Wednesday, April 25, 2007

the hiss

Hey Jude
Come on, Joe
Don't make that sad song
Any sadder than it already is
Hey Jack, get back
Get yourself together
Come on, come on
I know you’re thinking of your nervous love
I know exactly what you're thinking of
Hey Cid, no matter what you did
It can work out, work out
No matter how you feel right now
Hey George, do your chores
Don't feel sore
I know it's a lot more than just being bored
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
There's a heaven and there's a star for you
--Daniel Johnston

A ringing, like the high hissing pitch from a shower head, is in my ears. As blackberries bring a wave of weakened thumbs, ipods bring the cyborg ill-adaption of tinnitus.

Our addiction is to the simultaneous transcending and dividing of space. A podcast from Britain, a text message from Glendale, take us beyond our immediate surrounding and separate us from those in our presence.

While walking we no longer worry about whether to nod hello to the strangers we pass.

And the bus rider can close off surrounding sorrows.

I sit near the front of the Orange Line bus. My ipod is paused, but earphones remain in. At Van Nuys Blvd riders cram through the front door. A college kid stands to let a very large man with a rattan cane and dark shades sit down. "Thank you," he says.

I close my eyes and let conversations dissolve into engine's hum.

"Stop leaning on me!" shocks me from my stillness.

The man with the cane changes from feeble to ferocious.

In a crowded bus, jostling and leaning is the norm, but the scars inside this lion are deep, and he looks ready to break his cane over someone's head.

"Get off me you faggot!"

The target of his inexplicable outburst weaves through twisting arms and legs toward the back door while others give the wrath its space.

"Cocksuckers... I cant stand 'em... They all need to die..." The rage, like a homophobic sewage line, explodes, soaking us with a fecal stench. When I arrive at North Hollywood station, with bloodshot eyes, I'm gasping for breath.

The hulk of hate limps off and continues his seething, punctuated by cane stabbing cement.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Climb Every Mountain


The march by some 50 hikers to the Hollywood sign last Saturday as part of the "Step it Up" campaign to cut carbon emissions beautifully stated the upside down nature of Los Angeles life: walking to gaze over the ecological sacrifice to driving.

Yet, perhaps to the surprise of Angelenos and non-Angelenos alike, the streets below, packed with quirky taquerias and 1920s bungalows, offer the walker a delectable feast for the senses--rose pedals, buttered corn, barking dogs... Even our Chief Planner, Gail Goldberg, delights in walking to the hardware store or movie theater from her Larchmont Village home.

Reading her profile in Saturday's L.A. Times, I smiled: she endorses higher densities and links planning to social justice. But the needle scraped across vinyl when I came to this: "she's still driving to city hall."

I felt like those diners at the Lake Forest Souplantation--one minute enjoying the health boost from garbanzo beans and carrot shreds, the next minute in a hot sweat bent over a toilet seat.

This administration pledged a "radical new urban vision." Right now, it's more like DiGiorno--sorry, you can still tell its frozen.

My Dear Chief Planner, Mayor and all of City Hall: start taking the bus! You can live in L.A. without a car today. All we need is exclusive lanes for express buses and frequent service--every 5 minutes peak hours, every 15 off-peak.

Step it Uppers: What can you do?
Get on the bus!
Get on the bus!
Get on the bus and fight with us!

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Bis uns der Tod das kranke Herze bricht



Anselm Kiefer, "Midgard", 1982-1985
Milwaukee Art Museum

"You're a fucking asshole!"
In the Longs parking lot, a man in his mid forties stands besides his old red Mustang and yells.
"Go fuck yourself! You're a fucking asshole!"
He wears a thin grey beard matching the color of his t-shirt.

The target of his rage is a taller but older man wearing a safari style cowboy hat, light blue golf shirt and khaki shorts.

I continue toward the bus stop, a queazy mix of voyeuristic fascination and dread in my stomach. Neither the Mustang nor the tall man's Kia Sedona appear to be damaged.

The bearded man gets back in his Mustang. The conflict seems to reach its end, but I am not 50 feet away when the shouting peaks again.

A small audience develops. Everybody keeps a distance.

The Mustang is now pulled parallel to the Sedona. The man roars from the driver seat through the passenger door window.
"Get the fuck out of here! What are you fucking talking about! I'm not going to jail! Now just get the fuck out of here!"

The Kia owner writes something in a note pad as the Longs security guard--a small, weeble shaped man in his 60s--ambles toward him.

As a kid I would pack garbage with my feet into an old green incinerator found in our junk laden basement furnace room. A few hours after turning it on, nothing remained but ashes collected in a bottom drawer.

In the passenger seat of the Mustang, a boy of about 10 sits ashen-faced.

The suffering parent is the suffering child.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Feed the Birds

The lead article in last Thursday's LA Times Calendar section celebrates the art of the Metro and asks the astounding question: why don't more people take the subway in L.A.?

Why don't more people go dumpster diving at In n Out? Everybody knows it's the Dom Perignon of the fast food burger--not that pink champagne you used to buy at Walgreens to wash down the hot sauce soaked through two slices of white bread and fries underneath a half chicken from Harold's.



People don't take it because most Angelenos live, work and play more than a half mile from the nearest stop. And even if a stop was convenient, if you plan on going out in the evening, plan on taking at least 3 times longer than going by car.

This is not the Met--it's not even the 7 line to beautiful Jackson Heights.

This is the Red Line--NoHo to Skid Row.

Oh, but you can have the rest of my fries.