Saturday, March 9, 2013

"I'm bangin' for the Westside- this is in my heart, this is how I feel."

We walk around it, covering our eyes with imposter designer sunglasses. Our last week's paycheck up our nose, and are floating above the city. I have lived in Los Angeles for the last ten years and in these ten years I have learned that this town is like no other. I have learned that everyone is someone very important and very special, yet no one in this town works or ever does anything important or special. To be successful in this town is to be something more than the combination of your talents and your skills—it takes a particular kind of person to live here, it takes a particularly particular kind of person to make this place a home. I didn't move here to become important or special. I was moved here. My family has moved more times in my life than I care to remember. But all these wanderings have given me a gypsy heart that makes it possible for me to conform to any place, any situation, and (almost) any group of people. I’ve learned that in order to truly love Los Angeles, you must see it exactly for what it is, and appreciate it for nothing more. Los Angeles, Hollywood, Beverly Hills—these places breathe magic, whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Such proximity to fame and fortune will draw you in and make you promises—fashion complex fantasies and delusions of grandeur. And even if you are one of the lucky few that get to nibble on the sweet ear lobe of this whore town, you may find yourself empty, forgetting your integrity, losing your moral compass.
Now, you have no idea where North is and the 405 is at a standstill. Imagine how amazing traffic would be if every person that poisons this town with the stench of desperation and their shallow, hollow personalities, would just go back home to Kansas, or Iowa, or Ohio, or Minnesota… It would be 10 minutes to the valley from downtown. That’s how amazing.  

 Not an ounce of makeup just a lot of disgruntle pain. Shot 2010 by Jeff Linett