Lugares de interés (POIs) del Mapa
0: Mike Thorouhill, C.E.
Mike Thorouhill
Civil Engineer
Southern California Earthquake Center
Stage: 1
15, 700 cubic feet per second
5320 cfs.
17000 homes.
that's n-values of .01234 and
.1.02
Oh, God.
18, 200 cfs
6400 cfs
K-values of .00076 and .00013 feet
2700 homes -- no
3500 homes
1600 tons of sediment
in 38 months
not possible
But what would it cost to fix it?
Hmm
erosion of concrete damns
3 feet of concrete
must be wrong
$18 million dollars
to save 2700 homes
(typing)
Los Angeles:
fluctuations in the water surface
associated with depths of flow
in the unstable zone
will be delineated in the model
insufficient data for recommendations
further models to be proposed.
ah! God help us.
Stage 2
(sings a little of the song -- The New Year's Flood -- to himself)
Oh, my friends, do you remember?
On that fatal New Year's night...
I just had to drive up to see it.
up the 5
to where the water comes over the mountain
just before the Newhall Pass
usually its such a cute site
like 2nd graders coming down the stairs
at the end of the day
running to see their parents
but now those kids are ten feet tall
and they are not using the stairs anymore.
(sings a bit more)
No, you could not see it coming
Till through our town it rolled;
We thought we dammed her up.
We thought we hemmed her in.
When you create a statistical model
you tend to leave out the ends of the curve
that tend toward the apocalypse.
There's nothing more sobering than
watching a craftsman home
body surf down a hillside.
Stage 3
There are times, when you survey all that God has wrought,
all the wreck and all the ruin
when you could, if you were so inclined,
calculate a number to represent all the water
pouring into this basin,
not just the volume,
the loss of property
the loss of life
a few measurements, even a guesstimation,
and be, and this is how far we've come,
probably accurate within a gallon or two,
but you don't
because differential equations, at a time like this,
seem, well, disrespectful.
Back last January, I saw this call
for a conference on Atmospheric Rivers,
The ARKstorm they called it,
Thought, of course,
it was a joke.
Not so much because of the atmospheric rivers,
nor the infinite improbability of such a deluge
but because to stage such an event
fly all those people in
and get those projector's whirring
meant that they truly thought
an academic conference might get people
to listen.
No, they fund our research
and ask us to create our models,
do our calculations,
in secluded, highly productive labs, precisely so that
they don't have to sit next to chicken little
at a dinner party
Now figuring out where to get enough
potable water
for what remains of the citizenry of Los Angeles
that will take a little math or
what did that one President call it
fuzzy math?
100 gallons per day, per person,
10 million people...
in cubic feet that would be --
Hmm, this is going to take a little figuring...
MCM
Civil Engineer
Southern California Earthquake Center
Stage: 1
15, 700 cubic feet per second
5320 cfs.
17000 homes.
that's n-values of .01234 and
.1.02
Oh, God.
18, 200 cfs
6400 cfs
K-values of .00076 and .00013 feet
2700 homes -- no
3500 homes
1600 tons of sediment
in 38 months
not possible
But what would it cost to fix it?
Hmm
erosion of concrete damns
3 feet of concrete
must be wrong
$18 million dollars
to save 2700 homes
(typing)
Los Angeles:
fluctuations in the water surface
associated with depths of flow
in the unstable zone
will be delineated in the model
insufficient data for recommendations
further models to be proposed.
ah! God help us.
Stage 2
(sings a little of the song -- The New Year's Flood -- to himself)
Oh, my friends, do you remember?
On that fatal New Year's night...
I just had to drive up to see it.
up the 5
to where the water comes over the mountain
just before the Newhall Pass
usually its such a cute site
like 2nd graders coming down the stairs
at the end of the day
running to see their parents
but now those kids are ten feet tall
and they are not using the stairs anymore.
(sings a bit more)
No, you could not see it coming
Till through our town it rolled;
We thought we dammed her up.
We thought we hemmed her in.
When you create a statistical model
you tend to leave out the ends of the curve
that tend toward the apocalypse.
There's nothing more sobering than
watching a craftsman home
body surf down a hillside.
Stage 3
There are times, when you survey all that God has wrought,
all the wreck and all the ruin
when you could, if you were so inclined,
calculate a number to represent all the water
pouring into this basin,
not just the volume,
the loss of property
the loss of life
a few measurements, even a guesstimation,
and be, and this is how far we've come,
probably accurate within a gallon or two,
but you don't
because differential equations, at a time like this,
seem, well, disrespectful.
Back last January, I saw this call
for a conference on Atmospheric Rivers,
The ARKstorm they called it,
Thought, of course,
it was a joke.
Not so much because of the atmospheric rivers,
nor the infinite improbability of such a deluge
but because to stage such an event
fly all those people in
and get those projector's whirring
meant that they truly thought
an academic conference might get people
to listen.
No, they fund our research
and ask us to create our models,
do our calculations,
in secluded, highly productive labs, precisely so that
they don't have to sit next to chicken little
at a dinner party
Now figuring out where to get enough
potable water
for what remains of the citizenry of Los Angeles
that will take a little math or
what did that one President call it
fuzzy math?
100 gallons per day, per person,
10 million people...
in cubic feet that would be --
Hmm, this is going to take a little figuring...
MCM
Más sobre Mike Thorouhill, C.E.
1: Jefferson Building
Stage I
I heard it was built for the war. Which war? World War II. No Way. You can tell.
How?
By the cobwebs stuck in the corners. Very scientific. You can count the layers
like tree rings.
I'm surprised it's still here. It's the cobwebs, for sure.
Stage II
Shattered to twigs in the first wave. The avocado tree in the courtyard lasted a
bit longer. Then it sunk under, shredded to bits by swirling glass shards and
broken door frames.
Stage III
Here once were offices of people who wrote papers. The bank across the way
still stands. So, this must have been it. I am told the building was made for
World War II. See, there, a bit of early 20th-century porcelain is peeking from
the rubble. I am surprised it had lasted this long.
--NET
I heard it was built for the war. Which war? World War II. No Way. You can tell.
How?
By the cobwebs stuck in the corners. Very scientific. You can count the layers
like tree rings.
I'm surprised it's still here. It's the cobwebs, for sure.
Stage II
Shattered to twigs in the first wave. The avocado tree in the courtyard lasted a
bit longer. Then it sunk under, shredded to bits by swirling glass shards and
broken door frames.
Stage III
Here once were offices of people who wrote papers. The bank across the way
still stands. So, this must have been it. I am told the building was made for
World War II. See, there, a bit of early 20th-century porcelain is peeking from
the rubble. I am surprised it had lasted this long.
--NET
Más sobre Jefferson Building
2: Doheny Library/Alumni Park
Stage I
Rumbles of the subway work. Rumbles of a new fault breaking. Who could know.
The sycamores are shaky by nature. But when Youth Triumphant (that statue, you
imagine,
rather too frail for this steroidal age) begins to tremble and the fountain
begins to fizz and spurt,
you begin to believe you might be in for a whole world of hurt. You check your
news app and find
the surf report is 312 feet and rising. Go!
Stage II
Inside the toilets blow.Even acres of books can't staunch the effluent flow.
Outside the windows explode, gushing great torrents that meet the
waves coming down Jefferson and Expo, gnashing through the walkways, gashing
through to hit the Harbor and rush on..
Stage III
That lovely layer cake of a library has slumped into a giant sinkhole. All
across the campus buildings sag and seep. You start to channel Florida and wait
for the walking catfish and big ol' gators to begin to show.
From too little wet to too much. You start to think you hear the kudzu grow. Who
could know.
-- NET
Rumbles of the subway work. Rumbles of a new fault breaking. Who could know.
The sycamores are shaky by nature. But when Youth Triumphant (that statue, you
imagine,
rather too frail for this steroidal age) begins to tremble and the fountain
begins to fizz and spurt,
you begin to believe you might be in for a whole world of hurt. You check your
news app and find
the surf report is 312 feet and rising. Go!
Stage II
Inside the toilets blow.Even acres of books can't staunch the effluent flow.
Outside the windows explode, gushing great torrents that meet the
waves coming down Jefferson and Expo, gnashing through the walkways, gashing
through to hit the Harbor and rush on..
Stage III
That lovely layer cake of a library has slumped into a giant sinkhole. All
across the campus buildings sag and seep. You start to channel Florida and wait
for the walking catfish and big ol' gators to begin to show.
From too little wet to too much. You start to think you hear the kudzu grow. Who
could know.
-- NET
Más sobre Doheny Library/Alumni Park
3: Heritage Hall
Stage I
The song girls are practicing at the top of the steps. Inside is a bust of John
Wayne. But no one seems to be paying any attention. The NROTC parades by.
Students on bikes are glued to their cells. Rushing to lunch. Rushing to class.
Rushing away from the first drops of rain. The wind picks up the pom poms and
after a scramble, the ladies call it a day.
Stage II
Glass shatters and great tree limb spears smash all the cases, setting the
little football men free. But a Heisman will not float. The waters come quickly
bearing
trash cans and cracked patio umbrellas. The bust of John Wayne watches the
trophies clot in a lump in the corner along with the bits of crystal football
and the
plaques of the rich and famous. The custom cardinal and gold carpet will need to
be replaced.
Stage III
The gallery of past glory will be resurrected. The players come (jerseys still
wet, hair plastered) to retrieve the relics. The bust of John Wayne watches
until
he is boxed up and carted away. His friends the Heismen wait upside down and in
general disarray for their chance to be rescued.
NET
The song girls are practicing at the top of the steps. Inside is a bust of John
Wayne. But no one seems to be paying any attention. The NROTC parades by.
Students on bikes are glued to their cells. Rushing to lunch. Rushing to class.
Rushing away from the first drops of rain. The wind picks up the pom poms and
after a scramble, the ladies call it a day.
Stage II
Glass shatters and great tree limb spears smash all the cases, setting the
little football men free. But a Heisman will not float. The waters come quickly
bearing
trash cans and cracked patio umbrellas. The bust of John Wayne watches the
trophies clot in a lump in the corner along with the bits of crystal football
and the
plaques of the rich and famous. The custom cardinal and gold carpet will need to
be replaced.
Stage III
The gallery of past glory will be resurrected. The players come (jerseys still
wet, hair plastered) to retrieve the relics. The bust of John Wayne watches
until
he is boxed up and carted away. His friends the Heismen wait upside down and in
general disarray for their chance to be rescued.
NET
Más sobre Heritage Hall
4: Mudd Hall (Philosophy Library)
Stage 1:
From the catbird seat above Trousdale Parkway, a debate rages in the Philosophy library on the nature of human suffering and natural calamity. The third year Ph.D. student has conceded to meet with one of the undergrads in his discussion section for Intro to Philosophy. He is from the pacific northwest, a dark-roasted, misting utopia for which his very beard seems to pine. She is from some exurbian wasteland called Arcadia. He has been presenting the Die-ism, and she a kind of street-learned positivism. He calls her antediluvian. She calls him an asshole. The reference librarian thinks to himself, "Stalemate."
Stage 2:
On the other side of the colonnade, the treasures of the philosophy library have eroded to waterlogged lumps of pulp, marginalia streaking off a mash of typeface, now rising to the surface of the water as platforms. You can use them like riverstones to leap, pile to pile, and cross to the side of the wall. Sadly this will be the first time they’ve been touched in years. Only the call numbers, protected by a narrow band of plastic, remain easily readable.
You begin at B387.A5L43 2008,
move to 184.P71ti t 1944,
then reach out a tentative foot to B395.P74 2000.
A leap, shorter than expected in space if not time,
takes you to PQ2105.A2S8 v.2005: 02,
but you are distracted and barely catch yourself on B823.3.F56 1996, which was apparently headed back to Doheny anyway, based on a reshelving card.
Another leap brings you to BJ1475.3.H86 2009,
which is unsteadily lodged up on B824.G34 2010,
a final leap brings you to T14.5.M52 2010
and one tiny step to T14.5.S6385 2000x,
which bears a toetag for the Grand Depot book Limbo.
You give a breath of gratitude it had not yet been put to pasture. Thank God for books.
Stage: 3
The reference librarian is slumped over the top of the colonnades, passed out, yet in his hands, the washed out photocopies of an essay, which before the waters read, "
Geschichte und Naturbeschreibung der merkwürdigsten Vorfälle des Erdbebens welches an dem Ende des 1755sten Jahres einen grossen Thiel der erschuttert hat." The uncanny Kant lives on.
-- MCM
From the catbird seat above Trousdale Parkway, a debate rages in the Philosophy library on the nature of human suffering and natural calamity. The third year Ph.D. student has conceded to meet with one of the undergrads in his discussion section for Intro to Philosophy. He is from the pacific northwest, a dark-roasted, misting utopia for which his very beard seems to pine. She is from some exurbian wasteland called Arcadia. He has been presenting the Die-ism, and she a kind of street-learned positivism. He calls her antediluvian. She calls him an asshole. The reference librarian thinks to himself, "Stalemate."
Stage 2:
On the other side of the colonnade, the treasures of the philosophy library have eroded to waterlogged lumps of pulp, marginalia streaking off a mash of typeface, now rising to the surface of the water as platforms. You can use them like riverstones to leap, pile to pile, and cross to the side of the wall. Sadly this will be the first time they’ve been touched in years. Only the call numbers, protected by a narrow band of plastic, remain easily readable.
You begin at B387.A5L43 2008,
move to 184.P71ti t 1944,
then reach out a tentative foot to B395.P74 2000.
A leap, shorter than expected in space if not time,
takes you to PQ2105.A2S8 v.2005: 02,
but you are distracted and barely catch yourself on B823.3.F56 1996, which was apparently headed back to Doheny anyway, based on a reshelving card.
Another leap brings you to BJ1475.3.H86 2009,
which is unsteadily lodged up on B824.G34 2010,
a final leap brings you to T14.5.M52 2010
and one tiny step to T14.5.S6385 2000x,
which bears a toetag for the Grand Depot book Limbo.
You give a breath of gratitude it had not yet been put to pasture. Thank God for books.
Stage: 3
The reference librarian is slumped over the top of the colonnades, passed out, yet in his hands, the washed out photocopies of an essay, which before the waters read, "
Geschichte und Naturbeschreibung der merkwürdigsten Vorfälle des Erdbebens welches an dem Ende des 1755sten Jahres einen grossen Thiel der erschuttert hat." The uncanny Kant lives on.
-- MCM
Más sobre Mudd Hall (Philosophy Library)
5: Ahmanson Center (ACB)
Stage 1
The Cheese Grater. That's what you once heard these called. And across from the school of architecture, you can only think, that when coming up with descriptive nicknames, all those strung-out, burned-out, architecture students, must be very hungry
The Cheese Grater. That's what you once heard these called. And across from the school of architecture, you can only think, that when coming up with descriptive nicknames, all those strung-out, burned-out, architecture students, must be very hungry
Más sobre Ahmanson Center (ACB)
6: Elizabeta Montana
Jesus, que servicio tan lindo
Ah, el fuego del Espiritu Santo!
Jesus Cristo!
My heart is full
And that music!
Alejandro on the drums-Wow!
Kapow--KaPash!
Musica de los Santos.
Ah, if only it could have a little more cowbell.
Ay.
Stay out of their yard, Mija,
stay on the road!
Por Dios Santo, I just bought that dress at the new Kohl's
And we're going to get at least another year out of it
Jesus y Jaime, you're supposed to be watching your sister. Jesus! Por Dios!
Dejen de patear esa pelota, tan solo por un segundo.
Ay! I don't hear los Jaguares calling for you.
Temo is not knocking at our door step asking you to join team nacional, or is he? I don' see him.
Diosito Santo, ayudame con estos niños!
And if you're going to play futbol while walking home and joking with each other,
the least you can do is stop typing messages on your phone!
You're supposed to watch out for tu hermana
You are going to knock her over
Jesus, please, bring no harm to them but
if you need to teach them a lesson,
That would be fine
Ay! Mijos! (Gracias Diosito.)
What did I tell you?
Mija, are you okay. And now look at your dress!
It's all wet
Mi hija, mojada?
Te hiciste pipi!?
have you wet yourself?
Por Dios, tienes seis años. Don't you think you are a little too old for this.
No te da vergüenza, tan grandota?
You should be ashamed.
Cual agua? The ground is wet?
there are no sprinklers here
this isn't Glendale
we don't have Evian sprinkling on our lawns
we just have that river
that sistine chapel of graffiti
our concrete Jordan
Rio Granite
what an eyesore!
Just another border
Another "stay on this side"
no, I don't believe it. It's okay, mija,
you'll grow out of it.
Stop, blaming the ground.
I don't believe you.
Let me feel
Ok. What is this?
You are right.
Look, your foot just sinks in that mud.
Where is it coming from?
Something is wrong
Something is wrong
Ay, Virgencita, ruega por nosotros.
Jaime, go wake your uncle and cousin.
and tell them to start the truck.
MCM
Más sobre Elizabeta Montana
7: Tommy Trojan
Stage 1
The tables line Trousdale as always. Across from each other the Students for Life and the Take Back the Night sexual health fare. Whose idea was this. Immediately, Trousdale turns into Hyde Park, dueling speakers proselytize for and against sexual education on campus, using inverses of roughly the same arguments. Tommy Trojan himself becomes a pawn of the discussion as one team attempts to cover his sword with a prophylactic, while the other at first attempts to remove the cover and until, ripped sheaths in hand, they realize they've been duped into playing on the opposing side's iconographic terms.
Stage 2
With their laptops and Kenneth Coles and Eddie Bauer knapsacks, they have arrived in mass, a thousand frazzled undergraduates, looking like they've just taken back to back Organic Chemistry finals. They have assembled around the water-born platform for the airlift. Through megaphones National Guard is warning them to leave their possessions behind, assuring them that more helicopters will be arriving, but the first evac chopper cannot land because of the the number of private aircraft that are also trying to land. At last, a dark, armed chopper lands with gusts that practically dry out the students. But it is not a rescue aircraft. It is full of military personnel especially trained in crowd control.
