Doug Alred - The LA Flood Project (sitios de interés)
Descripción del sitio
Sheraton Parking Lot, Century Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA
STAGE 1
It’s Tuesday, which means every suit and skirt in the South Bay is standing in line for the famous Seoul Food truck parked outside the LAX Sheraton. I’ve camped here since noon yesterday, and I’m still only seventeenth. The smell of beef and onions is driving me out of my skin. This is my third time in line, but I’ve never once been outside a gourmet kimchi taco. First, they ran out of meat (I’ve brought extra today), then there was the grease fire (baking soda, check). Now it’s starting to rain just like they said, and the wimps in front of me have pulled out their sad little travel umbrellas. I’m in my SCUBA gear.
STAGE 2
My stomach is howling, and I can taste victory when I get to that window. The water’s only waist-deep, but that wimp of a fry cook loses his balls and shuts up shop. He’s freaked out over the truck’s electrical system or some idiocy. I pull out my flare gun and tell him I’ll give him something to worry about, but he slams the flap of that fancy roach coach in my face. The rest of the stiffs turn tail and wade back to their sad little cubby farms, but I’m not leaving without my damned tacos.
STAGE 3
After splashing past the fifth story of the hotel, the water’s receded now, and I’m knee-deep in a stew of exploded condiment packets, bloated napkins, and a foul-smelling something that probably used to be cabbage. My inflatable raft, secured to the truck’s roof, weathered the storm admirably thanks to my wits and my trusty flare gun. One guy tried to climb aboard, but I leveled that sucker at him and said he’d best high-tail it to the Raytheon building where they’d have an ark for unprepared goobers like him. He gave me a sad little look and swam on. I’m still first in line, but the truck flap is rusted shut, and that weasel of a fry cook is nowhere to be seen. Luckily, I’ve got my blowtorch. It’s motherfucking lunch time.
-- AC
STAGE 1
It’s Tuesday, which means every suit and skirt in the South Bay is standing in line for the famous Seoul Food truck parked outside the LAX Sheraton. I’ve camped here since noon yesterday, and I’m still only seventeenth. The smell of beef and onions is driving me out of my skin. This is my third time in line, but I’ve never once been outside a gourmet kimchi taco. First, they ran out of meat (I’ve brought extra today), then there was the grease fire (baking soda, check). Now it’s starting to rain just like they said, and the wimps in front of me have pulled out their sad little travel umbrellas. I’m in my SCUBA gear.
STAGE 2
My stomach is howling, and I can taste victory when I get to that window. The water’s only waist-deep, but that wimp of a fry cook loses his balls and shuts up shop. He’s freaked out over the truck’s electrical system or some idiocy. I pull out my flare gun and tell him I’ll give him something to worry about, but he slams the flap of that fancy roach coach in my face. The rest of the stiffs turn tail and wade back to their sad little cubby farms, but I’m not leaving without my damned tacos.
STAGE 3
After splashing past the fifth story of the hotel, the water’s receded now, and I’m knee-deep in a stew of exploded condiment packets, bloated napkins, and a foul-smelling something that probably used to be cabbage. My inflatable raft, secured to the truck’s roof, weathered the storm admirably thanks to my wits and my trusty flare gun. One guy tried to climb aboard, but I leveled that sucker at him and said he’d best high-tail it to the Raytheon building where they’d have an ark for unprepared goobers like him. He gave me a sad little look and swam on. I’m still first in line, but the truck flap is rusted shut, and that weasel of a fry cook is nowhere to be seen. Luckily, I’ve got my blowtorch. It’s motherfucking lunch time.
-- AC