sticking a shotgun in my face when he answered the door, bellowing ‘what do you want infidel’. I was not prepared for a gun battle nor did I wish to do physical violence, but I must be prepared to defend myself I thought. These dastardly liberals are a tricky and underhanded lot I mused, and this just proves that you never know what kind of knuckle ball they will heave unexpectedly towards your noggin. This Andy character may turn out to be a cad and a bounder. I knocked on the door and set my feet.
As so often happens in narrative the build up is suspenseful and keen but the resolution lacks punch. Such is the case here. I was welcomed with courtesy. Andy smiled and all was smooth and pleasant. Then Rick showed up. So much for happy endings.
-Zeno
Final installment tomorrow.