Stage 3
Amidst the bloated bodies, overturned tables, sodden books, collegiate waste, the pall of the travesty, partially fractured from falling matter from Bovard, Tommy Trojan still stands, a beacon, a warning, a parody, fulfilling the ultimate destiny of every statue of a hero, Ozymandias or Unknown Soldier, icon and grave marker, token of communal remembrance and memento of irrefutable forgetting.
-- MCM
The tables line Trousdale as always. Across from each other the Students for Life and the Take Back the Night sexual health fare. Whose idea was this. Immediately, Trousdale turns into Hyde Park, dueling speakers proselytize for and against sexual education on campus, using inverses of roughly the same arguments. Tommy Trojan himself becomes a pawn of the discussion as one team attempts to cover his sword with a prophylactic, while the other at first attempts to remove the cover and until, ripped sheaths in hand, they realize they've been duped into playing on the opposing side's iconographic terms.
Stage 2
With their laptops and Kenneth Coles and Eddie Bauer knapsacks, they have arrived in mass, a thousand frazzled undergraduates, looking like they've just taken back to back Organic Chemistry finals. They have assembled around the water-born platform for the airlift. Through megaphones National Guard is warning them to leave their possessions behind, assuring them that more helicopters will be arriving, but the first evac chopper cannot land because of the the number of private aircraft that are also trying to land. At last, a dark, armed chopper lands with gusts that practically dry out the students. But it is not a rescue aircraft. It is full of military personnel especially trained in crowd control.
Stage 3
Amidst the bloated bodies, overturned tables, sodden books, collegiate waste, the pall of the travesty, partially fractured from falling matter from Bovard, Tommy Trojan still stands, a beacon, a warning, a parody, fulfilling the ultimate destiny of every statue of a hero, Ozymandias or Unknown Soldier, icon and grave marker, token of communal remembrance and memento of irrefutable forgetting.
-- MCM
Más sobre Tommy Trojan
8: USC Bookstore
Stage 1
People sitting on the steps ignored the first big drops of rain. They think nothing of the small, slick creek of water trickling downward from the quad. By the time the water bangs up against the streetlights, consuming their bases, the stairs are empty. Everybody stands behind the large glass windows watching the large drops fall into the growing river now climbing the stairs.
Stage 2
When the water breaks through the first floor windows, the sound of glass can hardly be heard above the roar of the current. Suddenly everything converges into the swirling, rushing cavernous mouth of water that sucks and swallows everything into it. Textbooks, newspapers, pens, paper, highlighters, tubes of white-out, red and yellow sweatshirts, candy bars, cans of Red Bull. Every now and then a human hand breaks the surface.
LP
Stage 3
When the water recedes, those who were left return to the steps. The steps and sidewalk now covered in a silt of dirt and a sludge human refuse. One young girl could not take her eyes from the empty baby blue car seat, flipped over, balancing atop an empty flower planter.
Más sobre USC Bookstore
9: Cromwell Field
Stage 1
When the rain began to fall, those running around the track are not deterred. Some lift the hood of their sweatshirts over their heads without missing a step. Others do nothing. By the time the water reaches ankle length, most change direction and run for the bleachers. Some climb to the top of the small building—USC Track and Field--- bold, red letters against the grey sky.
Stage 2
From the top of the bleachers, people watch as the water pushed through the iron bars circling the track. Things carried on the current bang against the bars: bicycles, small trees, large ceramic planters, small dogs. One thinks he sees the body of young boy bounce against the metal. Those who can no longer watch, look upward in silent prayer.
Rain, rain, rain their only reply.
Stage 3
When the rain stops, the sun beats down immediate and full of force. Those looking upward must turn away from its brightness. The field is a pool of grey blue water reflecting the sun. Nothing moves. Then a bird rises from the center of the pool, alive. beating its wing against the air—it takes flight.
--LP
When the rain began to fall, those running around the track are not deterred. Some lift the hood of their sweatshirts over their heads without missing a step. Others do nothing. By the time the water reaches ankle length, most change direction and run for the bleachers. Some climb to the top of the small building—USC Track and Field--- bold, red letters against the grey sky.
Stage 2
From the top of the bleachers, people watch as the water pushed through the iron bars circling the track. Things carried on the current bang against the bars: bicycles, small trees, large ceramic planters, small dogs. One thinks he sees the body of young boy bounce against the metal. Those who can no longer watch, look upward in silent prayer.
Rain, rain, rain their only reply.
Stage 3
When the rain stops, the sun beats down immediate and full of force. Those looking upward must turn away from its brightness. The field is a pool of grey blue water reflecting the sun. Nothing moves. Then a bird rises from the center of the pool, alive. beating its wing against the air—it takes flight.
--LP
Más sobre Cromwell Field
10: Cinematic Arts
Stage I
What is the sound of 23 soon-to-be-famous screenwriters writing? The tap, tap, tapping of keyboards with the drip of precipitation or the gnashing of tiny teeth. And for those keeping with the sacred traditions, the ruffle fluff of paper pages quivering as the wind begins to rise. The splash of tipped coffee in surprise as the cloud return with a clap of thunder. The rain starts again in great splats. Laptops fold. Papers are collected. No one remembers to count the seconds between the flash and the boom. Rain in curtains. Rain in torrents. Far worse than any jungle scene in a cheap horror film. The statue of Douglas Fairbanks Sr. stands in the middle of it all and, as the sunlight disappears, his smile becomes a bit ironic.
Stage II
Day for night. The rain changes everything. Lightning makes the world move frame by frame. Water rushing round every archway. Lightning makes the world move frame by frame. Bravely, some still watch from the balconies. Water rushing round every archway, as Mr. Fairbanks sinks without a sound.
Stage III
Doug Fairbanks is up to his kneecaps in bent bicycles. The Pacific has dragged her anger back to the shore. The sun begins to vaporize the few wet remnants clinging to the walls, the windows, the walkways. Mr. Fairbanks has survived. Shreds of plastic flap like banners on his upraised arm. And as the clouds begin to flee, his smile becomes a bit heroic.
NET
What is the sound of 23 soon-to-be-famous screenwriters writing? The tap, tap, tapping of keyboards with the drip of precipitation or the gnashing of tiny teeth. And for those keeping with the sacred traditions, the ruffle fluff of paper pages quivering as the wind begins to rise. The splash of tipped coffee in surprise as the cloud return with a clap of thunder. The rain starts again in great splats. Laptops fold. Papers are collected. No one remembers to count the seconds between the flash and the boom. Rain in curtains. Rain in torrents. Far worse than any jungle scene in a cheap horror film. The statue of Douglas Fairbanks Sr. stands in the middle of it all and, as the sunlight disappears, his smile becomes a bit ironic.
Stage II
Day for night. The rain changes everything. Lightning makes the world move frame by frame. Water rushing round every archway. Lightning makes the world move frame by frame. Bravely, some still watch from the balconies. Water rushing round every archway, as Mr. Fairbanks sinks without a sound.
Stage III
Doug Fairbanks is up to his kneecaps in bent bicycles. The Pacific has dragged her anger back to the shore. The sun begins to vaporize the few wet remnants clinging to the walls, the windows, the walkways. Mr. Fairbanks has survived. Shreds of plastic flap like banners on his upraised arm. And as the clouds begin to flee, his smile becomes a bit heroic.
NET
Más sobre Cinematic Arts
11: Leavey Library
Stage 1
On any given school day, during the peek points of the semester, this lot in front of Leavey is a showroom floor of Beach cruisers with names like Firmstrong Urban Lady and sixthreezero Scholar, Bella, Boutique, in blue, cream, and, of course, pink -- colors that accentuate the bleached and tanorexic, chillaxedly mobile undergraduate academics from Huntington and Laguna Beach. As one unlocks her bike, the third she's purchased this year -- so much thievery on this inner-city campus -- she spots the drop of rain on her seat, glances down at another on her new jeggings, and frowns her face in that way shat her mother warned her she'd regret the day she turned 40 if not before, considering the fate of her cousins Ashley and Amber on her father's side, of course.
Stage 2
Rows of bicycles now toppled, have sunk to the bottom and have formed a colorful metallic reef, a Beach cruiser shoals of chrome plated steel. Daily Trojans collect in the spokes and ensnare cell phones that float by like schools of fish. A fresh Spring-look caramel leather strappy shoe shorn of its 3" heel tells an only too common story of rapid flight in fashion-forward splendor.
Stage 3
The water receded, the bikes emerge as a hulking, rusting tangle of chrome and leather. Wheels and frame mangled together by the weight of the Army amphibious units that plowed into campus on the third day of the rains. Now the Möbius curves of bicycles stands as rusting public art, a testament to an easier time, where young folk sailed to classes only worried about the calorie count of their green-tea lattes.
MCM
Más sobre Leavey Library
13: Grace Ford Salvatori
Stage 1:
Grace Ford Salvatori or GFS as it is popularly known. (The F is for emphasis.) The inverted school house, the one with the bricks on the inside, and throwback chalk boards, it’s retro-education at a bubble-blown price.
Stage 2:
The interior stairs has become a waterfall as GFS becomes falling water. Chairdesks slosh around, wall boxes sizzle. The sediment of free papers sinks to the bottom. Socorro has cleaned this building, dealt with its ugly decor, its thankless occupants, its chalkboards and urinals, for 27 years, and all she can think now as the water rushes into the building is that school is finally out.
Grace Ford Salvatori or GFS as it is popularly known. (The F is for emphasis.) The inverted school house, the one with the bricks on the inside, and throwback chalk boards, it’s retro-education at a bubble-blown price.
Stage 2:
The interior stairs has become a waterfall as GFS becomes falling water. Chairdesks slosh around, wall boxes sizzle. The sediment of free papers sinks to the bottom. Socorro has cleaned this building, dealt with its ugly decor, its thankless occupants, its chalkboards and urinals, for 27 years, and all she can think now as the water rushes into the building is that school is finally out.
Más sobre Grace Ford Salvatori
14: Statue of Traveler the Horse
Stage 1
The rain began: big, circular drops crushing the flowers and grass. Older people speed up their pace as they cross the square. They cover their heads with the common objects they hold in their hands: folders, briefcase, plastic bags. Younger people glance upward and continue on their way.
Stage 2
When the water reaches ankle length, small rivers begin to rise. Some people start to climb things near them: benches, trees, kiosks. Still the water comes. Others hold on to lampposts, the sides of buildings; a group hovers, clutching the sides of the Trojan warrior. At hip level, some begin to be carried away on the current. One young man, blond hair and shirtless climbs to the top of the horse statue— rider in the storm.
Stage 3
When the water began to recede objects begin to collect in the blue-tiled fountain: handlebars, cell phones, small dead animals, handlebars and backpacks. And mud. Mud coating every level surface. From atop the horse, a woman’s lifeless body can be seen in the distance.
--LP
The rain began: big, circular drops crushing the flowers and grass. Older people speed up their pace as they cross the square. They cover their heads with the common objects they hold in their hands: folders, briefcase, plastic bags. Younger people glance upward and continue on their way.
Stage 2
When the water reaches ankle length, small rivers begin to rise. Some people start to climb things near them: benches, trees, kiosks. Still the water comes. Others hold on to lampposts, the sides of buildings; a group hovers, clutching the sides of the Trojan warrior. At hip level, some begin to be carried away on the current. One young man, blond hair and shirtless climbs to the top of the horse statue— rider in the storm.
Stage 3
When the water began to recede objects begin to collect in the blue-tiled fountain: handlebars, cell phones, small dead animals, handlebars and backpacks. And mud. Mud coating every level surface. From atop the horse, a woman’s lifeless body can be seen in the distance.
--LP
Más sobre Statue of Traveler the Horse
15: Harris Hall
Stage 1:
Ralph Carlin Flewelling designed Harris Hall in 1940. The building is home to the USC School of Architecture and the Roski School of Fine Arts. When a hard rain hits, as it is now, students and professors say the building makes a strange whispering sound that fills the hallways and classrooms. No one has ever observed a similar sound in the other buildings at USC.
Stage 2:
Harris Hall Emergency Information:
• Building Address: 850 West 37th Street, Los Angeles 90089-0292
• Number of Floors: Two (Shared with Architecture & Fisher Gallery)
• Fire Alarm: Yes
• Automatic Fire Sprinkler System: No
• Fire Alarm Pull Stations: Center Courtyard, Ground floor, South Wall
• Fire Extinguishers: 120, 117, Shop Café
• Emergency Exits: 101, 220B, Shop Café
• Emergency Lighting: 201, 202, 203
Stage 3:
Those who made it to the rooftops survived, but there wasn’t enough room for everyone because of the thousands of people attending the Festival of Books. The Harris Hall rooftop saved 67 women, 49 men, and 15 children.
--DO
Ralph Carlin Flewelling designed Harris Hall in 1940. The building is home to the USC School of Architecture and the Roski School of Fine Arts. When a hard rain hits, as it is now, students and professors say the building makes a strange whispering sound that fills the hallways and classrooms. No one has ever observed a similar sound in the other buildings at USC.
Stage 2:
Harris Hall Emergency Information:
• Building Address: 850 West 37th Street, Los Angeles 90089-0292
• Number of Floors: Two (Shared with Architecture & Fisher Gallery)
• Fire Alarm: Yes
• Automatic Fire Sprinkler System: No
• Fire Alarm Pull Stations: Center Courtyard, Ground floor, South Wall
• Fire Extinguishers: 120, 117, Shop Café
• Emergency Exits: 101, 220B, Shop Café
• Emergency Lighting: 201, 202, 203
Stage 3:
Those who made it to the rooftops survived, but there wasn’t enough room for everyone because of the thousands of people attending the Festival of Books. The Harris Hall rooftop saved 67 women, 49 men, and 15 children.
--DO
Más sobre Harris Hall
16: Manny Velasco
37-years-old government attorney who is working on first novel, married to law school sweetheart, Sarah Cohen, with whom he has a 6-year-old son, Josh; they live in Woodland Hills.
Stage 1:
Yeah, sweetie, I have to turn off my phone soon. The panelists are getting seated. Huh? Let me look at my ticket…they always come up with stupid names for these things. Where is it…oh, here, it’s called: “Reading and Writing in the Digital Age.” Huh? Don’t know, but it might be good, who knows. I really wanted to see the Father Boyle, Steve Lopez panel but it was sold out. Anyway, it should be okay. This is a cool building, though. Harris Hall. You had an art class here? No way. Cool. What? Yeah, the drive sucked. Raining like crazy. Barely made it. Oh, gotta’ turn this off, they’re about to start. Love you, too. Kiss Josh for me.
Stage 2:
They’re telling us to get to the roof. Sarah…Sarah, I can’t hear you. What? Yeah, drive up Vanowen toward Valley Circle, up into the hills. Don’t worry about packing anything but clothes and food. Hey, stop pushing me! Damn it! What? Sarah, what? I can’t hear you? Sarah? Sarah? Okay, yeah, I’ll be fine. They’re directing us to the stairwell, the elevators aren’t working…the lights are flickering. Hey, whose kid is this? It’s okay, sweetie, here grab my hand. Sarah, there’s this little girl who’s balling her head off. Too many people. Sarah, I’m going to get off now, okay? The both of you get out of there, now! I’ll call you when we get to the roof. I have to carry this kid…the water is up to her waist. I love you, Sarah. I love you.
Stage 3:
Oh my God, Sarah. The campus, I can’t believe it, the bodies…the bodies. Oh Sarah. Let me talk to Josh. Okay. Joshie boy, hey mijo, you being a brave boy? It’s okay, Josh. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.
DO
Stage 1:
Yeah, sweetie, I have to turn off my phone soon. The panelists are getting seated. Huh? Let me look at my ticket…they always come up with stupid names for these things. Where is it…oh, here, it’s called: “Reading and Writing in the Digital Age.” Huh? Don’t know, but it might be good, who knows. I really wanted to see the Father Boyle, Steve Lopez panel but it was sold out. Anyway, it should be okay. This is a cool building, though. Harris Hall. You had an art class here? No way. Cool. What? Yeah, the drive sucked. Raining like crazy. Barely made it. Oh, gotta’ turn this off, they’re about to start. Love you, too. Kiss Josh for me.
Stage 2:
They’re telling us to get to the roof. Sarah…Sarah, I can’t hear you. What? Yeah, drive up Vanowen toward Valley Circle, up into the hills. Don’t worry about packing anything but clothes and food. Hey, stop pushing me! Damn it! What? Sarah, what? I can’t hear you? Sarah? Sarah? Okay, yeah, I’ll be fine. They’re directing us to the stairwell, the elevators aren’t working…the lights are flickering. Hey, whose kid is this? It’s okay, sweetie, here grab my hand. Sarah, there’s this little girl who’s balling her head off. Too many people. Sarah, I’m going to get off now, okay? The both of you get out of there, now! I’ll call you when we get to the roof. I have to carry this kid…the water is up to her waist. I love you, Sarah. I love you.
Stage 3:
Oh my God, Sarah. The campus, I can’t believe it, the bodies…the bodies. Oh Sarah. Let me talk to Josh. Okay. Joshie boy, hey mijo, you being a brave boy? It’s okay, Josh. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.
DO
Más sobre Manny Velasco
17: Inner courtyard
Stage 1
Just outside the glass doors of the faculty dining room, Town and Gown, a woman, bundled in sweaters, threadbare, pauses with her listing rolling cart, over-full with soda cans and other trash-can discoveries. She sits on the lip of a fountain, which is off today because of the calls for rain. Across from her, something she has passed a thousand times but never noticed, a metal ship above the doors of the building. And further up, adorning the top, cement dolphins and sea horses. Is it just her imagination that she hears rushing water.
