Forget Melbourne: Sydney's so over you, L.A.
Two ladies and a man walk into a bar: Sydney, Melbourne and L.A.
Sydney –- the eldest and most beautiful –- orders a glass of Champagne and guzzles it.
Melbourne –- an intelligent middle-child who clamors for attention she doesn’t receive -- orders a glass of wine.
Los Angeles -- a big, young, glamorous punk who wears his baseball cap backwards -– orders a whiskey.
“Melbourne, bugger off,” Sydney screeches. “I’m sick of hearing you trying to prove yourself. Go back to your laneway and hide. Paint a picture. You’re too ugly to be drinking in this bar -– and L.A. and I have something to talk about.”
“Oh, Sydney,” says Melbourne. “So common –- think you’re so good because you're beautiful, but that makeup doesn’t hide your bad facelift. Think you can just sell yourself to the world and have all the fun …”
“Prostitution is true art –- I said, bugger off, you tart.”
Melbourne, never one to confront, went outside sniffing her glass of wine –- and walked into a laneway to dream of beaches.
Sydney versus L.A.
L.A.’s laughing over his whiskey: “So Sydney, got rid of little sis, hey? Don’t want her hanging off you all night trying to charm your men. Hey, she can be a bit of a drag after a few days, anyway.”
“Now you can shut up, too, L.A.,” Sydney says. “I have to put you in your place. You can’t come here with your basic ego and young attitude and pretend you’re it.”
“Hey, don’t start at me, cuz.”
“You’re such a pretender,” Sydney says. “You think you’re so cool because you name your beach after Italy’s finest, Venice –- but it’s far from it. That freak show is pumped on steroids and flaked on grass.”
“But that’s cool, ain’t it?” says L.A.
“You don’t know what cool is. Your surfers scream like college kids on a wave. In my Bondi, people chill out, wear thongs and hang loose.”
“Yeah,” says L.A. “We’ll take a drive up my coast to Malibu –- tell me that’s not the place to be.”
“Sure,” says Sydney. “If I made it through the traffic, your over-priced sand squats would block the view. My coast is lined with coastal walks and parks –- I’m egalitarian –- for all, not just a few.”
“But you’ll never have Hollywood.”
“And you’ll never have 'Priscilla,' 'The Matrix' or 'Moulin Rouge.' As much as you try and steal my stars like Cate and Russell, they belong to me. He’s my gladiator, L.A., and your men could never act the part.”
“You saying my guys aren’t tough?”
“They’re pussies,” says Sydney. “They wear helmets, shoulder pads and guards -– and these days you can’t even get a team together. My men charge at each other, bare-skinned and spill blood.
“Well, yeah,” says L.A. “Maybe my boys are too busy living the good life.”
“Good life? You have no style. I drink gourmet café latte, you drink burnt brew.”
“But you get free refills …”
“And all-you-can-eat buffets, you swine. Your idea of good food is greasy, roadside taco trucks. My exotic tastes come from all corners of the world.”
“Hey, I’ve also got dogs and burgers … ”
“And your downtown, it’s a downtime. The half-empty streets are lined with second-world markets. My center has cafés and heritage bars, laneway festivals, gay parades, city parks.”
“Hey,” says L.A., “I’m workin’ on my downtown –- I’m trying to clean it up.”
“But your inner city doesn’t exist. You have no urban grit, just ghettos. My Newtown, Enmore, and Marrickville have music, art and funk.”
L.A.’s starting to perk up now. He stops thinking about poker, baseball or which DVD he’s going to watch and comes out fighting. “Hey bitch, you’ll never have Beverly Hills.”
“And you’ll never have Paddington, Woollahra or Balmain. And my wealth is harbor side –- you only harbor criminals.”
“You addicted whore –- you’ll never have Hollywood Boulevard.”
“It’s nothing but a highway with a few clubs. Bar hop along my Oxford Street, and while you call me a whore, you can grab one of my girls in Kings Cross and check out some clubs while you’re there, you sleazebag.”
It's not a fair fight ...
At this point, Melbourne pokes her head around the door. “Can I come back in –- my laneway is empty and the clubs are closed –- it’s boring.”
L.A. turns around: “Didn’t you hear your big sister –- she said 'bugger off.' We’re talking.”
L.A. turns to Sydney: “OK, you loose woman, you piece of meat raised on rum –- you think you’re so good because your harbor’s always open. But you’ll always be a drunk criminal to me.”
“Oh, please,” says Sydney, “You uncultured imbecile. You’re far too young, you ‘Shanghai of the West,’ your glitz has no depth. You’re nothing but a grimy surface.”
“Hey,” says L.A. “OK, OK, let’s calm down –- let’s hang out and be friends.”
“Oh, piss off,” says Sydney. “I’m going to New York.”