Showing posts with label los angeles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label los angeles. Show all posts

Thursday, February 14, 2019

An Entirely Subjective History of Los Angeles .




The best metaphor for understanding the way in which modern Los Angeles has grown is the metaphor of cancer.

If cancer is, at its simplest, just the rampant and uncontrollable division of mutated cells, then remember that Los Angeles, in its pre-mutation form, began more than a thousand years ago when the Tongva people gave it a name: Iyaanga. It means something along the lines of, “place of poison oak”. Some people who know about these things believe that the Tongva actually descended from tribes out of Nevada which migrated to the coast of southern California fifteen hundred years before the birth of Christ, or roughly the same time that Cecrops I was founding Athens. There is some evidence that the Tongva forced out a different prehistoric tribe which had been in the area for six thousand years before that, grinding grain at the base of the San Gabriel mountains while farming was only beginning to take place in the Nile River Valley. So who can really say where a cancer starts? Maybe it is always just a latent memory.

When the Spanish ships arrived in 1542, they were greeted by the Tongva’s ocean-going, twelve-man canoes. The sturdiness of those canoes was attributable to three thousand years of experiments in engineering and also to the thick black pitch from the La Brea Tar Pits, which today have a gift shop.

It was the Spanish who named the place El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles del Rio de Porciuncula, which means something like “The Town of Our Lady the Queen of Angels of the Porciuncula River”. By that name, of course, they were referring to the LA River which is now a dry chasm of concrete. The Spanish built missions and cleared ranch land, and little changed even when it passed to Mexican control, Mexico was still called New Spain in 1821. A blurry and sometimes bloody twenty-six years passed with little changing but politics and loyalties. The United States took control of the whole place on January 13, 1847 with a military treaty signed at the Campo de Cahuenga, which still exists. It is across the street from the Universal Studios movie-themed amusement park. Both Universal Studios and the Campo de Cahuenga have gift shops.

There are two changes which are generally indicative of the cellular mutations that cause cancer: the unchecked multiplication of cells and the diversion of blood flow required to feed that malignant cluster.

In 1892 oil was discovered 460 feet below what is now the corner of Colton Street and Glendale Boulevard, less than a mile from the present site of Dodger Stadium, which has a gift shop. The resulting oil boom and its concurrence with the waning days of the California Gold Rush caused the population of Los Angeles to multiply until it had swelled to more than one hundred thousand by 1900. The resulting pressure on the city’s water supply became manifest in the Federal legislation which created the Los Angeles Aqueduct, which would, over time, drain the Owens Valley dry. That same legislation gave Los Angeles access to the aquifer below the San Fernando Valley, over the hill the north. Provisions of that legislation prevented the City of Los Angeles from selling that water back to the farmers who grew wheat and grapes and citrus fruit in the Valley, because they were not within the city limits. Quickly the little farm towns which sat at the bottom of the 260 square mile bowl of the San Fernando Valley begged to be annexed into the jurisdiction of the City of Los Angeles. With the economic and population booms that followed World War II, LA needed somewhere to keep its people, having already filled its own space. The San Fernando Valley was ripe for suburban sprawl as it was already connected to the Los Angeles Basin by a natural gorge through the Santa Monica Mountains called the Sepulveda Pass. In 1957 construction began on the 405 Freeway which would forever forward link LA to the Valley like a hardened artery. Nested atop the southern edge of the Pass, above the freeway and looking south to Downtown and West to the Pacific Ocean, sits the Getty Center which gleams white like a mirage when the sun is out. It has a gift shop. Through the 1950s nearly all of the Valley farmland was concreted over to make space for a shockingly inefficient grid system of streets and for subdivisions of single-family homes which were built with the same energy and interchangeability of parts which had so recently served the war effort to such great success. There are still a few tiny ghettos of citrus farmland in the modern Valley. Tourist brochures refer to them as open air museum groves. One of them is a small stand of orange trees on the campus of California State University Northridge, it is located on the south side of campus along Nordhoff Street across from a gas station and a Cupid’s Hot dog stand. The hot dog stand does not have a gift shop but the CSUN bookstore sells all manner of branded commemorative trinkets.