Stage 2
It's like a scene out of "Duck Soup." The faculty, from assistants on up to full professor's have stepped out of Town and Gown and into what has become a swimming pool. In their suits, pants, skirts, and silk blouses they sit, elbows resting on the sidewalk, glasses of wine a their side, discussing Fulbrights in the Mediterranean. There's that fellow from Physics. How apropos of his lectures on forces and vectors, he's off the wall: Canon Ball!
Stage 3 Chipped China, jagged shards of stemware, sooty lace napkins, silver serving dishes, swirl in the pestilent noxious discharge water beside beaten up brief cases, and a dozen pair of reading glasses, white board markers, pens, slide show clickers, a bow tie, a compact, a grade book, the detritus of Town and Gown.
MCM
Just outside the glass doors of the faculty dining room, Town and Gown, a woman, bundled in sweaters, threadbare, pauses with her listing rolling cart, over-full with soda cans and other trash-can discoveries. She sits on the lip of a fountain, which is off today because of the calls for rain. Across from her, something she has passed a thousand times but never noticed, a metal ship above the doors of the building. And further up, adorning the top, cement dolphins and sea horses. Is it just her imagination that she hears rushing water.
Stage 2
It's like a scene out of "Duck Soup." The faculty, from assistants on up to full professor's have stepped out of Town and Gown and into what has become a swimming pool. In their suits, pants, skirts, and silk blouses they sit, elbows resting on the sidewalk, glasses of wine a their side, discussing Fulbrights in the Mediterranean. There's that fellow from Physics. How apropos of his lectures on forces and vectors, he's off the wall: Canon Ball!
Stage 3 Chipped China, jagged shards of stemware, sooty lace napkins, silver serving dishes, swirl in the pestilent noxious discharge water beside beaten up brief cases, and a dozen pair of reading glasses, white board markers, pens, slide show clickers, a bow tie, a compact, a grade book, the detritus of Town and Gown.
MCM
Más sobre Inner courtyard
18: Trousdale Parkway (South)
Stage 1
In between classes, the throngs crisscross to unlock bikes, greet friends, seek out food. Some are celebrating an accounting exam passed; others dreading a new flatbed of work that has been delivered to them in the form of a simple slip of paper. The University rhythm is the most well-developed virtual reality dimension in the world, complete with mini-victories, micro-tragedies, larval societies but, look around, the effects are hardly immaterial. Over on the bench, beneath her Dulce & Gabbana’s, that girl is weeping. The boy on his skateboard is on the edge of a bipolar episode. Of course, the man in the suit of rags who shuffles past them both, his reality is no more real, just unbounded by the walls of campus.
Stage 2
It is surreal to swim down toward the pathways that you only recently have been walking. Surreal to see the stuff of the normal world, the backpacks and iPads and flip flops swirling around you. Surreal to be upside down moving past the friends you saw last night, some living some dead. But nothing is more surreal then finding yourself nose to nose with the statue of a dog who was, as the placard explains both fan and mascot.
Stage 3
In the midst of the piles of waste and corpses yet unclaimed by the clean up crews in their hazmat outfits, stands a bust of a man with a querulous smile, and a plaque that reads:
“Create a world that is human and sane, where life is precious and neighbors are trusted - a world so improved you can tell your children you did something to elevate rather than lower the human condition.” Norman Hawkins Topping, M. D. Seventh President of USC, 1958-1970/Chancellor, 1971-1980. Rededicated by the Class of 1959 in honor of its 50th Reunion and the 50th Anniversary of Dr. Topping's first year as president of USC."
MCM
In between classes, the throngs crisscross to unlock bikes, greet friends, seek out food. Some are celebrating an accounting exam passed; others dreading a new flatbed of work that has been delivered to them in the form of a simple slip of paper. The University rhythm is the most well-developed virtual reality dimension in the world, complete with mini-victories, micro-tragedies, larval societies but, look around, the effects are hardly immaterial. Over on the bench, beneath her Dulce & Gabbana’s, that girl is weeping. The boy on his skateboard is on the edge of a bipolar episode. Of course, the man in the suit of rags who shuffles past them both, his reality is no more real, just unbounded by the walls of campus.
Stage 2
It is surreal to swim down toward the pathways that you only recently have been walking. Surreal to see the stuff of the normal world, the backpacks and iPads and flip flops swirling around you. Surreal to be upside down moving past the friends you saw last night, some living some dead. But nothing is more surreal then finding yourself nose to nose with the statue of a dog who was, as the placard explains both fan and mascot.
Stage 3
In the midst of the piles of waste and corpses yet unclaimed by the clean up crews in their hazmat outfits, stands a bust of a man with a querulous smile, and a plaque that reads:
“Create a world that is human and sane, where life is precious and neighbors are trusted - a world so improved you can tell your children you did something to elevate rather than lower the human condition.” Norman Hawkins Topping, M. D. Seventh President of USC, 1958-1970/Chancellor, 1971-1980. Rededicated by the Class of 1959 in honor of its 50th Reunion and the 50th Anniversary of Dr. Topping's first year as president of USC."
MCM
Más sobre Trousdale Parkway (South)
19: Coliseum
Stage 1
The Coliseum is not full, but for today this is the Super Bowl, or at least the Rose Bowl, as these two long time rivals gather for the first ever East LA Classic to be held in this stadium. Named for two very different kinds of Presidents, stand-and-deliver Garfield and current all-time leader Roosevelt meet for bragging rights for the year. Though the field is now a swamp and the rain obscures all visibility, the players duke it out, old-school style before a crowd huddling in ponchos and under tarps, mothers and fathers, tios and tias, who remember when they were students watching this same game. Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, in memory of Los Angeles, they remember. No one is going home early.
Stage 2
The first to take it over was a group of families from Leimert Park, lead by the neighborhoods coalition. With bullhorns and rafts and blankets, they arrived and took quick control of the area. A clearinghouse was set up, goods and services being pulled and redistributed through a network. When the 118th street gang arrived, a group of men from the Nation of Islam quickly approached them and convinced them to work with the community.
Stage 3
The call it Astrodome West, but it is uncovered and rather than servicing hundreds of thousands, it is opening itself up to millions, and what’s more, it is not a government rescue operation. It is not some FEMA fiasco, but a space fully claimed by the people. Inside, it is the global village with a robust micro-economy. Ethnic divisions still exist but more in the division of labor. Armenians run the imports. Mexican Americans the distribution networks. Koreans run the service shuttles. African Americans run the books and maintain the house, the Coliseum itself. Some Caucasian refugees from USC maintain the facilities. They call it the Arc of the Coliseum.
MCM
The Coliseum is not full, but for today this is the Super Bowl, or at least the Rose Bowl, as these two long time rivals gather for the first ever East LA Classic to be held in this stadium. Named for two very different kinds of Presidents, stand-and-deliver Garfield and current all-time leader Roosevelt meet for bragging rights for the year. Though the field is now a swamp and the rain obscures all visibility, the players duke it out, old-school style before a crowd huddling in ponchos and under tarps, mothers and fathers, tios and tias, who remember when they were students watching this same game. Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, in memory of Los Angeles, they remember. No one is going home early.
Stage 2
The first to take it over was a group of families from Leimert Park, lead by the neighborhoods coalition. With bullhorns and rafts and blankets, they arrived and took quick control of the area. A clearinghouse was set up, goods and services being pulled and redistributed through a network. When the 118th street gang arrived, a group of men from the Nation of Islam quickly approached them and convinced them to work with the community.
Stage 3
The call it Astrodome West, but it is uncovered and rather than servicing hundreds of thousands, it is opening itself up to millions, and what’s more, it is not a government rescue operation. It is not some FEMA fiasco, but a space fully claimed by the people. Inside, it is the global village with a robust micro-economy. Ethnic divisions still exist but more in the division of labor. Armenians run the imports. Mexican Americans the distribution networks. Koreans run the service shuttles. African Americans run the books and maintain the house, the Coliseum itself. Some Caucasian refugees from USC maintain the facilities. They call it the Arc of the Coliseum.
MCM
Más sobre Coliseum
20: West Martin Luther King Blvd. & Degnan
Los Angeles, CA 90008
Makeshift memorial
Corner Degnan and King blvd. -- (stage 2)
Here is the corner of Degnan and the Doctor's Street.
On the south East corner, a make-shift memorial, like so many in LA, from those that surround the kings of popular culture on the Walk of Stars to those that spring up around the sides of the road.
In this neighborhood, the memorial on the random street corner, at a random time of year, means some random act of violence has taken the life of a randomly chosen young man, woman, or child. Yes, it all seems so random, but the roulette ball bounces here quite a bit. Yes, a sticky spot on the wheel. Yes, a deep groove on the wheel.
And while the tombs in Forest Lawn might earn a field trip, skipping school brought these tall glass candles, plastic flowers, homemade signs made on the back of science projects. Yes, he was lost but he is not forgotten.
MCM
Más sobre West Martin Luther King Blvd. & Degnan
21: Juan Dominguez
(Juan Dominguez, age 19, idealistic USC student, debating between majoring in Philosophy, or Poetics, or Creative Writing, since Poetics is not a major that exists in the burgundy and gold private university. Location: Park Side Student Housing)
Catastrophic thinking is something we are all accustomed to these days and it makes for a hell of a powerful form of social control, I have to say.
“I can see clearly now / the rain is here”
Catastrophic scenarios of wars in far away lands on the screen, the headlines and the plight of the poor make for good TV indeed.
Now that I think of it and now that the water is literally up to our necks, I understand how easy it was to miss the signs and not pay attention.
Everything had a lot to do with how we have all been portrayed as apathetic, for years now. In fact, now that I think of it, apathy was never the problem, but being disempowered is, or was. The real problem was, forever, a problem of space for participation.
“Consume and be happy” helped.
Who could have thought it could come to this, where everything is either under water or floating.
Luckily for me, Park Side Student Housing’s roof top is high enough I am not going to drown just yet and the view… even though the world has become but a quiet lake now, with a few roof tops shining visibly in the horizon, and furniture, and objects, placidly drifting with their spines above the waters. I now know I should’ve gone Wednesday to hear that panel on the warming of the planet or the melting of it. Well, at least all this water will cool it a little.
I guess it’s welcome to Global Drowning now, or welcome to LA, the city of drowning angels.
RL
Catastrophic thinking is something we are all accustomed to these days and it makes for a hell of a powerful form of social control, I have to say.
“I can see clearly now / the rain is here”
Catastrophic scenarios of wars in far away lands on the screen, the headlines and the plight of the poor make for good TV indeed.
Now that I think of it and now that the water is literally up to our necks, I understand how easy it was to miss the signs and not pay attention.
Everything had a lot to do with how we have all been portrayed as apathetic, for years now. In fact, now that I think of it, apathy was never the problem, but being disempowered is, or was. The real problem was, forever, a problem of space for participation.
“Consume and be happy” helped.
Who could have thought it could come to this, where everything is either under water or floating.
Luckily for me, Park Side Student Housing’s roof top is high enough I am not going to drown just yet and the view… even though the world has become but a quiet lake now, with a few roof tops shining visibly in the horizon, and furniture, and objects, placidly drifting with their spines above the waters. I now know I should’ve gone Wednesday to hear that panel on the warming of the planet or the melting of it. Well, at least all this water will cool it a little.
I guess it’s welcome to Global Drowning now, or welcome to LA, the city of drowning angels.
RL
Más sobre Juan Dominguez
22: Emilio Olivares
Emilio Olivares, Prof. of Anthropology
This guy, approaching now looks hurried. He looks determined. Shit, he is robbing me. My wallet?! All I have in it is my ATM, scraps of paper, and stupid receipts I save to keep from littering the poor neighborhoods. The rich ones are a different story. I will also miss the “Peoples Credit Card” of course, the one my crazy artist friend gave me to always keep in my wallet, with Salvador Allende’s September 11th, 1973 final speech:
“This is the last time I shall be able to speak to you… I will repay with my life the loyalty of the people… I’m certain that the seeds we have sown in the conscience of thousands and thousands of Chileans cannot be completely eradicated.
Neither murder nor force is strong enough to hold back the process of social change. History belongs to us, because it is made by the people.
But my pictures… it’s what I am going to miss most. My children, their pictures.
I should tell him I’m just as angry as he is. Not as desperate and hungry though, I am sure.
If I open my mouth he is probably going to laugh in my face. But I should tell him. So what the hell am I doing thinking about all of this for. The knife in his hand is long enough to puncture an organ if he knows how to use it. He has the strength to stab deep enough.
We have all been robbed. I should tell him. Every single one of us, even me that wasn’t born here. The Wall Street Bankers have robbed us all, and with a smile. Crime will go up but not around their neighborhoods, surely not.
To hell with it, and why not, hope their caviar tastes of it.
I am not giving my wallet up. He will have to take it. Besides, blood and water mix well, and it makes for a pretty sight. It’s a good bleeding day today, as good as any.
This guy, approaching now looks hurried. He looks determined. Shit, he is robbing me. My wallet?! All I have in it is my ATM, scraps of paper, and stupid receipts I save to keep from littering the poor neighborhoods. The rich ones are a different story. I will also miss the “Peoples Credit Card” of course, the one my crazy artist friend gave me to always keep in my wallet, with Salvador Allende’s September 11th, 1973 final speech:
“This is the last time I shall be able to speak to you… I will repay with my life the loyalty of the people… I’m certain that the seeds we have sown in the conscience of thousands and thousands of Chileans cannot be completely eradicated.
Neither murder nor force is strong enough to hold back the process of social change. History belongs to us, because it is made by the people.
But my pictures… it’s what I am going to miss most. My children, their pictures.
I should tell him I’m just as angry as he is. Not as desperate and hungry though, I am sure.
If I open my mouth he is probably going to laugh in my face. But I should tell him. So what the hell am I doing thinking about all of this for. The knife in his hand is long enough to puncture an organ if he knows how to use it. He has the strength to stab deep enough.
We have all been robbed. I should tell him. Every single one of us, even me that wasn’t born here. The Wall Street Bankers have robbed us all, and with a smile. Crime will go up but not around their neighborhoods, surely not.
To hell with it, and why not, hope their caviar tastes of it.
I am not giving my wallet up. He will have to take it. Besides, blood and water mix well, and it makes for a pretty sight. It’s a good bleeding day today, as good as any.
Más sobre Emilio Olivares
24: 110 Downtown
Stage 2
The overpasses and overlooks that once served as perches for angels, now form waterfalls as downtown is transformed from a concrete jungle to an amazonian rainforest.
And as commuters sit in the gridlock, already their cars have begun to buoy, to rise up, and freed from lanes, from steering columns, from breaks, they begin to collide, like boats unmoored.
Some have already sunken below as the lower portions of the Freeway, framed as they are with walls of graffiti over murals over graffiti, become channels, canals that appear bottomless but for the ragtops and even police lights that poke out.
The overpasses and overlooks that once served as perches for angels, now form waterfalls as downtown is transformed from a concrete jungle to an amazonian rainforest.
And as commuters sit in the gridlock, already their cars have begun to buoy, to rise up, and freed from lanes, from steering columns, from breaks, they begin to collide, like boats unmoored.
Some have already sunken below as the lower portions of the Freeway, framed as they are with walls of graffiti over murals over graffiti, become channels, canals that appear bottomless but for the ragtops and even police lights that poke out.
Más sobre 110 Downtown
25: Flynt Building
At the corner of Wilshire and La Cienaga stands the glass tower of Larry Flynt, from the top of which he can stare out of the world he helped create through walls of shaded sunglasses. The revolving door spins in long-legged women in various states of undress and more rounded ordinary folks, holding their jaws from gentle story. The building also houses the Consulate of the Brazilians, the irony of which Flynt no doubt finds delicious. As the water begins to fill the street and rise toward the entrance, the glint of the golden tiles of the walls outside the elevators at times glimmers in the water.
Before it, a rider on a horse.
Stage: 2
The mounted John Wayne appears to be about to leave his pedestal and wade into the water. His mode of transportation seems no less practical than the parked cars that have started to drift into the traffic, rising, floating as they are.
He is the remnant of the Great Western Savings Days as opposed to the Sad Western Decay perhaps evidenced not so much by the Flynt building itself but its terrible need for renters.
A hatch opens in the Flynt building through which travels a bejeweled and gilded matchbox boat, big enough for one publishing magnet with a driver, barely able to squeeze into the front.
Stage 3
What remains of Sodom and Gomorrah after the swift hand of the Lord closed them for business? (What happens in Gomorrah stays in Gomorrah.) Those who look back are turned to pillars of salt. And what is the fate of those who pick through the fallen rubble, encounter scraps of moldy, glossy sheets of foulest exploitation and feel a sense of nostalgia? What pillars of spice awaits their lot?
Before it, a rider on a horse.
Stage: 2
The mounted John Wayne appears to be about to leave his pedestal and wade into the water. His mode of transportation seems no less practical than the parked cars that have started to drift into the traffic, rising, floating as they are.
He is the remnant of the Great Western Savings Days as opposed to the Sad Western Decay perhaps evidenced not so much by the Flynt building itself but its terrible need for renters.
A hatch opens in the Flynt building through which travels a bejeweled and gilded matchbox boat, big enough for one publishing magnet with a driver, barely able to squeeze into the front.
Stage 3
What remains of Sodom and Gomorrah after the swift hand of the Lord closed them for business? (What happens in Gomorrah stays in Gomorrah.) Those who look back are turned to pillars of salt. And what is the fate of those who pick through the fallen rubble, encounter scraps of moldy, glossy sheets of foulest exploitation and feel a sense of nostalgia? What pillars of spice awaits their lot?
