keyword "parody" title "frank yetti's time spent in los angeles" in "the next big thing" flash fiction

Still, even if I believed what Frank said, that there was a curse placed on what would eventually become Los Angeles, where you’ll see what you want to see unless you are insane, very high or unless it broke your heart… myself, probably the first, assuredly the third… that only explained how they could see the last skunk-ape on Earth but only perceive a six-foot-eleven-inch busker in a sasquatch suit. It didn’t explain how he knew English or enough about our culture to pass as a costumed busker in front of Mann’s Chinese Theatre or how he got a name like Francis Yetti.

“Nearly had a doctorate in human studies,” Frank said through his coffee, “being the shortest in my birth group, I always felt a kinship with you people. I was going to teach college undergrad-requirement courses on humanity, originally specialized in religion but I fell in love with your music along the way, music and religion being pretty much the same for you anyway.”

“Class on Catholicism,” he raised a hairy finger to signal for the waitress, “we read about a saint who spoke to animals, Francis of Assisi, my mates made fun of my fascination with you animals by nicknaming me Francis. Yetti’s just an Italian diminutive for “grandmother” that sounds like “yeti”. Americans have so little cultural subtlety, figured I could get away with the pun.”

The Denny’s waitress refilled his coffee then he continued, “as my graduate internship, had a strong stealth enchantment placed upon me, did a year’s immersion amongst you, posing as a roadie for the musician Warren Zevon.” He saw my face light up, “You’ve heard of him?” I nodded. “Know his song Werewolves of London?” I nodded again. “He wrote that about me.” He saw my instant doubt.

“I mean, he said it was about some old film, but it was about me,” he slurped his coffee again, “I was sent to fetch Chinese take-out, when I got back to his room, he was stoned out his gourd on who knows how much of God knows what, high enough to briefly see through the glamour spell cast on me. Scared the daylights out of him. Next afternoon, he sees me, starts laughing, tells me last night he was so high, he thought I was a werewolf and he was gonna write a song about it.”

I didn’t know if I should believe him or not. “You know,” I finally said, “I wrote a parody of that song once, about white guys in suburbs, white guys being awkward and dull, consistently behind on the fads, you know, a-wooooooo, white guys in suburbs.”

“Are you so self-obsessed, Mike, you’re sitting in a diner with the last sasquatch on Earth, you’re the only one who can see him but you can’t help but use it as an opportunity to pitch one of your damnable parody songs?”

“It’s kind of who I am, Frank,” I admitted, “but yeah, your story’s a little bit more interesting.”

Last updated July 25, 2018