The direct connection a tumor establishes to the bloodstream provides it with more than just a means of sustenance, it also creates a highway through which mutated cells may travel through the rest of the body.

Portions of the population looking to escape the suburban sprawl of the San Fernando Valley moved north over the Santa Susanna Mountains into the Santa Clarita Valley, which was formerly notable only for the Newhall Pass through which the Southern Pacific Railroad moved its trains between Los Angeles and San Francisco, and for the 262 acre Six Flags Magic Mountain roller coaster amusement park built there in 1971. The amusement park offers numerous gift shops. Other population booms have occurred to the west in the Santa Clara River Valley along State Route 126, where citrus and fruit farmland has been rezoned to serve the expansions of Santa Paula and Fillmore. Further to the northeast, population expansion has metastasized into the Antelope Valley which is a desolate high desert of more than two thousand square miles named for the pronghorned deer-like animals - unrelated to but resembling eurasian antelopes - which lived there until being hunted out of existence in 1888. Most of the Antelope Valley grows little food and possesses even less water.

Cancerous cells which leave their initial cluster and spread throughout the body can eventually form their own new clusters in new locations through the perversion of the natural process of angiogenesis, thereby allowing the new clusters to begin siphoning off blood supply on their own.

Population growth in the Antelope Valley has depleted the existing ground water aquifer to such a degree that land subsidence has begun to occur, whereby the ground level itself is dropping. From it’s main population centers of Palmdale and Lancaster, it is impossible to see across the desert and mountains back down into the cancerous cluster that is Los Angeles, but the fragility of the very ground there is indicative enough of its presence.

Left untreated, virtually all cancer is terminal.


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(An earlier version of this piece was published in the Fall 2014 issue of The Northridge Review)
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Sunday, October 11, 2015

Bloody.


The entryway of my apartment building has a glass security door and apparently one of the guys who lives in my complex is a photographer and he is taking Halloween pictures right now and that means that a college girl in a white dress - covered in “blood” -  is pressing herself zombie-style against that security door.  

I’m sure the pictures will be interesting, but it made it awkward for me to go check my mail.

I do love though being around all of that. LA has an artist commune called The Brewery (it is an old PBR brewery) and I have been there and as much as I was bothered by the sad quality of most of the “art” that I saw there, I still enjoy knowing that such a community exists.

This is a big part of why I am considering getting the hell out of LA in the next year or so. There is unequivocally culture in LA, but it is hard to find, hard to get to, and hard to be accepted into.

Perhaps it is like that everywhere, but I have to hope not. If a guy can shoot a horror show in my vestibule, does that mean that I’m living in the right place? Or that all that guy needed was a blood-covered model and a vestibule? Which he can find just about anywhere?

That may be the constant cosmic question of LA. Do I need to be here? or Do I only think I need to be here?

I have no answer for that.

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Monday, December 29, 2014

Being at the airport made me think about this other time I was at the airport.


I saw a Buddhist monk in full-on bare scalped, flowing Saffron glory, smoking a Marlboro upwind of the baggage check the first time I ever flew out of Burbank airport.

That was maybe seven or eight years ago — which I am totally not cool with — and in those seven or eight years I have been living in/around greater LA and I have still yet to come up with a better metaphor for this town than that monk/Marlboro man. Though I guess you could — sorry, this is going to be the fancy-as-fuck-grad-student part of me talking now (sometimes I drop off into gulfs of my own astounding pretentiousness, like, just watch all this trainwreck of grammar that has to happen now ... ) — say that the Marlboro Man himself is just the embodiment of the imagined and idealized American “cowboy” of “The West” and that he has always been a kind of monk, but that of the quintessentially American sort: stoic, strong, with calloused hands from all that pulling he is doing on his bootstraps, and with that unimpeachable moral fiber that good Americans are supposed to have as long as you don’t look too long or too closely. This is all nothing to say of the 10,000 mile stare. I think we ascribe that to monks of every stripe, but the dude I saw puffing away at the airport that day wasn’t staring off into all of eternity. He was just standing there, just like the rest of us, getting one last fix in before going through security, just like the rest of us. So what’s that tell us about our monks?