Más sobre Flynt Building
26: Marina del Rey
Stage 1
There are signs on the side of the road, even five miles in from the water, that post a Tsunami evacuation notice. And when you see them, you can't help wonder if the civil engineers chose the height of the sign on the pole for a particular reason, having run countless computer simulations, they had determined that this is the height you would float to, swim past on your way back to the city.
But today, the water is coming from the other direction, not from the sea, yet, but from the little creek known as Ballona, which was once tied directly to the heart of the Los Angeles river but was demoted to a creek in the cement days and the grand bypass that prioritized all arteries to the Port of Los Angeles over this little dog leg.
But as a sign of the unflagging memory of geography, the waters have been filling up this little trough for quite some time. Already the conscientious and disciplined pink and teal joggers of Playa Del Rey have fled for fear of soaking their custom orthotic running shoes. Already, the current has begun to grow, and a little dog bobbing in a wheel barrow is the first sign that this channel will be soon be flushing the unsecured matter of the city.
Stage 2.
On an ordinary day in Marina Del Rey, tourists with a craving for some watery delights stroll along the walk beside the bright pink and yellow buildings of Fisherman's Village, scanning the Marina for sea lions, scattering or gathering the gulls, and if they so wish, renting a kayak to paddle through the majestic boats. Feeling very much the Gabrielino Indian, tourists can paddle silently behind the row of restaurants that line Admiralty, Tony P's, the Warehouse, and ending at the Cheese Cake Factory at Mother's Beach.
In the flood of the century, as the news has called it, the flood of the Millennium as it will one day be known, the baseline raises along with the boats.
Now the kayak tour can bring you where the waters have reclaimed the land from the joggers and in and around the high rises, the condos that once promised views from every room.
But of course, there is no room for kayaks today. The boats are now full. Emergency preparations are in order. Travelers are reading their missions either to return to the city and rescue or to evacuate out to Catalina or San Diego or even back up North to the Golden Gateway.
The noise of the motors is deafening, and the smell of diesel deadly. No one will be going anywhere. It is just another LA traffic jam. A sigalert on the waterways.
And amid all these mighty sailing craft, traveling dangerously between them, too close to prow and motor, the makeshift crafts, made of scrap metal, sleds, inflatable mattresses, anything that floats. And bound, at times, literally, here are the Angelinos that will not go down, that will not be taken under the waters that are reclaiming this city.
Stage 3
There’s a scene in a movie, one of the Johnny Depp pirate movies, where the pirate lords gather at their secret hideout, which is depicted as a twisted mass of capsized ships. Hollywood, or so you thought, trades on escape, on vociferous denial of a any earnest conversation, but here in the decimated Marina, laid waste worse than by a thousand Krakens, is a poignancy, a pertinence of this presage, a feeling that scurrilous scoundrel had actually been a faithful friend, followed almost immediately by the stark realization that all the narratives you’ve ever sailed by have been in one canon flash extinguished.
-- MCM
There are signs on the side of the road, even five miles in from the water, that post a Tsunami evacuation notice. And when you see them, you can't help wonder if the civil engineers chose the height of the sign on the pole for a particular reason, having run countless computer simulations, they had determined that this is the height you would float to, swim past on your way back to the city.
But today, the water is coming from the other direction, not from the sea, yet, but from the little creek known as Ballona, which was once tied directly to the heart of the Los Angeles river but was demoted to a creek in the cement days and the grand bypass that prioritized all arteries to the Port of Los Angeles over this little dog leg.
But as a sign of the unflagging memory of geography, the waters have been filling up this little trough for quite some time. Already the conscientious and disciplined pink and teal joggers of Playa Del Rey have fled for fear of soaking their custom orthotic running shoes. Already, the current has begun to grow, and a little dog bobbing in a wheel barrow is the first sign that this channel will be soon be flushing the unsecured matter of the city.
Stage 2.
On an ordinary day in Marina Del Rey, tourists with a craving for some watery delights stroll along the walk beside the bright pink and yellow buildings of Fisherman's Village, scanning the Marina for sea lions, scattering or gathering the gulls, and if they so wish, renting a kayak to paddle through the majestic boats. Feeling very much the Gabrielino Indian, tourists can paddle silently behind the row of restaurants that line Admiralty, Tony P's, the Warehouse, and ending at the Cheese Cake Factory at Mother's Beach.
In the flood of the century, as the news has called it, the flood of the Millennium as it will one day be known, the baseline raises along with the boats.
Now the kayak tour can bring you where the waters have reclaimed the land from the joggers and in and around the high rises, the condos that once promised views from every room.
But of course, there is no room for kayaks today. The boats are now full. Emergency preparations are in order. Travelers are reading their missions either to return to the city and rescue or to evacuate out to Catalina or San Diego or even back up North to the Golden Gateway.
The noise of the motors is deafening, and the smell of diesel deadly. No one will be going anywhere. It is just another LA traffic jam. A sigalert on the waterways.
And amid all these mighty sailing craft, traveling dangerously between them, too close to prow and motor, the makeshift crafts, made of scrap metal, sleds, inflatable mattresses, anything that floats. And bound, at times, literally, here are the Angelinos that will not go down, that will not be taken under the waters that are reclaiming this city.
Stage 3
There’s a scene in a movie, one of the Johnny Depp pirate movies, where the pirate lords gather at their secret hideout, which is depicted as a twisted mass of capsized ships. Hollywood, or so you thought, trades on escape, on vociferous denial of a any earnest conversation, but here in the decimated Marina, laid waste worse than by a thousand Krakens, is a poignancy, a pertinence of this presage, a feeling that scurrilous scoundrel had actually been a faithful friend, followed almost immediately by the stark realization that all the narratives you’ve ever sailed by have been in one canon flash extinguished.
-- MCM
Más sobre Marina del Rey
27: Perloff Hall
Perloff Hall, UCLA's Campus
Stage 1.
This high above UCLA’s campus,
the peek of the public ivory tower,
no water can reach the base of the colonnades.
As rain begins to fall outside,
inside, all the techno who’s who are showing what's what and how's how
without any thought to the why's why.
Stage 2:
The water has engulfed the lower portions of campus.
Men in lab coats,
veterans and homeless,
kids with backpacks, futons, microwaves,
all crouch like they were camping out for football tickets.
Some have started to get ugly about space.
Skirmishes. Some shoving. A knife. Mostly civil but slipping.
The conferencees have all moved to the second floor, looking down at the encampment. They cover their heads with their posters, hold their demos above their heads in baggies.
The streams of people continue to plod upstream against the rushing water.
Stage 3.
All that was not mobile that couldn't be tucked into pockets,
slung on backpacks,
zipped into purses or slipped into braziers
was left in cybertide pools of cables and wires, circuit boards forming a kind of coral reef of motherboards and microprocessors.
All this future-ware has been submerged
set a drift across the lower chasms of UCLA
toward Wilshire and Westwood
till they have come to rest in a river
at the Cost Plus on Santa Monica Blvd
where they collect with the detritus of the globalized, factory made tribal sculptures, thick, heavy, white place settings,bamboo placemats, and then eddies of coke cans, heroine needles, empty wallets, headshots, bundles of newspapers, bedsheets and blackberries, gas masks and gas cans, laptops and lattes, insulin and oxygen tanks:
rubbish.
Stage 1.
This high above UCLA’s campus,
the peek of the public ivory tower,
no water can reach the base of the colonnades.
As rain begins to fall outside,
inside, all the techno who’s who are showing what's what and how's how
without any thought to the why's why.
Stage 2:
The water has engulfed the lower portions of campus.
Men in lab coats,
veterans and homeless,
kids with backpacks, futons, microwaves,
all crouch like they were camping out for football tickets.
Some have started to get ugly about space.
Skirmishes. Some shoving. A knife. Mostly civil but slipping.
The conferencees have all moved to the second floor, looking down at the encampment. They cover their heads with their posters, hold their demos above their heads in baggies.
The streams of people continue to plod upstream against the rushing water.
Stage 3.
All that was not mobile that couldn't be tucked into pockets,
slung on backpacks,
zipped into purses or slipped into braziers
was left in cybertide pools of cables and wires, circuit boards forming a kind of coral reef of motherboards and microprocessors.
All this future-ware has been submerged
set a drift across the lower chasms of UCLA
toward Wilshire and Westwood
till they have come to rest in a river
at the Cost Plus on Santa Monica Blvd
where they collect with the detritus of the globalized, factory made tribal sculptures, thick, heavy, white place settings,bamboo placemats, and then eddies of coke cans, heroine needles, empty wallets, headshots, bundles of newspapers, bedsheets and blackberries, gas masks and gas cans, laptops and lattes, insulin and oxygen tanks:
rubbish.
Más sobre Perloff Hall
28: Kenneth Hahn State Park and Oil Fields
Stage 1
High above the dirty basin of the city, a park rises early for its morning jog and for sips of twilight wine as it watches the transformation into electric lights. Its serenity is marred only by the whining of it oil machines, rhythmically pumping, sucking the ground for all its worth, for the elixir that keeps that body of the city in tact, while clogging the freeways so often referred to as arteries.
Stage 2
As the rain turns the hillsides of Kenneth Hahn to something out of the Amazon or Argentina, it scours the oil pumps, stripping away all that dirt packed at their base. And their whine continues in the midst of the darkness like Kubla Kahn's woman writing and wailing for her demon lover. The mudslides reveal concrete beneath the machines, and the bare earth shows the machines to be as skeletons, calaveras dancing on the hillside, bobbing in time, dancing in the rain.
Stage 3
A boy and his father stand on hilltop and wonder.Trees felled. Bones buried. Towering drilling wells toppled. All is a mound. All is mulch. And this, too, will become oil, says the father.The playground equipment remains. As do the pumping machines. Like geriatric bones still fused with titanium screws.No pathways nor signage, roadways nor residence. No persons nor beast, flora nor fauna.This was nirvana.And the boy loosens his grip.And from this distance, the city seen much too clearly to actually be LA appears, with the shimmer of cinema, unchanged, untouched, forgiven, as from a distance all is so. A boy and his father stand on hilltop and wander.
-- MCM
Más sobre Kenneth Hahn State Park and Oil Fields
29: LA County Public Library -- Main Library
Stage 1
He is the sentinel of the library stacks, the minuteman of the microfiche. If you have forbidden fruit, illegal imbibery, or unallowable onions, the man you will reckon with, in his taut burgundy suspenders and tidy bow tie, is Albert Winston Sanchez. The son of a crossing guard and a parking enforcer, he grew up playing among these hallowed stacks, when card catalogs were secret keys to untold paginated pleasures, well indexed, sorted, delivered with the simple submission of a request slip across the desk of the librarian. And now they are his care, so no matter if you are old or enfeebled, tired homeless and cold, or a runny-nosed toddler with hyper-attention and over-active bowels, you and your mother or nanny will abide by the rules that act as the frail bulwark against the armies of ants and militias of mold. And so it is with at first mild perturbation that Albert reacts, when he first notices on his clipboard checklist, the jagged circle of the first raindrop that has somehow penetrated the vault of the ceiling. Albert looks toward the arc of the ceiling and whispers with determination, We'll see about that.
Stage 2
The book-laden water cascades down the escalators of the Los Angeles' shrine to the printed word – a library in Lala Land! -- this fanciful Valhalla that the rest of the world could hardly believe exists outside of some sound stage -- with the possible exception of Ray Bradbury and the litany of authors whose undeniably massive life’s work is logjamming down the escalators like some Amazon of prose, poetry, maps, and deeds, variorums of velum roiling downward.Yet at the bottom of the stairs, a woman, up to her knee-highs in water, her over-stuffed grocery bags floating away, screams at Albert at the top of emphysema lungs -- cheeks enflamed with spiderwebs of scarlet and pink and violet-- What about my books? What about my books!
Stage 3
A library is a metaphor, a vessel of civic wisdom, of data stored and shared, a great thermos of knowledge passed around the communal campsite in a night with hardly a star. And at the bottom of it all, at its base, where lukewarm waters pool and puddle, where acid-free pulp, circuits and silicon have proven equally vulnerable to sog, from his spot on the stairs, his leg pinned beneath, of all things, an ancient card catalog, all Albert can think is…backwash.
-- MCM
Más sobre LA County Public Library -- Main Library
30: Terrence and Linda
Terrence
Lin, when are you coming home?
Linda
I’m in Doheny.
Terrence
You’re in Doheny Library? Still?
Linda
It’s raining hard. I’ve got to get this done, Terrence, but I’m finishing up.” She turns the page and continues writing.
Terrence
Yeah, it’s coming down here, too…just a sec…
I believe I said, ‘Set the table, Terry.’ Please.
Terry!
Linda
I don’t know if I should chance the roads right now –
Terrence
Yeah… yeah I think you should come home. You gotta come now. Remember honey, we live on the biggest hill in the area – PV. When you get here, you’ll be safe. And I’ll feel…
Terry!
Terry (a 12 year-old girl)
What?! I couldn’t hear you. The rain is too loud.
Terrence
What did I ask?...
Sorry Lin. Are you leaving yet?
Terry
Set the table. Set the table. Set the table… (Terry’s voice goes on muttering)
Terrence
So you heard me…
Lin – are you listening to me? Are you in the car yet?
Terry (voice rising)
That must be it. That’s all you ever say: Where’s your homework? Did you do your chores? Time for dinnnnnerrrr. Set the table. Set the table… (The sound of plastic plates and bowls clapping down on the table, forks, knives, and spoons tossed in the middle.)
A dog whines.
Terrence
Ty! Let that dog out! And get a couple of towels ready for when he comes in. It’s a mess out there and –
Terry
– And I don’t want mud tracked all over the $50,000 floor…” then continues muttering and clanking down silverware and cups. “Would you prefer the Wedgewood China or the Pfaltzgraff, Father?!
The dog whines again.
Terrence
Ty! What are you doing on the couch?
C’mon, boy. (He opens the sliding glass door. The rush of wind is heard through the phone.)
Wow. It’s a mess out there. Ty! Timmy!... Ty! Come look at the rain. Check out the lakes and rivers in our yard…
Terry
Yeah, Dad. I see.
A small boy’s voice
Vrooooom! Crash!... I want Mommy home. Where’s Mommy?
Terrence
Yeah, Timmy. I’m talking to her right now. She’ll be home real soon.
You want to say hi to Timmy, hon?...
Ty!!... C’mon Timmy. Time for dinnnnnerr. Get to the sink in 5, 4, 3,
(whispered) You need to come home soon.
Terry
C’mon, Timmy. I’ll help you wash.
Timmy
First! I’m ready to eat!
Terrence
Oh, good job, Tommy. Let’s eat! Ty!!! (angry now)
(The TV beeps off. Books fall on the floor.)
Ty (15 years old)
Damn, Dad. It’s a mess out there. Lucky we live up on the hill. How’s Mom going to make it home?
(Long silence.)
Chairs are heard scraping.
Terrence
Wash up for dinner, please Ty.
A loud thump is heard through the cell phone. A shaking.
Terrence
Actually – say grace first with us, Ty. Then wash up. And take out those head phones.
KS
Lin, when are you coming home?
Linda
I’m in Doheny.
Terrence
You’re in Doheny Library? Still?
Linda
It’s raining hard. I’ve got to get this done, Terrence, but I’m finishing up.” She turns the page and continues writing.
Terrence
Yeah, it’s coming down here, too…just a sec…
I believe I said, ‘Set the table, Terry.’ Please.
Terry!
Linda
I don’t know if I should chance the roads right now –
Terrence
Yeah… yeah I think you should come home. You gotta come now. Remember honey, we live on the biggest hill in the area – PV. When you get here, you’ll be safe. And I’ll feel…
Terry!
Terry (a 12 year-old girl)
What?! I couldn’t hear you. The rain is too loud.
Terrence
What did I ask?...
Sorry Lin. Are you leaving yet?
Terry
Set the table. Set the table. Set the table… (Terry’s voice goes on muttering)
Terrence
So you heard me…
Lin – are you listening to me? Are you in the car yet?
Terry (voice rising)
That must be it. That’s all you ever say: Where’s your homework? Did you do your chores? Time for dinnnnnerrrr. Set the table. Set the table… (The sound of plastic plates and bowls clapping down on the table, forks, knives, and spoons tossed in the middle.)
A dog whines.
Terrence
Ty! Let that dog out! And get a couple of towels ready for when he comes in. It’s a mess out there and –
Terry
– And I don’t want mud tracked all over the $50,000 floor…” then continues muttering and clanking down silverware and cups. “Would you prefer the Wedgewood China or the Pfaltzgraff, Father?!
The dog whines again.
Terrence
Ty! What are you doing on the couch?
C’mon, boy. (He opens the sliding glass door. The rush of wind is heard through the phone.)
Wow. It’s a mess out there. Ty! Timmy!... Ty! Come look at the rain. Check out the lakes and rivers in our yard…
Terry
Yeah, Dad. I see.
A small boy’s voice
Vrooooom! Crash!... I want Mommy home. Where’s Mommy?
Terrence
Yeah, Timmy. I’m talking to her right now. She’ll be home real soon.
You want to say hi to Timmy, hon?...
Ty!!... C’mon Timmy. Time for dinnnnnerr. Get to the sink in 5, 4, 3,
(whispered) You need to come home soon.
Terry
C’mon, Timmy. I’ll help you wash.
Timmy
First! I’m ready to eat!
Terrence
Oh, good job, Tommy. Let’s eat! Ty!!! (angry now)
(The TV beeps off. Books fall on the floor.)
Ty (15 years old)
Damn, Dad. It’s a mess out there. Lucky we live up on the hill. How’s Mom going to make it home?
(Long silence.)
Chairs are heard scraping.
Terrence
Wash up for dinner, please Ty.
A loud thump is heard through the cell phone. A shaking.
Terrence
Actually – say grace first with us, Ty. Then wash up. And take out those head phones.
