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Deep, Deep Brown


by Chris Okum


The thing in and of itself. Another sleepless, hangdog, self-lactating male trying to whip himself into a frenzy of vulgar self-regard. But hey, I can hear you say, isn't that the city? The movies are the city, right? This is Los Angeles: beautiful and not all that weird anymore when you really think about it. We visit the city inside the city. But wait, what's over there, beyond the walls of Xanadu, where Kubla Khan forgot to wash his car, where there are no zones of deconstruction, where the air smells of rotten meat and gasoline, where the water is a deep, deep brown (Ring! Ring!), where the "civilians" live, asymmetrical and dull. Hey, how come you never make a movie about them? Well, here's where they live. This is their kitchen. Go ahead, look through their trash. You shall know them by what they throw away. One carton of eggs, three bottles of beer, watermelon rinds, dirty diapers and some old magazines. As long as they get more they want more. The packaging changes, yet the product remains the same. Another mystery with way too many clues and impossibly tan tits. What does it all mean? Nothing. Because the thing in and of itself is disposable. And does the thing know this about itself? No, it does not.
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