This is the first time I’ve ever wanted to install a Rube Goldberg in my bedroom. Then again this is the first time I’ve wanted to install much of anything in my bedroom. I still haven’t got around to setting up my bed, or bringing in any other furniture, or unpacking my clothes. I suppose I should stop sleeping on a flattened cardboard box before I consider starting any major Rube-Goldberg-related projects.
Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Shia. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Shia, he called himself Shia. Now, Shia— he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
But then again, maybe that’s why I found the place so darned interestin’. They call Los Angeles The City of Angels. I didn’t find it to be that, exactly. But I’ll allow there are some nice folks there. ‘Course I can’t say I’ve seen London, and I ain’t never been to France. And I ain’t never seen no queen in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I’ll tell you what — after seeing Los Angeles, and this here story I’m about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin’ every bit as stupefyin’ as you’d see in any of them other places. And mostly in English, too. So I can die with a smile on my face, without feelin’ like the good Lord gypped me.
Sometimes there’s a man — I won’t say a hero, ’cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a man. And I’m talkin’ about Shia. Sometimes, there’s a man, well, he’s the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that’s Shia, in Los Angeles. And even if he is a lazy man — and the Shia was most certainly that. Quite possibly the most lazy man in South Korea, which would place it high in the runnin’ for being laziest worldwide. But sometimes there’s a man, sometimes, there’s a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought here. But — aw, hell; I’ve done introduced him enough.
Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of the Dude. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. The Dude, he called himself the Dude. Now, the Dude — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
Good God, ya’ll.
Personally, photography isn’t really my forte. I can never get the lighting down, my hands are shaky, and I can never steal a good camera. Even a disposable camera would be acceptable at this point, but I can’t even steal one of those anymore. Tourists aren’t as easy to pick on as they used to be. Now they all use their phones as cameras,which never leave their line of sight. You try stealing something that’s glued to someone’s hands. It’s not easy.