KS
Más sobre Terrence and Linda
31: Denker & King
Stage1:
The intersection of Denker and King marks the intersection of justice and injustice. Of clean wash and dirty gas station lots. LAPD across from Celes King III Bail Bonds, finger printing, and notary public. And if that doesn't wash it all clean, please step up and meet the Congress of Racial Equality, of the big four Civil Rights groups to rise up in the nation. CORE, King, Cops, Wash, and Gas. If you are dirty or running on empty, if you are on the right or wrong side of laws, just or unjust, this intersection will help you find your way.
And when the waters come in, from all four directions, station managers look out through bullet proof glass and say: Let's see what happens next.
The intersection of Denker and King marks the intersection of justice and injustice. Of clean wash and dirty gas station lots. LAPD across from Celes King III Bail Bonds, finger printing, and notary public. And if that doesn't wash it all clean, please step up and meet the Congress of Racial Equality, of the big four Civil Rights groups to rise up in the nation. CORE, King, Cops, Wash, and Gas. If you are dirty or running on empty, if you are on the right or wrong side of laws, just or unjust, this intersection will help you find your way.
And when the waters come in, from all four directions, station managers look out through bullet proof glass and say: Let's see what happens next.
Más sobre Denker & King
34: Natural History Museum, Expo Park
Stage 1
The ichthyologists in the basement saw the first sign. The old tunnels began to leak in coffee-colored streams and threaten the shelves of neatly labeled and preserved sea life. One call confirmed this was not just another plumbing problem. The school kids had already been evacuated to the second floor and there was barely enough time to grab the computers and get out the door.
Stage 2
Dioramas became aquariums. The hair on the coats of the musk oxen floated all feathery like a fine kelp forest. The polar bears were back in their element. A walrus glided on his faux ice flow. Indian beads and insect legs swirled through in the imitation scenery.
Stage 3
An interesting smell: the rot of creatures already long dead. Clumps of what appears to be moldy rugs and soggy wood are decorated with random glass eyes. A bit of T-Rex jaw protrudes from an elephant hide. Water still drains from the surviving dioramas and a chimpanzee bobs helplessly behind the glass.
-- NET
The ichthyologists in the basement saw the first sign. The old tunnels began to leak in coffee-colored streams and threaten the shelves of neatly labeled and preserved sea life. One call confirmed this was not just another plumbing problem. The school kids had already been evacuated to the second floor and there was barely enough time to grab the computers and get out the door.
Stage 2
Dioramas became aquariums. The hair on the coats of the musk oxen floated all feathery like a fine kelp forest. The polar bears were back in their element. A walrus glided on his faux ice flow. Indian beads and insect legs swirled through in the imitation scenery.
Stage 3
An interesting smell: the rot of creatures already long dead. Clumps of what appears to be moldy rugs and soggy wood are decorated with random glass eyes. A bit of T-Rex jaw protrudes from an elephant hide. Water still drains from the surviving dioramas and a chimpanzee bobs helplessly behind the glass.
-- NET
Más sobre Natural History Museum, Expo Park
35: Melrose Ave & N Vermont Ave
Stage 1In this stretch from Melrose to Monroe: a Yoshinoya, Papa's John's Pizza, McDonald's., Que Rico, Golfo de Fonseca with it's pupusas, the international food court readies its wares for a hungry college-bound crowd, beckoning, step out of the rain, step into salt, oil, vinegar, soy sauce, onions, and garlic mixed in the pot called global capital. Stage 2The evacuation boats arrive early at the Braille Institute. Public sensitivities for once seeking the less fortunate before themselves. Police boats from the Marina and from the port made their way quickly up Vermont itself. When they arrive the campus is empty, doors swing open at the force of swat team commando kicks only to reveal floating closed-circuit tvs and pamphlets about macular degernation. There are no blind students anywhere in the low, flat Azetec looking structure. They have all gone away, some weeks ago because although they could not see, they had been listening. Stage 3Notebooks doused with ink, marinated text books, floating folders, submerged folders from City College have flown out into the street, the dream of the bright ripe grove of California higher education now compost rinds in the streets. As the last drops fall, the tick tock of a stick on pave
Más sobre Melrose Ave & N Vermont Ave
36: St Vincent Medical Center
Stage I
After praying and pleading, cajoling and collecting every tiny coin, here in 1856, three nuns founded a hospital—the first in L.A. It sits above MacArthur Park. MacArthur Park where the trees and lawn and even the benches have been melting for days like that cake in rain sung of long ago. Perhaps today St. Vincent’s will be a place of refuge or at least a place to view the workings of the everyday lives of saints.
Stage II
There are no trashcans left. The walls and ceilings weep. Nurses slide into LVNs and all the gurneys need mud flaps. Partitions collapse as the air shakes before the tidal surge. A surgeon falls across her patient when lights sizzle. The back-up generators groan. The halls and stairwells seethe with fear. Hail Mary, full of grace, and St. Vincent, too.
Stage III
Weeks and weeks before while no one was looking, water logged had become a new disease. But weather forecasters would not pronounce the prophecies in the days of drenching rain. Now nuns from New Guinea, nuns from Guinea Bissau sing litanies of water-borne diseases. They know: the remains of the day are amoebic and hungry to live.
-NET
After praying and pleading, cajoling and collecting every tiny coin, here in 1856, three nuns founded a hospital—the first in L.A. It sits above MacArthur Park. MacArthur Park where the trees and lawn and even the benches have been melting for days like that cake in rain sung of long ago. Perhaps today St. Vincent’s will be a place of refuge or at least a place to view the workings of the everyday lives of saints.
Stage II
There are no trashcans left. The walls and ceilings weep. Nurses slide into LVNs and all the gurneys need mud flaps. Partitions collapse as the air shakes before the tidal surge. A surgeon falls across her patient when lights sizzle. The back-up generators groan. The halls and stairwells seethe with fear. Hail Mary, full of grace, and St. Vincent, too.
Stage III
Weeks and weeks before while no one was looking, water logged had become a new disease. But weather forecasters would not pronounce the prophecies in the days of drenching rain. Now nuns from New Guinea, nuns from Guinea Bissau sing litanies of water-borne diseases. They know: the remains of the day are amoebic and hungry to live.
-NET
Más sobre St Vincent Medical Center
37: Chloe and Tia
Chloe and Tia
30-something exercise addicts
on their mountain bikes
Location: Griffith Park bike trails
Stage I
Chloe: So my brother gives me a weather app for my birthday and he says right to my face, “You couldn’t find an umbrella with two hands and a flashlight!”
Tia: Harsh.
Chloe: He so does not get me. I don’t want to be a tax attorney or any attorney. He thinks he’s soooo perfect.
Tia: Typical. Men.
Chloe: Anyway, like I told you, the shop’s just starting to buzz. I’ve got 137 followers on Twitter!
Tia: Caffeine massage. Hot.
Chole: Wet is natural, you know. And we’re so about natural. Who’s afraid of rain! Like spandex dries out in two seconds once you hit the Starbucks.
Tia: Trail’s kinda squishy here.
Chloe. Eeew. Ick. I guess mud’s natural, too. Let’s head for the sunny side of the ridge. I told you the skies would clear. I mean, at least the clouds broke up. We can—What the--? Rain!?!
Tia: Didn’t you check your app?
Stage II
Chloe: Can’t—even—see.
Tia: Up.
Chloe: Stay close. There could be mudslides. Subsidence. Learned that at St. Monica’s. I—
Tia: Shut up.
Chloe: We could die! This isn’t just rain. Why didn’t you say anything?
Tia: Even apps lie.
Chloe: I’m going to be so nobody! The shop. My car. I was going to will you my shoes. We can’t make it through this!
Tia: Shut up and ride!
Chloe: The trees are sliding! Melting—We’re close. Oh, Tia. The ridge. We’re there!
It’s—
Tia: It’s gone. All fucking gone.
Stage III
Chloe: At least we have stuff. I’ve got nutrition bars, sunscreen, Band-Aids, a whistle, tire repair kit, water—
Tia: Water.
Chole: Jeez. Look at all those people packed around the observatory. I don’t think my Berry got wet, but I’m not getting any bars.
Tia: Bars. Mojitos.
Chloe: Are you crazy? Wait, what if there are no bars? I did not think—just saw the wreckage. Bars, hospitals, the Grove—important stuff could be all gone. Maybe we should go.
Tia: Where? No home.
Chloe: We could be homeless! All I can see is glittery wet like a big reservoir. My brother’s house must be totaled—Manhattan Beach. And our place? Wow, an underwater WeHo. Where will we go?
Tia: We will go on.
Chloe: You’re getting too cosmic on me. Are you OK? Maybe there are firemen or policemen down there to ask what to do. Observatory guys are smart. Maybe they know what’s safe and what’s gone.
Tia: Men. Just another disaster, babe.
30-something exercise addicts
on their mountain bikes
Location: Griffith Park bike trails
Stage I
Chloe: So my brother gives me a weather app for my birthday and he says right to my face, “You couldn’t find an umbrella with two hands and a flashlight!”
Tia: Harsh.
Chloe: He so does not get me. I don’t want to be a tax attorney or any attorney. He thinks he’s soooo perfect.
Tia: Typical. Men.
Chloe: Anyway, like I told you, the shop’s just starting to buzz. I’ve got 137 followers on Twitter!
Tia: Caffeine massage. Hot.
Chole: Wet is natural, you know. And we’re so about natural. Who’s afraid of rain! Like spandex dries out in two seconds once you hit the Starbucks.
Tia: Trail’s kinda squishy here.
Chloe. Eeew. Ick. I guess mud’s natural, too. Let’s head for the sunny side of the ridge. I told you the skies would clear. I mean, at least the clouds broke up. We can—What the--? Rain!?!
Tia: Didn’t you check your app?
Stage II
Chloe: Can’t—even—see.
Tia: Up.
Chloe: Stay close. There could be mudslides. Subsidence. Learned that at St. Monica’s. I—
Tia: Shut up.
Chloe: We could die! This isn’t just rain. Why didn’t you say anything?
Tia: Even apps lie.
Chloe: I’m going to be so nobody! The shop. My car. I was going to will you my shoes. We can’t make it through this!
Tia: Shut up and ride!
Chloe: The trees are sliding! Melting—We’re close. Oh, Tia. The ridge. We’re there!
It’s—
Tia: It’s gone. All fucking gone.
Stage III
Chloe: At least we have stuff. I’ve got nutrition bars, sunscreen, Band-Aids, a whistle, tire repair kit, water—
Tia: Water.
Chole: Jeez. Look at all those people packed around the observatory. I don’t think my Berry got wet, but I’m not getting any bars.
Tia: Bars. Mojitos.
Chloe: Are you crazy? Wait, what if there are no bars? I did not think—just saw the wreckage. Bars, hospitals, the Grove—important stuff could be all gone. Maybe we should go.
Tia: Where? No home.
Chloe: We could be homeless! All I can see is glittery wet like a big reservoir. My brother’s house must be totaled—Manhattan Beach. And our place? Wow, an underwater WeHo. Where will we go?
Tia: We will go on.
Chloe: You’re getting too cosmic on me. Are you OK? Maybe there are firemen or policemen down there to ask what to do. Observatory guys are smart. Maybe they know what’s safe and what’s gone.
Tia: Men. Just another disaster, babe.
Más sobre Chloe and Tia
38: Chi Novak
Recovered excerpts of PIspectral blog of Chi Novak, paranormal investigator
based in Venice, CA.
Initial Introductory Notes (B. Vega, Western Group Monitor):
Physical location of events believed to beLos Angeles International Airport, and specifically, Tom Bradley International
Terminal. However, linguistic indications present suspected post-trauma
memory re-interpretation.
The Entries:
Stage 1: 1700 hours
There was no leaving LAX that night. The Coven of the Lost Angels held the radar
screens, held nearby Hyperion, and plugged the drainage pipes, plugged the
runoff tunnels all along L.A's concrete riverbed. Subterranean the brew swirled
backing up plumbing from Bakersfield to Burbank to Baja to the Bay of Whales
beyond. And I was chasing those brujas because I heard Maristela say again as
she sat faithfully at the reception desk, “It’s brujas, for sure.” Her family
had come here by way of Van Nuys. Mine were still all by their TVs in Torrance.
I tried to ignore her, but I could hear her gum snapping in the back of my
brain. It was my job not to believe but the Santa Anas came late and every crazy
west of the 405 rolled into my office to complain. So, Maristela called her
abuelitas and got the scoop and it was brujas and they were mad.
Stage 2: 1900 hours
This time I was too late. No cell. Nada. All I could do was feel it coming,
like bugs running up my arms. The brujas were laughing--three of them, so Macbeth and
so portentous. I’d traced those creatures to Tom Bradley. I 'm good when I’m on
my game. But they weren’t going to talk. They were laughing in at least eight
languages. They were laughing out incantations and omens: the scourge of
conspicuous consumption is coming! Better than brooms and vacuums! Better than
blood! The runway began to rattle. Small tornados of dust and feathers and paper
napkins rose all around. And I watched the world go black, then old coke-bottle
green and algal brown. I closed my eyes as the mountain of coffee grounds and
orange rinds, of beer cans and burger boxes, of stained diapers and pages and
pages and pages of bad screenplays swept across the airfield.
Stage 3: 2100 hours
All praise the secret life of engineers! The glass held. The backup generators
sent out frizzly fits of light. And I could hear Maristela saying, “Watch for
los gatos, a good thing.” And I saw the brujas’ cats weaving all around their
skirts. Maybe Maristela made it to the hills. Maybe now I believed. Baffled
tourists sunk down and stared at a sideways 747 as it flapped its broken wing
just beyond the glass. I heard the brujas laughing and in a swirl reeking of
brimstone and Cinnabon, they were gone.
based in Venice, CA.
Initial Introductory Notes (B. Vega, Western Group Monitor):
Physical location of events believed to beLos Angeles International Airport, and specifically, Tom Bradley International
Terminal. However, linguistic indications present suspected post-trauma
memory re-interpretation.
The Entries:
Stage 1: 1700 hours
There was no leaving LAX that night. The Coven of the Lost Angels held the radar
screens, held nearby Hyperion, and plugged the drainage pipes, plugged the
runoff tunnels all along L.A's concrete riverbed. Subterranean the brew swirled
backing up plumbing from Bakersfield to Burbank to Baja to the Bay of Whales
beyond. And I was chasing those brujas because I heard Maristela say again as
she sat faithfully at the reception desk, “It’s brujas, for sure.” Her family
had come here by way of Van Nuys. Mine were still all by their TVs in Torrance.
I tried to ignore her, but I could hear her gum snapping in the back of my
brain. It was my job not to believe but the Santa Anas came late and every crazy
west of the 405 rolled into my office to complain. So, Maristela called her
abuelitas and got the scoop and it was brujas and they were mad.
Stage 2: 1900 hours
This time I was too late. No cell. Nada. All I could do was feel it coming,
like bugs running up my arms. The brujas were laughing--three of them, so Macbeth and
so portentous. I’d traced those creatures to Tom Bradley. I 'm good when I’m on
my game. But they weren’t going to talk. They were laughing in at least eight
languages. They were laughing out incantations and omens: the scourge of
conspicuous consumption is coming! Better than brooms and vacuums! Better than
blood! The runway began to rattle. Small tornados of dust and feathers and paper
napkins rose all around. And I watched the world go black, then old coke-bottle
green and algal brown. I closed my eyes as the mountain of coffee grounds and
orange rinds, of beer cans and burger boxes, of stained diapers and pages and
pages and pages of bad screenplays swept across the airfield.
Stage 3: 2100 hours
All praise the secret life of engineers! The glass held. The backup generators
sent out frizzly fits of light. And I could hear Maristela saying, “Watch for
los gatos, a good thing.” And I saw the brujas’ cats weaving all around their
skirts. Maybe Maristela made it to the hills. Maybe now I believed. Baffled
tourists sunk down and stared at a sideways 747 as it flapped its broken wing
just beyond the glass. I heard the brujas laughing and in a swirl reeking of
brimstone and Cinnabon, they were gone.
Más sobre Chi Novak
39: Bundy Sb & Mayfield Ns
Stage 1
You will not find parking on Mayfield
Nor Dorothy nor Darlington
You will not find parking up on Gorham
Or down on Kiowa
You are not allowed to park in the Ralph's Fresh Fare Lot
Nor anywhere on San Vicente
Bundy is a non-starter
Still a pilgrimage destination for those
Lured by OJ’s lore
In this landing place
for ambitious newcomers
dreamers from Back East
Down South
Up North
this land of over-priced apartments
They come with their
headshots and demo-reels
still bearing the babyfat of college
torchier lamp, movie posters, futon to flop on
But no matter how they got here
train, plane, or uhall truck,
everybody's got to drive
up the clogged streets to success
And the ones at the end of the jam
Must weigh carefully
Whether to get involved
With a lover
Shack up, cohabitate, or just room together
Cuz the beginner’s pad
only comes with
one parking spot,
if you're lucky.
Stage 2
The sheer amount of stuff
hoarded by this transient class is uncanny.
Those who see themselves on the way up
acquire and acquire and acquire
And to every binge a purge,
As the complete collection washes out of windows and shattered glass doors.
First the light goods:
computers, purses, cellphones,
playstations, rice-cookers, and stereos
then the larger:
Flatscreens, framed artwork,
small furniture,
end-tables, wicker chairs, coffee tables,
and then the more massive
headboards, boxsprings, a recliner,
And finally the dream:
the rosebud,
the item placed high in a closet
out of reach
but never out of place
that one lock of hair
of that lovely head you call home.
Stage 3
They will pick up and move home,
those who survived.