Anyway.


LA is a weird place and this one time I saw a monk smoking.

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Just to Clarify.



Despite how much I talk about it, I would like to put you at ease and tell you that I am not one of those people who thinks that LA is the center of the solar system. Honestly, I don’t think LA even matters very much at all to anyone who isn’t in LA. I don’t hate the place either though. It would be a pretty cool town if the population was half what it is right now. And this is being said by a transplant and, yes, I get both the irony and hypocrisy of that. Sometimes honesty is hypocritical. Sometimes the way we feel is stupid. Or unfair. Or just dumb. No one you have ever heard of has ever effectively made the case that any moral imperative to be not a hypocrite is biological. That’s just my fancy way of saying that the way you feel and the way you are supposed to feel, are generated by completely separate and unconnected systems. Anybody schooled in Psychoanalytical literary theory would say that that’s wrong and what about all that stuff Freud said about cannibalism and castration?!


Well look, Freud was a weird dude.
Try to argue against that.


Man. I am rambling a lot.


I haven’t even been drinking.


Yet.

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Saturday, August 23, 2014

LAPD Horse Conspiracy.


As I’ve mentioned before, I live in LA. Some people would say that I don’t, that I actually live in the San Fernando Valley. I would never say that I live in Los Angeles, because that is a city with boundaries (I used to live down there a few years ago), but I have come to find that “LA” is a more generalized term that refers to most of this mess south of Santa Clarita and north of Long Beach. I guess. That’s a pretty nebulous area and I’m not even sure that I agree with those borders. I used to say that LA was anything south of the Grapevine and north of Camp Pendleton, but I don’t think that’s quite right either. It is a hard thing to pin down. I don’t love living here, but I have learned to enjoy it. If you have your own thoughts about what and where LA is then please email them to no1cares@hotmail.com

I mention that I live in LA only so as to explain that I end up hearing a lot of local news when I listen to NPR and recently there was a great half-scandal concerning the chief of the LAPD. His name is Charlie Beck and he got in some trouble because the department bought a horse from his daughter in a possibly unethical way. Now I could not let a horse scandal go un-researched, so I looked into it a little more. Basically though it isn’t so much a scandal about a horse, but rather it is mostly about whether or not Beck lied about his involvement in the whole thing (He totally lied, BTW), but I quickly lost interest because none of the articles I read included interviews with horses. You can read all about it here.


So none of this is very interesting, right? No way to make a movie-of-the-week out of this, right? Well what if I told you that LAPD chief Charlie Beck looks a whole lot like Tom Selleck? Yeah, now you’re interested.



This is Charlie Beck.




This is Tom Selleck.



This is a picture of Tom Selleck dressed as a police chief (Or is it?)





This is a picture of Chief Charlie Beck dressed as General Dwight D. Eisenhower.



This is actually a picture of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. (Just kidding! That’s Harry Truman.)



This is a picture of Tom Selleck if his body were to rotate around his face.



This is a picture of Chief Beck, as rendered by a police cake-sketch artist.



Now what if I tell you that I am NOT THE ONLY ONE to have noticed this? The LAist was on this back in 2009. (Only I didn’t know that until just now while I was googling for pictures of Tom Selleck).

I don’t have a theory worked out for this whole thing yet, but I will say that it is quite a coincidence that Charlie Beck and his family have horses and that Tom Selleck has been seen riding horses, but has never been seen with Beck.



I’m going to look into this some more. I’ll shake some trees and see what falls out. If you don’t hear from me again … well then you’ll know why ...


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Thursday, November 7, 2013

It Never Entered My Mind.


Right now I am writing a story that has some characters landing at LAX and because I’m me, I’m using the experience to tease out the character and history of LA. I’ve flown in and out of LAX before and so I remember the feeling of it, but I’m a little light on some of the physical geography. While hunting around for some memory-joggers, I found this video which is kind of startlingly beautiful. There’s no audio, so flip on some music. My Pandora happened to be playing “It Never Entered My Mind” by Ben Webster and Coleman Hawkins, which felt like just about the right soundtrack.




Here is the link.


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