Grauman's Chinese Theatre - The LA Flood Project (sitios de interés)
Descripción del sitio
Stage 1
Superman is hitting on Catwoman but she doesn't seem to notice because one of her zippers is stuck. The elbow. "Cheap shit-ass leather knock-off suit," she curses.
"And I think I've got some new representation lined up. Do you have representation?" asks Elmo [not in his voice].
Superman whirls to face Elmo. He is filthy. And he reeks. But before Superman can way in, he’s interrupted. "Have you been rolling around in a trash heap, Elmo?” says a store-bought Freddy Kruger. “That suit is nasty.”
"Back the fuck up, Freddy. Can't you see I'm trying to get the kid market? Why you always have to come up in here? Traumatize the little brats."
"Oh, you don't think seeing an Elmo with an eye coming out the socket and a nose about to fall off don't traumatize all these brats? At least I look the part. Oh, what the Fuck!"
A huge, winged, transvestite in glittery ruby red high tops struts.
"And what are you supposed to be?" She/He turns her glowing tiger-striped eyes, crazy contacts no doubt, upon them.
"I'm the angel of the apocalypse."
Drop. Drop. Drop. The characters that have congregated at Mann's Chinese Theater look up at the sky.
"That's what I'm talking about," says Elmo. "The end is near."
Stage 2
Run. Scatter. Bundle. Scurry. Flee. Whenever I come, there is terror, thinks the Angel of the Apocalypse. The flight for their lives replaces the hustle for their livelihood. It starts with a look of terror, then a grabbing of unimportant things, random papers, appliances, consumer electronics, followed by a hunt for important things, laptops, keys, phones, then a desperate clawing for the only important things, babies, mothers, grandmothers, and then they really move and it's like something you didn’t think possible. Who could ever think that humans could move so fast.
Stage 3
Los Angeles does not like to be seen before it composes itself, doesn't like to be photographed with a cup of coffee at the Urth cafe or even by its pool before it has time to redraw its face. And yet here is the city after its party with the death metal band at the Roosevelt. Lingerie from Fredrick's draped over mannequins from Madam Tussaud’s. Michael Jackson lays atop Mother Teresa. Britney Spears is menage’d with Keith Richards and Lionel Richie, both of whom like Dorian Grey, cheating death better than their waxen images. The gallons of base and blush from the Max Factor museum has stained the color and cuffs of every building. And no one can remember what happened.
Along the street of Stars, the Angel walks, and he wonders and dances and sings Al-le-lu.
-- MCM
Superman is hitting on Catwoman but she doesn't seem to notice because one of her zippers is stuck. The elbow. "Cheap shit-ass leather knock-off suit," she curses.
"And I think I've got some new representation lined up. Do you have representation?" asks Elmo [not in his voice].
Superman whirls to face Elmo. He is filthy. And he reeks. But before Superman can way in, he’s interrupted. "Have you been rolling around in a trash heap, Elmo?” says a store-bought Freddy Kruger. “That suit is nasty.”
"Back the fuck up, Freddy. Can't you see I'm trying to get the kid market? Why you always have to come up in here? Traumatize the little brats."
"Oh, you don't think seeing an Elmo with an eye coming out the socket and a nose about to fall off don't traumatize all these brats? At least I look the part. Oh, what the Fuck!"
A huge, winged, transvestite in glittery ruby red high tops struts.
"And what are you supposed to be?" She/He turns her glowing tiger-striped eyes, crazy contacts no doubt, upon them.
"I'm the angel of the apocalypse."
Drop. Drop. Drop. The characters that have congregated at Mann's Chinese Theater look up at the sky.
"That's what I'm talking about," says Elmo. "The end is near."
Stage 2
Run. Scatter. Bundle. Scurry. Flee. Whenever I come, there is terror, thinks the Angel of the Apocalypse. The flight for their lives replaces the hustle for their livelihood. It starts with a look of terror, then a grabbing of unimportant things, random papers, appliances, consumer electronics, followed by a hunt for important things, laptops, keys, phones, then a desperate clawing for the only important things, babies, mothers, grandmothers, and then they really move and it's like something you didn’t think possible. Who could ever think that humans could move so fast.
Stage 3
Los Angeles does not like to be seen before it composes itself, doesn't like to be photographed with a cup of coffee at the Urth cafe or even by its pool before it has time to redraw its face. And yet here is the city after its party with the death metal band at the Roosevelt. Lingerie from Fredrick's draped over mannequins from Madam Tussaud’s. Michael Jackson lays atop Mother Teresa. Britney Spears is menage’d with Keith Richards and Lionel Richie, both of whom like Dorian Grey, cheating death better than their waxen images. The gallons of base and blush from the Max Factor museum has stained the color and cuffs of every building. And no one can remember what happened.
Along the street of Stars, the Angel walks, and he wonders and dances and sings Al-le-lu.
-- MCM