If it wasn't the flood, it would've been something else
the last rejection, endless dejection, lost erection,
slammed doors too many to mention,
unreturned phone calls, lapsed attention,
rescheduled lunch
no-call backs, no replies, no remorse
just back home to something usual,
something more normal,
Set down their stakes
somewhere where the sun don't shine
quite so much,
somewhere where flesh is expanded more
naturally
bloated with salty stews rather than saline sacks
and where unbleached teeth turn a timeless tinge of yellow
and brown.
and where dreams are not traded like stock options
but stretch out from a seat on the porch
on a windless summer night or in the rain
yes, natural ordinary rain,
in a land that can handle a downpour.
-- MCM
You will not find parking on Mayfield
Nor Dorothy nor Darlington
You will not find parking up on Gorham
Or down on Kiowa
You are not allowed to park in the Ralph's Fresh Fare Lot
Nor anywhere on San Vicente
Bundy is a non-starter
Still a pilgrimage destination for those
Lured by OJ’s lore
In this landing place
for ambitious newcomers
dreamers from Back East
Down South
Up North
this land of over-priced apartments
They come with their
headshots and demo-reels
still bearing the babyfat of college
torchier lamp, movie posters, futon to flop on
But no matter how they got here
train, plane, or uhall truck,
everybody's got to drive
up the clogged streets to success
And the ones at the end of the jam
Must weigh carefully
Whether to get involved
With a lover
Shack up, cohabitate, or just room together
Cuz the beginner’s pad
only comes with
one parking spot,
if you're lucky.
Stage 2
The sheer amount of stuff
hoarded by this transient class is uncanny.
Those who see themselves on the way up
acquire and acquire and acquire
And to every binge a purge,
As the complete collection washes out of windows and shattered glass doors.
First the light goods:
computers, purses, cellphones,
playstations, rice-cookers, and stereos
then the larger:
Flatscreens, framed artwork,
small furniture,
end-tables, wicker chairs, coffee tables,
and then the more massive
headboards, boxsprings, a recliner,
And finally the dream:
the rosebud,
the item placed high in a closet
out of reach
but never out of place
that one lock of hair
of that lovely head you call home.
Stage 3
They will pick up and move home,
those who survived.
If it wasn't the flood, it would've been something else
the last rejection, endless dejection, lost erection,
slammed doors too many to mention,
unreturned phone calls, lapsed attention,
rescheduled lunch
no-call backs, no replies, no remorse
just back home to something usual,
something more normal,
Set down their stakes
somewhere where the sun don't shine
quite so much,
somewhere where flesh is expanded more
naturally
bloated with salty stews rather than saline sacks
and where unbleached teeth turn a timeless tinge of yellow
and brown.
and where dreams are not traded like stock options
but stretch out from a seat on the porch
on a windless summer night or in the rain
yes, natural ordinary rain,
in a land that can handle a downpour.
-- MCM
Más sobre Bundy Sb & Mayfield Ns
40: Jim Henson Co
Stage 1
There's something unusual about the studios that give birth to those so-familiar puppets. Something distinctly alpine, or Germanic, or Fraggle. The red brick entryways sandwich the storybook cottage, as for a Fordist factory for Brothers Grim. But it's the green man a top the tower who sets the tone of it all, looking so Chaplinesque, doffing his hat, unperturbed by a smatter of rain.
Stage 2
There he stands, the lone verdant sentinel, overlooking the swamp before him. The brackish waters that have risen almost to his feet are littered with the bodies of his friends. Many muppets were spared, on location at a desert shoot for some new major network holiday extravaganza. But a few were left behind. Mostly the Sesame Street crowd. Oscar, who was genuinely surprised his can could float, rescued about 132 rats, though it was doubtful all would survive the stench of the enclosed space. Snuffalupagus had waded out valiantly, trudging his sopping and sooty mass into that water, Big Bird astride his back, looking so much the hero, like Sean Penn after Katrina. But no one has seen either of them for at least 48 hours. Sam the Eagle is perched atop the mossy shingles, a single tear down his cheek for the nest of muppet eggs he could not save. It’s time, declares the frog gravely, to light the lights, and a single beam illuminates vast fuzzy muppet carnage. And could it be…Piggy?
Stage 3
On the sidewalk around the studios lie 70, maybe 80 deflated muppets. How empty look the foam and fur when there is no hand inside. The loss in muppet lives is nearly impossible to reckon, not to mention the number of puppeteers now out of work, forced back into the already crowded birthday market. Some will no doubt go back to the street. Others, will hang up their strings and sticks. The green man looks more humbled then ever, his face taking that signature fold, that collapsing in, made by pulling your hand back into a sign language E. And as he looks on over the destruction, somewhere deep inside, he knows now why there are so many songs about rainbows.
-- MCM
There's something unusual about the studios that give birth to those so-familiar puppets. Something distinctly alpine, or Germanic, or Fraggle. The red brick entryways sandwich the storybook cottage, as for a Fordist factory for Brothers Grim. But it's the green man a top the tower who sets the tone of it all, looking so Chaplinesque, doffing his hat, unperturbed by a smatter of rain.
Stage 2
There he stands, the lone verdant sentinel, overlooking the swamp before him. The brackish waters that have risen almost to his feet are littered with the bodies of his friends. Many muppets were spared, on location at a desert shoot for some new major network holiday extravaganza. But a few were left behind. Mostly the Sesame Street crowd. Oscar, who was genuinely surprised his can could float, rescued about 132 rats, though it was doubtful all would survive the stench of the enclosed space. Snuffalupagus had waded out valiantly, trudging his sopping and sooty mass into that water, Big Bird astride his back, looking so much the hero, like Sean Penn after Katrina. But no one has seen either of them for at least 48 hours. Sam the Eagle is perched atop the mossy shingles, a single tear down his cheek for the nest of muppet eggs he could not save. It’s time, declares the frog gravely, to light the lights, and a single beam illuminates vast fuzzy muppet carnage. And could it be…Piggy?
Stage 3
On the sidewalk around the studios lie 70, maybe 80 deflated muppets. How empty look the foam and fur when there is no hand inside. The loss in muppet lives is nearly impossible to reckon, not to mention the number of puppeteers now out of work, forced back into the already crowded birthday market. Some will no doubt go back to the street. Others, will hang up their strings and sticks. The green man looks more humbled then ever, his face taking that signature fold, that collapsing in, made by pulling your hand back into a sign language E. And as he looks on over the destruction, somewhere deep inside, he knows now why there are so many songs about rainbows.
-- MCM
Más sobre Jim Henson Co
41: San Antonio Winery
Stage I
In the little canyons of artist studios and light industry, all the potholes have become pater noster lakes aswirl with oily rainbows. It takes a leap of faith (or two) to navigate across the parking lots to the office doors. From the flat, gray buildings, workers watch the rain. Some dream they are Picasso, Degas, Diego Rivera. Some only dream of lunch.
Stage II
The restaurant in the winery is windowless and restful. A guitarist sings tourist songs in Spanish. The artistes drink wine and pool their funds for lunch. The dress shirt boys pop beers and try to expense everything. There are empty tables where the bus loads of church ladies should have been. Cell phones ring and sing and jangle suddenly all at once just before a huge cask cracks in the flood’s first crush.
Stage III
In a broken barrel, a conceptual artist bobs. She has a garland of plastic grape leaves wrapped around her head and is waving her leopard-spotted bra at the rescue copters. “Viva el Sol!” she cries. A soggy suited man clinging to her ankles waves a bottle of Cardinale and answers, “And viva la revolución!”
In the little canyons of artist studios and light industry, all the potholes have become pater noster lakes aswirl with oily rainbows. It takes a leap of faith (or two) to navigate across the parking lots to the office doors. From the flat, gray buildings, workers watch the rain. Some dream they are Picasso, Degas, Diego Rivera. Some only dream of lunch.
Stage II
The restaurant in the winery is windowless and restful. A guitarist sings tourist songs in Spanish. The artistes drink wine and pool their funds for lunch. The dress shirt boys pop beers and try to expense everything. There are empty tables where the bus loads of church ladies should have been. Cell phones ring and sing and jangle suddenly all at once just before a huge cask cracks in the flood’s first crush.
Stage III
In a broken barrel, a conceptual artist bobs. She has a garland of plastic grape leaves wrapped around her head and is waving her leopard-spotted bra at the rescue copters. “Viva el Sol!” she cries. A soggy suited man clinging to her ankles waves a bottle of Cardinale and answers, “And viva la revolución!”
Más sobre San Antonio Winery
42: Wilshire Blvd & S Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90010
Stage I
Here at the corner of Bibimbap and Bulgogi, the attorneys-to-be rise blinking from the metro station. They have not seen the sun in days. Deep dreaming of their futures, normally they would not notice anyway as they rush to the law school down the street. Later they will have Korean BBQ and beer and speculate on the size of their corner offices and celebrity client base. The windows steam up around them and close them in the fantasy.
Stage II
The metro tunnel becomes a soup of boba and kimchi, shreds of Tribe on Con Law, and clumps the latest biography of Bob Kardashian. Even the specialists in environmental law did not see this coming. Now, none of the restaurants will become “the latest thing” and launch their chefs on a TV deal. Now, there will be empty seats at the bar exams and in the corner offices. Trapped in their dreams that will not be, the bodies float and turn and defy propriety.
Stage III
The soup becomes a stew. The sun is back, steaming, baking, frying. There’s a cabbage crate in the driver’s seat of a two-seater Beemer right there in the window of the Korean BBQ. Down the street, law librarians are weeping in the muck of the old Bullock’s Wilshire that once housed their library. And the lawyers who remain are already dreaming of who to sue in perpetuity.
Más sobre Wilshire Blvd & S Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90010
43: Saint Vincent Medical Center
St. Vincent’s Hospital
Stage I
After praying and pleading, cajoling and collecting every tiny coin, here in 1856, three nuns founded a hospital—the first in L.A. It sits above MacArthur Park. MacArthur Park where the trees and lawn and even the benches have been melting for days like that cake in rain sung of long ago. Perhaps today St. Vincent’s will be a place of refuge or at least a place to view the workings of the everyday lives of saints.
Stage II
There are no trashcans left. The walls and ceilings weep. Nurses slide into LVNs and all the gurneys need mud flaps. Partitions collapse as the air shakes before the tidal surge. A surgeon falls across her patient when lights sizzle. The back-up generators groan. The halls and stairwells seethe with fear. Hail Mary, full of grace, and St. Vincent, too.
Stage III
Weeks and weeks before while no one was looking, water logged had become a new disease. But weather forecasters would not pronounce the prophecies in the days of drenching rain. Now nuns from New Guinea, nuns from Guinea Bissau sing litanies of water-borne diseases. They know: the remains of the day are amoebic and hungry to live.
-- NET
Stage I
After praying and pleading, cajoling and collecting every tiny coin, here in 1856, three nuns founded a hospital—the first in L.A. It sits above MacArthur Park. MacArthur Park where the trees and lawn and even the benches have been melting for days like that cake in rain sung of long ago. Perhaps today St. Vincent’s will be a place of refuge or at least a place to view the workings of the everyday lives of saints.
Stage II
There are no trashcans left. The walls and ceilings weep. Nurses slide into LVNs and all the gurneys need mud flaps. Partitions collapse as the air shakes before the tidal surge. A surgeon falls across her patient when lights sizzle. The back-up generators groan. The halls and stairwells seethe with fear. Hail Mary, full of grace, and St. Vincent, too.
Stage III
Weeks and weeks before while no one was looking, water logged had become a new disease. But weather forecasters would not pronounce the prophecies in the days of drenching rain. Now nuns from New Guinea, nuns from Guinea Bissau sing litanies of water-borne diseases. They know: the remains of the day are amoebic and hungry to live.
-- NET
Más sobre Saint Vincent Medical Center
44: Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County
Stage 1
The ichthyologists in the basement saw the first sign. The old tunnels began to
leak in coffee-colored streams and threaten the shelves of neatly labeled and
preserved sea life. One call confirmed this was not just another plumbing
problem. The school kids had already been evacuated to the second floor and
there was barely enough time to grab the computers and get out the door.
Stage II
Dioramas became aquariums. The hair on the coats of the musk oxen floated all
feathery like a fine kelp forest. The polar bears were back in their element. A
walrus glided on his faux ice flow. Indian beads and insect legs swirled through
in the imitation scenery.
Stage III
An interesting smell: the rot of creatures already long dead. Clumps of what
appears to be moldy rugs and soggy wood are decorated with random glass eyes. A
bit of T-Rex jaw protrudes from an elephant hide. Water still drains from the
surviving dioramas and a chimpanzee bobs helplessly behind the glass.
-- NET
The ichthyologists in the basement saw the first sign. The old tunnels began to
leak in coffee-colored streams and threaten the shelves of neatly labeled and
preserved sea life. One call confirmed this was not just another plumbing
problem. The school kids had already been evacuated to the second floor and
there was barely enough time to grab the computers and get out the door.
Stage II
Dioramas became aquariums. The hair on the coats of the musk oxen floated all
feathery like a fine kelp forest. The polar bears were back in their element. A
walrus glided on his faux ice flow. Indian beads and insect legs swirled through
in the imitation scenery.
Stage III
An interesting smell: the rot of creatures already long dead. Clumps of what
appears to be moldy rugs and soggy wood are decorated with random glass eyes. A
bit of T-Rex jaw protrudes from an elephant hide. Water still drains from the
surviving dioramas and a chimpanzee bobs helplessly behind the glass.
-- NET
Más sobre Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County
45: Harbor Transitway-37th
37th St. Transitway, Harbor Freeway
(bus stop)
Stage I
We watch the weather, we who stand and wait. And after awhile, those who can afford it don hunting suits, the kind designed for slogging about with ducks in the wetlands, or put on the great slickers and oilskins of the wild sea fishermen. The rest of us cut holes in garbage bags and duct tape ourselves against the gale. We had abandoned umbrellas weeks ago.
Stage II
No buses come. A muffled yet thunderous rumble tumbles from the west. And then the horrific crack as the great steel skeleton of Los Angeles buckles around us. A wave hits a big rig. The jackknife picks up four more cars and a taco truck, slamming them across the lanes. Shriek of wind, howl of tires. We huddle beneath the shaking bus bench, saying prayers to concrete and all our wayward gods.
Stage III
We are a little island of alive. The crushed carcasses of the freeway creatures are piled around us. Smoke and flames and wails rise. Another gas truck explodes and we know we are sitting on the bus bench at the end of the world. Yet he sun breaks through. A pigeon lands. Then, two drenched policemen drag themselves up the stairs, collapse against the railing, and just stare.
-- NET
(bus stop)
Stage I
We watch the weather, we who stand and wait. And after awhile, those who can afford it don hunting suits, the kind designed for slogging about with ducks in the wetlands, or put on the great slickers and oilskins of the wild sea fishermen. The rest of us cut holes in garbage bags and duct tape ourselves against the gale. We had abandoned umbrellas weeks ago.
Stage II
No buses come. A muffled yet thunderous rumble tumbles from the west. And then the horrific crack as the great steel skeleton of Los Angeles buckles around us. A wave hits a big rig. The jackknife picks up four more cars and a taco truck, slamming them across the lanes. Shriek of wind, howl of tires. We huddle beneath the shaking bus bench, saying prayers to concrete and all our wayward gods.
Stage III
We are a little island of alive. The crushed carcasses of the freeway creatures are piled around us. Smoke and flames and wails rise. Another gas truck explodes and we know we are sitting on the bus bench at the end of the world. Yet he sun breaks through. A pigeon lands. Then, two drenched policemen drag themselves up the stairs, collapse against the railing, and just stare.
-- NET
Más sobre Harbor Transitway-37th
46: St. Vibiana's Church
Stage I
He awoke in the middle of the seventh story—the one in which Los Angeles had fallen into fractured bits of gang turf. And he had to remember to ask God why it would not stop raining.
Stage II
He remembered he could fly when the flood came but he could not take anyone with him. And he could not remember if there was an ark this time.
Stage III
St. Vibiana’s collapsed into itself, but he remembered there were others. He remembered it was his job now to find them and sing them on to build again.
-- DO
He awoke in the middle of the seventh story—the one in which Los Angeles had fallen into fractured bits of gang turf. And he had to remember to ask God why it would not stop raining.
Stage II
He remembered he could fly when the flood came but he could not take anyone with him. And he could not remember if there was an ark this time.
Stage III
St. Vibiana’s collapsed into itself, but he remembered there were others. He remembered it was his job now to find them and sing them on to build again.
