The Valley Girl drags Shanon into the weird claws of a Cat Show. They witness a Tarantino-esque car chase on their way to the Inglewood diner Pann’s — and discuss some of Los Angeles’ homeless celebrities, mental illness and their plans to find Clive Barker at the Magic Castle. That’s right, we like to keep it Surreal, L.A.!
David Lynch is the master of manifesting his dreams (and nightmares) into reality. Take the opening of Silencio — the upscale bar inspired by Mulholland Drive‘s fictional theater Club Silencio.
Naturally, every little dark nerve in my body screamed with anticipation as I imagined listening to a Dorothy Valens look-a-like croon “Blue Velvet,” as a backwards speaking midget poured me a glass of garmanbozia in a lounge draped with deep red curtains.
Oh, we can dream . . . but sometimes we wake up and realize that our dreams are being built in Paris.
With all due respect, Mr. Lynch, that club belongs in the dark, dream-like tendrils of the greater Los Angeles area. [Read more…]
Don’t miss the Mulholland Drive Edition of Surreal L.A., where the Valley Girl and Shanon record the podcast live from Mulholland Drive, overlooking the grimy, but glittering, San Fernando Valley. Follow their cracked-out, midnight conversation, covering topics from their epic search for Quween on the Scene to David Lynch’s Club Silencio, movies in the cemetery, and ghetto bootylicious photo shoots in front of the LACMA. Yeah, things just got weirder, L.A.
We want to hear from you too. Send your strange and unusual stories to firstname.lastname@example.org for a chance to get them read on the podcast or published on the blog. Keep it Surreal, L.A.!
This is Zipporah. She’s rich, loves life, has traveled the world — and is certain she will be famous some day. Oh, and she thinks you’re cute and wants to know all about your heritage.
Why? . . . Why are you asking? You’re in Surreal LA.
In a city so preoccupied with beauty and youth, Los Angeles is home to a small army of eccentric older ladies whose eyes still sparkle with a young starlet’s dreams of fame, fortune and love.
If you’ve spent anytime roaming the streets of Hollywood proper or Beverly Hills, you’ve seen them: older women in their sixties and seventies dressed to the nines in all kinds of theatrical assembles begging for your attention. I’ve seen eighty year-old pink-haired old punks standing in line for band auditions, a wheelchair-bound Cinderella buying Depends in a CVS — and a grandmother wearing an ornate feathered mask in a Ralph’s.
Some people call them crazy. I’d like to think of them as withered flowers.