Shut Up, Artemis!

The City of Angels finally embraced me in her flabby, zit-ridden arms, and revealed not only her oozing sores and pus but her divinity as well. In short, last night I saw a movie projected onto the wall of an auto body shop in one of those drab neighborhoods immediately off the freeway, the kind that are full of businesses with names like “Budget Finance Company,” “Finance Budget Corporation,” and “ExxonMobil,” plus a couple impoverished theater companies looking for cheap rent. It was of course a wacky independent release, with the Greek pantheon and some extra illegitimate offspring of Zeus and some hijinks and hilarity which took twelve years to construct. The greatest thing about it, though, was the sense of place – landscape shots, news footage, stuff the director captured by wandering around the middle of the 1994 riots – the exact opposite of an anonymous urban Metropolis.

Then I retired with an entirely separate group of people to a blacklit cafe in West Hollywood for a banana-espresso smoothie. Hello, L.A.


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