-- DO
Más sobre St. Vibiana's Church
47: Melrose Ave & N Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90004
Stage 1 In this stretch from Melrose to Monroe: a Yoshinoya, Papa's John's Pizza, McDonald's, Que Rico, Golfo de Fonseca with its pupusas poderosas, the international food court readies its wares for a hungry college-bound crowd, beckoning, step out of the rain, step into salt, oil, vinegar, soy sauce, onions, and garlic mixed in the pot called global capital. Stage 2 The evacuation boats arrive early at the Braille Institute. Public sensitivities for once seeking the less fortunate before themselves. Police boats from the Marina and from the port made their way quickly up Vermont itself. When they arrive the campus is empty, doors swing open at the force of swat team commando kicks only to reveal floating closed-circuit tvs and pamphlets about macular degeneration. There are no blind students anywhere in the low, flat Aztec looking structure. They have all gone away, some weeks ago because although they could not see, they had been listening. Stage 3 Notebooks doused with ink, marinated text books, floating folders, submerged folders fromCity College have flown out into the street, the dream of the bright ripe grove of California higher education now compost rinds in the streets. As the last drops fall, the tick tock of a stick on pavement, a red-tipped white cane comes to stop on a pant leg, a body bloated and untended. But the blind man reaches down and lifts up a laminated flyer. In letters he cannot read, lay the words, "Our Hope Lives in God." -- MCM
Más sobre Melrose Ave & N Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90004
48: Baldwin Hills
Stage 1From Baldwin Hills, the city against the mountains in winter, a blanket of smog in the summer, is Oz, the city of Promise. And to live in Baldwin Hills, high above Crenshaw and its jazzy past, and Leimert Park, home to several poetry smackdowns, to live this high is to have made it in Oz and to know by your place on the hill, the percentage of obstruction to your view, exactly what is your place in the Oz-ian hierarchy. It is upon these hill that first drops of rain follow like a promise of even greater views to come, of crystal air to peer with Colorado or Arizona, or any of the arid star-filled states.Stage 2:The water cascades down Baldwill Hills like an Inverse horse shoe falls. Residents attempt to climb to the top like Salmon up a fish ladder. A particular rapid tears around Don Tomaso, filling the rows of boxes of garages beneath apartment buildings, slipping in through the cracks. The waters of Baldwin Hills will consume Crenshaw, a great tributary to its channel as the basin itself begins to turn into a lake marked by billboards and rooftops.Stage 3As the waters recede, the View Park convalescent home gleams on the hill, surrounded by the silt of successful consumption. Chairs, lamps, stereo speakers, iPods, computers, place settings, Steeler flags, bicycles. It stand brightly as if it had been sitting by the window, watching the rain, thinking about rains past, the rains of Mississippi, the rains of Alabama, Louisiana, rains that brought with it a kind of Old Testament unforgiveness, the merciless downpour of a decision too late to change. Its inhabitants did not find a clear escape. The rescue pontoons did not make it to the base of Baldwin Hills, claiming they got lost, while attempting to locate Rodeo Drive. -- MCM
Más sobre Baldwin Hills
49: Malibu: The Colony
Stage 1:
Robert, Charles, and Barbara had once shared bathrobes and martini glasses here. Sally had asked Mel to remove a few trees that were obstructing her morning view. Joan had met Eddie here over a shell, and they had sized each other up. A rented home in "The Colony" has become a necessary and predictable plot point of every Hollywood success story, along with barbecues, binges of pills or bottles, high priced prostitutes, or the amateur equivalent, tabloid divorces, rehab, et cetera, et cetera. Just a row of houses, each built, like the celebrities themselves, to attract the eye and yet to be discontinuous with those that flanked it. In Malibu, they own even the beach -- well, as much as one can own, halfway to low-tide, a not unfitting marker of their spot in the story arc of their own E! True Hollywood story. And with the wanton eye and ire of the king who wished for Oobleck, they turn custom-fit noses to the skies as the first drops begin to fall.
Stage 2
Hi, above PCH and the gross bodily Malibu, they had purchased the house, an estate, to be sure, for its singular view of the Pacific -- for a small fortune. Friends had warned them over Dom and tapas that only fools bought homes on hillsides, yet these same friends all flocked to the end-of-summer party, to stand on their porch and gaze as the sun slipped away at the end of civilization.
Now, after having disdained every evacuation order in an attempt to personally secure their home, they could feel the supports lose their firm footing as the face of the mountain dissolved.
So used to seeing the surfers down far below catching their waves, it is they who are surfing now as their house slides down the hillside toward the Malibu Inn and the pier which is now submerged.
Stage 3
The water has receded, as it should, but the mountain could not. Once it broke in waves along PCH and the buildings below, it would not be drawn up into place. The hill that remains is smoother, stripped of all chaparral, and of course, there is nary a house to blemish it. A land reclaimed.
PCH is unrecognizable. A mound of rubble and dirt collapsed on it like a reality TV star after their night of celebration, faceplanted on trash, designer shirt in tatters, lipstick, blood, heroin.
The Colony, now a kind of barrier reef, house-tops poking through like rock outcroppings. The waters had taken out their supports, washed over hardwood and parquet, reached out for armfulls of hillside and pulled it back upon the homes. The beach, if so these mounds can still be called, has reverted back to the people.
-- MCM
Robert, Charles, and Barbara had once shared bathrobes and martini glasses here. Sally had asked Mel to remove a few trees that were obstructing her morning view. Joan had met Eddie here over a shell, and they had sized each other up. A rented home in "The Colony" has become a necessary and predictable plot point of every Hollywood success story, along with barbecues, binges of pills or bottles, high priced prostitutes, or the amateur equivalent, tabloid divorces, rehab, et cetera, et cetera. Just a row of houses, each built, like the celebrities themselves, to attract the eye and yet to be discontinuous with those that flanked it. In Malibu, they own even the beach -- well, as much as one can own, halfway to low-tide, a not unfitting marker of their spot in the story arc of their own E! True Hollywood story. And with the wanton eye and ire of the king who wished for Oobleck, they turn custom-fit noses to the skies as the first drops begin to fall.
Stage 2
Hi, above PCH and the gross bodily Malibu, they had purchased the house, an estate, to be sure, for its singular view of the Pacific -- for a small fortune. Friends had warned them over Dom and tapas that only fools bought homes on hillsides, yet these same friends all flocked to the end-of-summer party, to stand on their porch and gaze as the sun slipped away at the end of civilization.
Now, after having disdained every evacuation order in an attempt to personally secure their home, they could feel the supports lose their firm footing as the face of the mountain dissolved.
So used to seeing the surfers down far below catching their waves, it is they who are surfing now as their house slides down the hillside toward the Malibu Inn and the pier which is now submerged.
Stage 3
The water has receded, as it should, but the mountain could not. Once it broke in waves along PCH and the buildings below, it would not be drawn up into place. The hill that remains is smoother, stripped of all chaparral, and of course, there is nary a house to blemish it. A land reclaimed.
PCH is unrecognizable. A mound of rubble and dirt collapsed on it like a reality TV star after their night of celebration, faceplanted on trash, designer shirt in tatters, lipstick, blood, heroin.
The Colony, now a kind of barrier reef, house-tops poking through like rock outcroppings. The waters had taken out their supports, washed over hardwood and parquet, reached out for armfulls of hillside and pulled it back upon the homes. The beach, if so these mounds can still be called, has reverted back to the people.
-- MCM
Más sobre Malibu: The Colony
50: The Grove
Stage 1
There was a time at the turn of the millennium when the rage was the designer outdoor shopping mall. No mere galleria, far from the boxy fluorescent-lit warehouse of the first mall in Pittsburgh, PA, home to zombies in the Romero film, these new shopping Xanadus were destinations on the scale of a World's fare, yet all the fixtures of malls are still here: the kiddy train has become a life-size trolley; the food court, chi-chi boutiques; the bookstore has four stories; and the fountains and wishing well, pure Vegas baby. And those who stroll to shop, one arm for shopping bags the valet can't fit on his cart, one arm for a pock-sized pooch, are similarly augmented. How could they worry about a little rain.
Stage 2
If you'd gone to the Aquarium under Santa Monica pier in the days before the flood, you would have seen a little demonstration, of what happens to a plastic city when it rains, as children sprayed the hillsides with water bottles. As shoppers perch precariously atop the sunken trolley, surrounded in a sea of baguettes and iPads, cosmetics, and the most morbid schools of drowned American girl dolls, you see what happens, when the bratty child dumps over an entire bucket.
Stage 3
The mystery of weather, real weather, but especially cataclysmic weather, is that it restores the land back, revealing with a spotlight or perhaps an outline in chalk or lye. But since there was no place for anything to go, all the waste, the tables from the outdoor cafes, the books, the Nordstroms dresses and slacks, the dining wear, even the tchotchke cart of mechanical toys and remote control soldiers have all washed into the end of the Grove, trolley nose down in the fountain, like a very large, yet still festively colored, epically stopped-up commode.
-- MCM
There was a time at the turn of the millennium when the rage was the designer outdoor shopping mall. No mere galleria, far from the boxy fluorescent-lit warehouse of the first mall in Pittsburgh, PA, home to zombies in the Romero film, these new shopping Xanadus were destinations on the scale of a World's fare, yet all the fixtures of malls are still here: the kiddy train has become a life-size trolley; the food court, chi-chi boutiques; the bookstore has four stories; and the fountains and wishing well, pure Vegas baby. And those who stroll to shop, one arm for shopping bags the valet can't fit on his cart, one arm for a pock-sized pooch, are similarly augmented. How could they worry about a little rain.
Stage 2
If you'd gone to the Aquarium under Santa Monica pier in the days before the flood, you would have seen a little demonstration, of what happens to a plastic city when it rains, as children sprayed the hillsides with water bottles. As shoppers perch precariously atop the sunken trolley, surrounded in a sea of baguettes and iPads, cosmetics, and the most morbid schools of drowned American girl dolls, you see what happens, when the bratty child dumps over an entire bucket.
Stage 3
The mystery of weather, real weather, but especially cataclysmic weather, is that it restores the land back, revealing with a spotlight or perhaps an outline in chalk or lye. But since there was no place for anything to go, all the waste, the tables from the outdoor cafes, the books, the Nordstroms dresses and slacks, the dining wear, even the tchotchke cart of mechanical toys and remote control soldiers have all washed into the end of the Grove, trolley nose down in the fountain, like a very large, yet still festively colored, epically stopped-up commode.
-- MCM
Más sobre The Grove
51: Grauman's Chinese Theatre
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
Más sobre Grauman's Chinese Theatre
52: Sky Runner
Sky Runner, 20
Surfer
level 3
Sky Runner
Sometimes I think of the water as my bro
a great big bro, who lays around a lot
in his own room -- or in his pimped out van
sleeping, he sleeps a lot
except when he's hungry, and then he's famished
And this brother is so great,
Teaches you everything you need to know
like how to throw a football the right way
ride a bike, role a joint
things about women,
the essentials
And he's sleeping in the van
and when he breathes that's the rise and fall
of that great big bro belly
full up on nachos and In N Out animal styles,
and you wish you could just wake him up and tell him
how cool he is.
But you're too afraid
that if he ever woke up
there'd be hell to pay
cause he'd be all confused
and disoriented
and shouting all aggro
what the hell? What the hell? What's going on?
What are you doing here?
Where’s my bong?
Are you stealing my weed?
Who are you?
So you sit there
and you listen to him sleeping
Snoring, dreaming,
This water is so much higher than I've ever seen it
surf advisory here to PV last 10 days
No one should go out
Figured it was a refinery run off
Chemical spill, something,
Saw this school of Dolphins just swimming in circles
birds acting all crazy
Sky that foul color
Ag, man.
Rank
rain not the kind we get down here.
Weirdest things
Bad signs
I don't know how or why
but seems like this brother is
about to wake up.
level 2
Turtlin’ past Will Rogers
Boosted at the Palisades
Anglin past the Archer Angels
Ahoy, mahinas!
Ran a pipeline at UCLA
Carvin by the Bel Air golf club
Cutback around the Beverly Hills Hotel
Catching some heaving at the House of Blues
Cruisin past the Keyclub
Green rooming by
The Roxy, the Whiskey, the Viper
Kamikaze at the Comedy Store
Surfing down Sunset
Shreddin by Hollywood High
Pimpin by the Palladium
Re-entry at Roscoes
But at the Kiddie Hospital,
Dismount,
Ate it.
Pasted.
Chode burn
Rag-dolled
Wipeout
Surfing down Sunset
Ace
level 3
I remember one morning
I went out a little north
Leo Carillo
just a ways off shore
But far enough away from the main surfing hoards
And I was thinking to myself about life
about how all this makes sense and then doesn't
makes sense and then doesn't
and then this betty paddles up to me
strangest thing cause I didn't see her coming
paddles right on up, sits up
like I invited her and after a nod, she just looks around
beaming
God, this is rad, she says.
I nod, kind of knowing what was coming next.
God is rad, she says.
I breathe out a big long sigh cause I get tense when people are covering something up – posers and the like,
and she takes my hand right out of the water and lays it on hers and says
Have you been saved?.
Now I never was the religious kind.
Seems like I'm a waxed board
Religion kinda slips off me like sea water
But you know, I kinda liked the company and all,
Trick is, just about every answer to that question
will get you a sermon
or an invitation to surfing vespers and Sunday morning carve-n-prays
I think of telling her what I really think about all that schwag,
how religion’s like a trip
an acid drop
But instead I just stared out into the water
And said, “probly not.”
She must've seen the black ball
cause she paddled away without saying a word
never saw her again
Now, being out here
Looking at all the shit on the shore
like the sewers of the city just dumped out everything they had on the beach
like the trash formed its own pipeline and then smashed to the ground
And it's not just trash but bodies too, people and animals, young and old
and I realize that now I can answer her question in the affirmative
yeah, I've been saved
Only I'm pretty sure -- that pretty little nicorico on her designer board
wasn't talking about this kind of saving
the kind that leaves you alone after the apocalypse
the kind that leaves you in a perma-lull staring at the shore
with no desire
to ever ride back in.
-- MCM
Surfer
level 3
Sky Runner
Sometimes I think of the water as my bro
a great big bro, who lays around a lot
in his own room -- or in his pimped out van
sleeping, he sleeps a lot
except when he's hungry, and then he's famished
And this brother is so great,
Teaches you everything you need to know
like how to throw a football the right way
ride a bike, role a joint
things about women,
the essentials
And he's sleeping in the van
and when he breathes that's the rise and fall
of that great big bro belly
full up on nachos and In N Out animal styles,
and you wish you could just wake him up and tell him
how cool he is.
But you're too afraid
that if he ever woke up
there'd be hell to pay
cause he'd be all confused
and disoriented
and shouting all aggro
what the hell? What the hell? What's going on?
What are you doing here?
Where’s my bong?
Are you stealing my weed?
Who are you?
So you sit there
and you listen to him sleeping
Snoring, dreaming,
This water is so much higher than I've ever seen it
surf advisory here to PV last 10 days
No one should go out
Figured it was a refinery run off
Chemical spill, something,
Saw this school of Dolphins just swimming in circles
birds acting all crazy
Sky that foul color
Ag, man.
Rank
rain not the kind we get down here.
Weirdest things
Bad signs
I don't know how or why
but seems like this brother is
about to wake up.
level 2
Turtlin’ past Will Rogers
Boosted at the Palisades
Anglin past the Archer Angels
Ahoy, mahinas!
Ran a pipeline at UCLA
Carvin by the Bel Air golf club
Cutback around the Beverly Hills Hotel
Catching some heaving at the House of Blues
Cruisin past the Keyclub
Green rooming by
The Roxy, the Whiskey, the Viper
Kamikaze at the Comedy Store
Surfing down Sunset
Shreddin by Hollywood High
Pimpin by the Palladium
Re-entry at Roscoes
But at the Kiddie Hospital,
Dismount,
Ate it.
Pasted.
Chode burn
Rag-dolled
Wipeout
Surfing down Sunset
Ace
level 3
I remember one morning
I went out a little north
Leo Carillo
just a ways off shore
But far enough away from the main surfing hoards
And I was thinking to myself about life
about how all this makes sense and then doesn't
makes sense and then doesn't
and then this betty paddles up to me
strangest thing cause I didn't see her coming
paddles right on up, sits up
like I invited her and after a nod, she just looks around
beaming
God, this is rad, she says.
I nod, kind of knowing what was coming next.
God is rad, she says.
I breathe out a big long sigh cause I get tense when people are covering something up – posers and the like,
and she takes my hand right out of the water and lays it on hers and says
Have you been saved?.
Now I never was the religious kind.
Seems like I'm a waxed board
Religion kinda slips off me like sea water
But you know, I kinda liked the company and all,
Trick is, just about every answer to that question
will get you a sermon
or an invitation to surfing vespers and Sunday morning carve-n-prays
I think of telling her what I really think about all that schwag,
how religion’s like a trip
an acid drop
But instead I just stared out into the water
And said, “probly not.”
She must've seen the black ball
cause she paddled away without saying a word
never saw her again
Now, being out here
Looking at all the shit on the shore
like the sewers of the city just dumped out everything they had on the beach
like the trash formed its own pipeline and then smashed to the ground
And it's not just trash but bodies too, people and animals, young and old
and I realize that now I can answer her question in the affirmative
yeah, I've been saved
Only I'm pretty sure -- that pretty little nicorico on her designer board
wasn't talking about this kind of saving
the kind that leaves you alone after the apocalypse
the kind that leaves you in a perma-lull staring at the shore
with no desire
to ever ride back in.
-- MCM
Más sobre Sky Runner
53: Ousmane
Senegalese
Age 26, male
Stage 1:
Je viens, ten minute late for my shift. The sweet girl, with that name she wants to sound African, but it isn’t really, she isn’t at her post. That’s the first thing that gives me scare. I like her. She never says nothing when I come late, never tells no one and when a body recognizes there is no one at the security post that sweet girl always says I have only gone to the bathroom or to check on something outside the building. She lies for me, but she isn’t at her front desk to welcome the visitors when I come. No one is in the museum with the doors wide open so I hurry put my umbrella and my bag with my school books away to look like I have been there on time. When I am looking like working and still no one is there I walk through the museum until I find them. Every body is in the vault. Les professionels are choosing art and telling others to move it. Each car at the loading is packed careful, but fast with the art and there is the sweet girl, writing each piece and who is driving the car that takes it away. When they see me they say I will help too. They hear maybe deluge and there is no time to save the art, except this way.
Stage 2:
When the water starts coming up on the floor, the women cry. The director cries for the art that could not save, then she gets strong and sends each car driving. To the high ground. A caravan of cars en route to an artist on a mountain in a place called Altadena. I never say my story. I never say in Senegal, in my village, we are artists too. When the sweet girl asks me about school I talk learning English and accounting, but I don’t say I wish I never come to America—too much talk and no touch and people looking through me—so I paint pictures to keep my village with me and my home, my little room, is sun and the faces of my people and everything I remember is on my walls. The sweet girl and the art in this museum—faces that look like me, but are not my face; stories I know that are not my story—and this, my museum, are living in Los Angeles. Everything else, even school, is death with a smiling face. I securitied at a bank. No one even looked at me once. I securitied at a mall and my heart hurt every day. This museum is my happy fortune. And I cry like the women for the art.
