Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Nuthin for Nobodys and Pron for Homebodys
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Saturday, November 3, 2012
This is not about kink. This is about hillbillies.
The San Fernando Hillbillies live a rollicking life, full of things. The perimeter of the 'billy plot in the heart of North hollywood is littered with derelict cabinet drawers, arthritic bicycles, chicken feathers, unidentified feathers, and children. The corn grows high in the summer, providing sanctuary for the resident Polish chicken and fluffed-up pussy cat. The corn grows high when the days linger long.
When we moved to North Hollywood, the hillbillies had already been subsisting in their little corner of the frying pan. The hillbillies were here before us, just like cockroaches predated Homosapiens. And gawd-- who knows quite how long they've been beening. They certainly know how to live: their kin, kind, and kinder mull around their dusty backyard, smiling, kicking-back, and hacking up wooden furniture into kindling.
On the curb, just beyond the grip of their trolling weeds' grasp, is a trailer, perennially parked. That's where the outlaws (outdoor in-laws) live. Usually the door to the RV is open, connecting the threshold to the greater hillbilly haven. I can't see past the doorway though, it is always consumed by a midday shadow. Sometimes new relatives will show up and expand the hillbilly's modest municipality-- I can tell because of the consistent facial features and sweat stains on their shirts.
When I moved here, and the hillbillies were still a veritable novelty, I remember thinking, "Wow, a movie about displaced hillbillies in LA would be genius." 10 minutes later, my head was lolling in shame; the Beverly Hills Hillbillies theme song wafted tauntingly between my cochlea.
My mom often comments on the Noho Hillbillies: she is envious. "They really live the good life..."
And it's true, their house is much bigger than ours. Their faces are weathered but contented. My mom is unrelenting in her praise.
"But really, they really do live good."
"Look how much fun they're having. Really."
"Have you ever heard of a Polish chicken??"
My mom wants to sit on a dusty lawn chair, day in and day out, as the children grow wild like weeds and the main event of the day is taking a dip in your above-ground deluxe kiddie pool. My mom dreams of the day when she too can snooze in the sun, playing refractor to the sunlight and pillow to the gaggle of cats. We drive by the Hillbilly fiefdom together in our beaten down Toyota, and our eyes remain fixed on the tall grass even when we have driven far away.
When we moved to North Hollywood, the hillbillies had already been subsisting in their little corner of the frying pan. The hillbillies were here before us, just like cockroaches predated Homosapiens. And gawd-- who knows quite how long they've been beening. They certainly know how to live: their kin, kind, and kinder mull around their dusty backyard, smiling, kicking-back, and hacking up wooden furniture into kindling.
On the curb, just beyond the grip of their trolling weeds' grasp, is a trailer, perennially parked. That's where the outlaws (outdoor in-laws) live. Usually the door to the RV is open, connecting the threshold to the greater hillbilly haven. I can't see past the doorway though, it is always consumed by a midday shadow. Sometimes new relatives will show up and expand the hillbilly's modest municipality-- I can tell because of the consistent facial features and sweat stains on their shirts.
When I moved here, and the hillbillies were still a veritable novelty, I remember thinking, "Wow, a movie about displaced hillbillies in LA would be genius." 10 minutes later, my head was lolling in shame; the Beverly Hills Hillbillies theme song wafted tauntingly between my cochlea.
My mom often comments on the Noho Hillbillies: she is envious. "They really live the good life..."
And it's true, their house is much bigger than ours. Their faces are weathered but contented. My mom is unrelenting in her praise.
"But really, they really do live good."
"Look how much fun they're having. Really."
"Have you ever heard of a Polish chicken??"
My mom wants to sit on a dusty lawn chair, day in and day out, as the children grow wild like weeds and the main event of the day is taking a dip in your above-ground deluxe kiddie pool. My mom dreams of the day when she too can snooze in the sun, playing refractor to the sunlight and pillow to the gaggle of cats. We drive by the Hillbilly fiefdom together in our beaten down Toyota, and our eyes remain fixed on the tall grass even when we have driven far away.
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