Stage 3:
We say goodbye too long. No body wants 2 leave the art, but when the water is coming so hard and it gets dificil to hear the other talking a professionel makes us all go. We lock everything and when it is done the water is high and we walk in a gang holding each other’s arms to get to the parking. I have no car but today everyone is comarade and when we see the cars only the SUV with high tires can drive. Small cars are half under the water. Nineteen people and four SUV. I want to be in the SUV with the sweet girl and I have the luck. It is too late for us to go home. In the car, each is on the phone to say we will go to Altadena. The artist who has reçu the art will be our refuge. I have no body to call.
-- NC
Age 26, male
Stage 1:
Je viens, ten minute late for my shift. The sweet girl, with that name she wants to sound African, but it isn’t really, she isn’t at her post. That’s the first thing that gives me scare. I like her. She never says nothing when I come late, never tells no one and when a body recognizes there is no one at the security post that sweet girl always says I have only gone to the bathroom or to check on something outside the building. She lies for me, but she isn’t at her front desk to welcome the visitors when I come. No one is in the museum with the doors wide open so I hurry put my umbrella and my bag with my school books away to look like I have been there on time. When I am looking like working and still no one is there I walk through the museum until I find them. Every body is in the vault. Les professionels are choosing art and telling others to move it. Each car at the loading is packed careful, but fast with the art and there is the sweet girl, writing each piece and who is driving the car that takes it away. When they see me they say I will help too. They hear maybe deluge and there is no time to save the art, except this way.
Stage 2:
When the water starts coming up on the floor, the women cry. The director cries for the art that could not save, then she gets strong and sends each car driving. To the high ground. A caravan of cars en route to an artist on a mountain in a place called Altadena. I never say my story. I never say in Senegal, in my village, we are artists too. When the sweet girl asks me about school I talk learning English and accounting, but I don’t say I wish I never come to America—too much talk and no touch and people looking through me—so I paint pictures to keep my village with me and my home, my little room, is sun and the faces of my people and everything I remember is on my walls. The sweet girl and the art in this museum—faces that look like me, but are not my face; stories I know that are not my story—and this, my museum, are living in Los Angeles. Everything else, even school, is death with a smiling face. I securitied at a bank. No one even looked at me once. I securitied at a mall and my heart hurt every day. This museum is my happy fortune. And I cry like the women for the art.
Stage 3:
We say goodbye too long. No body wants 2 leave the art, but when the water is coming so hard and it gets dificil to hear the other talking a professionel makes us all go. We lock everything and when it is done the water is high and we walk in a gang holding each other’s arms to get to the parking. I have no car but today everyone is comarade and when we see the cars only the SUV with high tires can drive. Small cars are half under the water. Nineteen people and four SUV. I want to be in the SUV with the sweet girl and I have the luck. It is too late for us to go home. In the car, each is on the phone to say we will go to Altadena. The artist who has reçu the art will be our refuge. I have no body to call.
-- NC
Más sobre Ousmane
54: E 1st St & S Cummings St, Los Angeles, CA 90033
Brooklyn & Boyle
(East 1st and Cummings, almost under the 5 freeway)
Stage 1
Rain drops are falling onto lakes that were once not lakes, but the streets of Los Angeles. Who could have imagined the LA River would ever over flow. This thought could have been funny once, but not now, when all waters are merging into one vast brown-gray ocean flood, leaving everything, or almost everything under water. The freeways, cars, homes, dreams and nightmares; the downtown sky scrapers are up to their waist in it.
Stage 2
Hundreds of people stand atop the brown brick building on First St. not far from Mariachi Plaza, and across from it, or a drop away now, from Libros Schmibros, Boyle Heights community lending library. The one of a kind libros place para la gente where one can borrow books, or pay one dollar for one if you want to own it. It’s the brick brown building that houses beloved Corazon del Pueblo, the home of poetry, and community organizing in EastLos. Leon’s rhymes, Skyra’s photography, Maestro Salas’s Chook Son, Arizona SB 1070 poem, Matt Sedillo’s “The Alamo.” As rain drops fall on the roof, poems rise. Bus Stop Prophet performs his now legendary “Blueprints of the Heavens.” People listen on the roof of the brown brick building and as the poet’s voice beats loud we surface:
Stage 3
The waters are receding now, and there is lots of work to be done in the community, but then again this has always been true, because beauty is in the collective, it’s where the marvelous resides. Where the poet sings and seagulls fly again, towards the sea.
-- RL
Más sobre E 1st St & S Cummings St, Los Angeles, CA 90033
55: Michael Throp
Swimmer
Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, Pasadena, CA
STAGE 1
Yeah, it’s raining a little, but so what? Earth-shattering swim records don’t happen on your day off. So, yeah, that’s my ’84 Honda Accord getting drenched in the Rose Bowl parking lot, and that’s me in Lane 4 of the competition pool as usual, because everyone knows that Lane 4 is for winners. The rain doesn’t faze me a bit, it’s just these damned goggles. They keep fogging up. Can’t even see the San Gabriels. Bet that jerk Michael Phelps has heated ones or some crap like that. Hate that guy.
STAGE 2
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I should have touched the wall by now. I know, because it takes me exactly nineteen strokes to get to the wall of an Olympic-sized pool. Thirty, thirty-one. There’s something else, too. Like a current pushing me on—like the water wants me to win! Take that, Grant Hackett and your measly 1,500-meter record—at this rate I’m gonna beat Martin Strel’s 3,272-mile slog! Wait, did I just see my Accord? These goggles are trash.
STAGE 3
I almost collide with a deer. Stupid thing must have escaped from the Arroyo, but it doesn’t break my stride. I can taste the endorsements. First Speedo, then maybe Drano. I’m unstoppable! I’m in perfect butterfly extension when something shovels me out of the water by my armpits. What the hell? I thrash about to get loose, but whatever it is is TIGHT and these damned goggles are completely shot. There’s water shearing right off of me. All I can hear are chopper blades. That, and some wiseguy above me shouting into a radio. Something about using Mount Wilson’s antenna as a raft? Clearly I’m not hearing right. I tug on his wrist. “Where’s the clock? Did someone get my time?”
-- AC
Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, Pasadena, CA
STAGE 1
Yeah, it’s raining a little, but so what? Earth-shattering swim records don’t happen on your day off. So, yeah, that’s my ’84 Honda Accord getting drenched in the Rose Bowl parking lot, and that’s me in Lane 4 of the competition pool as usual, because everyone knows that Lane 4 is for winners. The rain doesn’t faze me a bit, it’s just these damned goggles. They keep fogging up. Can’t even see the San Gabriels. Bet that jerk Michael Phelps has heated ones or some crap like that. Hate that guy.
STAGE 2
Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. I should have touched the wall by now. I know, because it takes me exactly nineteen strokes to get to the wall of an Olympic-sized pool. Thirty, thirty-one. There’s something else, too. Like a current pushing me on—like the water wants me to win! Take that, Grant Hackett and your measly 1,500-meter record—at this rate I’m gonna beat Martin Strel’s 3,272-mile slog! Wait, did I just see my Accord? These goggles are trash.
STAGE 3
I almost collide with a deer. Stupid thing must have escaped from the Arroyo, but it doesn’t break my stride. I can taste the endorsements. First Speedo, then maybe Drano. I’m unstoppable! I’m in perfect butterfly extension when something shovels me out of the water by my armpits. What the hell? I thrash about to get loose, but whatever it is is TIGHT and these damned goggles are completely shot. There’s water shearing right off of me. All I can hear are chopper blades. That, and some wiseguy above me shouting into a radio. Something about using Mount Wilson’s antenna as a raft? Clearly I’m not hearing right. I tug on his wrist. “Where’s the clock? Did someone get my time?”
-- AC
Más sobre Michael Throp
56: Manny Velasco
Union Station
Stage 1:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 7:18 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
My creative writing prof says that starting a journal will help me “get the juices flowing” as he puts it. Seems like a bunch of pendejo MFA bullshit to me. But I do need something to get over this writer’s block. I can’t get past chapter one on my novel. I mean, the Great American Novel. Anyway, at least for now, journal writing is it since ain’t nothin’ else is working. So here goes…let the words flow into this little journal I bought from Target. Target. Target. Target. Tar-Jay. What should I write about? What, what, what? Okay, when in doubt, write the obvious. What’s happening right now? How do I feel? Shit like that. Well, my ass is whipped. Got up at 4:45 a.m. to leave the house by 6:00 so I wouldn’t miss my 7:20 Amtrak out of Union Station. Because even at that time in the morning, when it rains, the 101 sucks big time. I have to go down to San Diego once a week to supervise my group of attorneys and paralegals. That’s on top of the folks I supervise in the Reagan Building in downtown L.A. I’ve got a good group of people in both cities. But this weekly travel takes a big bite out of my schedule. Glad I got a seat. It's pretty crowded today for some reason. Man, look at that rain! I’ve never seen it come down like this. I’m glad Sarah and Josh are in Tucson for the week with my abuela Carmen. Anyway, the train should head out in a couple minutes. Okay, so I wrote something. Juices have done flowed. Flowed like shit. Rivers and rivers of shit. Time to check my Blackberry.
Stage 2:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 8:20 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
This pinche rain. We’ve been sitting here for an hour, not moving. The conductor says that the tracks in Anaheim are underwater so the trains are backed up all the way to Fullerton and we can’t move until the water recedes, which she hopes is soon. Never happened before, she says. One for the history books. Once in a lifetime downpour. Great. She says that luckily our train sits on an elevated part of the tracks here in Union Station. So, the water just flows down. But at this rate, I won’t get into San Diego until 11:30 or so. The day will be half gone. Then I’ll catch the 5:55 back to L.A. If we don’t leave soon, I’m going to get off this damn train, get my car from the parking lot, and drive down to San Diego. Dear journal, want to know how I feel? I am pissed, that’s how I feel. Big time pissed.
Stage 3:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 10:55 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
Oh, God. They won’t let us off the train because there’s nohwere to go. Downtown L.A. is underwater. The conductor is crying like crazy, she’s totally lost it. Just two minutes ago, she announced that the rain has flooded everything from L.A. to Orange County. It’s all under water, almost ten feet, she said. Before my Blackberry stopped working, I checked CNN and apparently the rest of the country is just fine. In fact, there’s a nationwide drought, but not here. A few passengers are still getting signals but they won’t let anyone else use their phones. There’s going to be a riot on this train if people don’t calm down. Thank God Sarah and Josh are in Arizona. The rain just keeps coming. Oh, oh. Oh shit! The water is up to the platform and inching up to our tracks! God, will the rain stop? Will it?
-- DO
Stage 1:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 7:18 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
My creative writing prof says that starting a journal will help me “get the juices flowing” as he puts it. Seems like a bunch of pendejo MFA bullshit to me. But I do need something to get over this writer’s block. I can’t get past chapter one on my novel. I mean, the Great American Novel. Anyway, at least for now, journal writing is it since ain’t nothin’ else is working. So here goes…let the words flow into this little journal I bought from Target. Target. Target. Target. Tar-Jay. What should I write about? What, what, what? Okay, when in doubt, write the obvious. What’s happening right now? How do I feel? Shit like that. Well, my ass is whipped. Got up at 4:45 a.m. to leave the house by 6:00 so I wouldn’t miss my 7:20 Amtrak out of Union Station. Because even at that time in the morning, when it rains, the 101 sucks big time. I have to go down to San Diego once a week to supervise my group of attorneys and paralegals. That’s on top of the folks I supervise in the Reagan Building in downtown L.A. I’ve got a good group of people in both cities. But this weekly travel takes a big bite out of my schedule. Glad I got a seat. It's pretty crowded today for some reason. Man, look at that rain! I’ve never seen it come down like this. I’m glad Sarah and Josh are in Tucson for the week with my abuela Carmen. Anyway, the train should head out in a couple minutes. Okay, so I wrote something. Juices have done flowed. Flowed like shit. Rivers and rivers of shit. Time to check my Blackberry.
Stage 2:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 8:20 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
This pinche rain. We’ve been sitting here for an hour, not moving. The conductor says that the tracks in Anaheim are underwater so the trains are backed up all the way to Fullerton and we can’t move until the water recedes, which she hopes is soon. Never happened before, she says. One for the history books. Once in a lifetime downpour. Great. She says that luckily our train sits on an elevated part of the tracks here in Union Station. So, the water just flows down. But at this rate, I won’t get into San Diego until 11:30 or so. The day will be half gone. Then I’ll catch the 5:55 back to L.A. If we don’t leave soon, I’m going to get off this damn train, get my car from the parking lot, and drive down to San Diego. Dear journal, want to know how I feel? I am pissed, that’s how I feel. Big time pissed.
Stage 3:
Journal entry – Wednesday, 10:55 a.m., Union Station, Amtrak 564, Los Angeles to San Diego
Oh, God. They won’t let us off the train because there’s nohwere to go. Downtown L.A. is underwater. The conductor is crying like crazy, she’s totally lost it. Just two minutes ago, she announced that the rain has flooded everything from L.A. to Orange County. It’s all under water, almost ten feet, she said. Before my Blackberry stopped working, I checked CNN and apparently the rest of the country is just fine. In fact, there’s a nationwide drought, but not here. A few passengers are still getting signals but they won’t let anyone else use their phones. There’s going to be a riot on this train if people don’t calm down. Thank God Sarah and Josh are in Arizona. The rain just keeps coming. Oh, oh. Oh shit! The water is up to the platform and inching up to our tracks! God, will the rain stop? Will it?
-- DO
Más sobre Manny Velasco
57: Doug Alred
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
Más sobre Doug Alred
58: Manny Velasco (St. Agnes)
Manny Velasco:
37-years-old government attorney who is working on first novel, married to law school sweetheart, Sarah Cohen, with whom he has a 6-year-old son, Josh; they live in Woodland Hills.
Monologue (Location: St. Agnes Catholic Church, 2625 South Vermont Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90007):
Stage 1:
Yes, mijo, you have to whisper when you’re in church. No, the Mass is finished, so the priest went to rest, but he’ll be back for the evening Mass. Hey, Josh, no running, okay? Slow down, take my hand, okay, mijo? I know it’s empty, but you have to show respect. What? Oh, yeah, you’re right. There is a leak in the corner. Don’t worry. See? They put a trash can to catch the water. It must leak every time there’s rain. So, this is where mommy and I got married. No, you can’t go up on the altar, stay down here with me. Sure, if you want to get married here, you can. But that’s a long time from now, Josh. A really long time, I hope. See those candles? People light them to remember people they love. Sure, let’s go light a candle for your Abuelita, okay? I know you miss her. I miss her, too. But she’s in heaven now, looking down at you and smiling.
Stage 2:
Mijo, stay near me, okay. I know it’s crowded, but we’re safe in here. There are a lot of steps in the bell tower so the water won’t get up into here. Let’s sit down on the steps, okay? Good, right here. Sit on my lap. Okay, that’s good, mijo. Close your eyes, rest. I know it’s noisy, but listen, people are praying, so that’s good, right. Don’t worry, mommy said she’s okay. You know we live up in the hills, so she’s safe. She told me she loves you. No, I can’t call her again. We shouldn’t bother her right now, okay. Don’t worry, mijo. Everything will be okay. Yes, I promise. And you know papa always keeps his promise, right?
Stage 3:
Josh, hang on to me, okay? Put your arms around my neck and give me a big hug. I have to take one step at a time. The steps are wet so I have to take it slowly. I know people are crying, but they’re fine. We’re fine. We just need to get down carefully. Don’t worry. The water has gone down, so it’s better if we move down to the chapel because it’s crowded up here. We’re okay, mijo, we’re okay. See, I told you I’d keep my promise. I told you.
-- DO
37-years-old government attorney who is working on first novel, married to law school sweetheart, Sarah Cohen, with whom he has a 6-year-old son, Josh; they live in Woodland Hills.
Monologue (Location: St. Agnes Catholic Church, 2625 South Vermont Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90007):
Stage 1:
Yes, mijo, you have to whisper when you’re in church. No, the Mass is finished, so the priest went to rest, but he’ll be back for the evening Mass. Hey, Josh, no running, okay? Slow down, take my hand, okay, mijo? I know it’s empty, but you have to show respect. What? Oh, yeah, you’re right. There is a leak in the corner. Don’t worry. See? They put a trash can to catch the water. It must leak every time there’s rain. So, this is where mommy and I got married. No, you can’t go up on the altar, stay down here with me. Sure, if you want to get married here, you can. But that’s a long time from now, Josh. A really long time, I hope. See those candles? People light them to remember people they love. Sure, let’s go light a candle for your Abuelita, okay? I know you miss her. I miss her, too. But she’s in heaven now, looking down at you and smiling.
Stage 2:
Mijo, stay near me, okay. I know it’s crowded, but we’re safe in here. There are a lot of steps in the bell tower so the water won’t get up into here. Let’s sit down on the steps, okay? Good, right here. Sit on my lap. Okay, that’s good, mijo. Close your eyes, rest. I know it’s noisy, but listen, people are praying, so that’s good, right. Don’t worry, mommy said she’s okay. You know we live up in the hills, so she’s safe. She told me she loves you. No, I can’t call her again. We shouldn’t bother her right now, okay. Don’t worry, mijo. Everything will be okay. Yes, I promise. And you know papa always keeps his promise, right?
Stage 3:
Josh, hang on to me, okay? Put your arms around my neck and give me a big hug. I have to take one step at a time. The steps are wet so I have to take it slowly. I know people are crying, but they’re fine. We’re fine. We just need to get down carefully. Don’t worry. The water has gone down, so it’s better if we move down to the chapel because it’s crowded up here. We’re okay, mijo, we’re okay. See, I told you I’d keep my promise. I told you.
-- DO
Más sobre Manny Velasco (St. Agnes)