LA Urban Panoramas: A Foreign Feeling

LA? WHERE,
WHEN,
and how?
All I saw was Chinese writing, vacant buildings, and ironically for an auto-dependant city, not one car. The sign on the wall of the Getty Center said, “Los Angeles Urban Panoramic Photographs,” but ‘my’ LA was nowhere in sight. The photographer emphasized the idea of the mini-mall being the major component of the Los Angeles urban landscape. Though I agree with that concept I still couldn’t stomach this dark depiction of the mini-mall. Yes, they are flat, yes they serve no aesthetic purpose what so ever, and yes, they tend to appeal to the consumer in transit, but I thought we were going for Sunset Blvd. and the downtown skyline LA here, not the unspoken for back streets.
When we typically think of the LA mini-mall, we automatically think of the 1950’s, urban sprawl, and middle class suburban dwellers driving into “town” for their variation of errand running. Heaven forbid instead of finding something along the lines of this there be a foreign and unkempt mini-mall, where crime and other deviances can take place. The Los Angeles mini-mall is to be a safe haven, and a sort of one stop shop for the suburban consumers.
None of these black and white photographs said safe. Many of them were not even legible to the average American, as the storefronts pictured were in a different language. Windows were broken, and the stucco walls were cracked. Letters were missing in signs and the scattered potholes in the parking lot made for an unpleasant welcome. And for god sake where are the people? These barren structures lacked any livelihood, very opposite of the Los Angeles we are most comfortable associating with, especially while in a museum. We Angelenos are protective of our “white spot” city, and the images of this exhibit formed a threat against an image we hold dear.
Now, I don’t’ mean to shift so abruptly and reveal a secret alternative side of my emotions on this matter, emotions that in all my disagreeing somehow bring me to a point of relating or even understanding. Before I completely deny these accusations and disassociate Angelinos with the images on that wall, I must ask the question, is this empty and broken depiction on purpose? Are we too like our structures, empty and broken? Come on, we’re Hollywood, we’re Sunset Boulevard and the entertainment capital. Yes there is a traffic issue here and there but it’s all worth it when you realize your stuck on the road next to Tom Cruise for a few hours. In actuality this underbelly realization is true whether we are proud of it or not. The irony of the mini malls today, is they completely contradict these safe havens Los Angeles once built up, at least as far as the ones in the photographs are concerned. If this is the case then the photographer’s dark quiet photographs shed light and spoke volumes on corners Los Angeles has managed to keep under wraps.
There we have it, I have managed to have an ah-ha moment right in the middle of writing this. At first I was turned off by this representation of Los Angeles. I didn’t understand why someone would spend all the money and time it took, only to relay the message that Los Angeles isn’t what we all thought it was. After all the photos of New York City were vibrant and seemingly relevant. It looked like the people in those photographs were on a mission and any distraction would be a set back of one hundred years. Their buildings were just as loud and as meaningful as they were. The colors were bright and the words on the buildings were electronically displayed and moved horizontally across the side of the buildings, making sure to keep a steady pace with the important people walking down below. Why didn’t Los Angeles look meaningful and appealing? In conclusion I have come to the realization that the photographer of the New York panoramas had their best foot forward and quite possibly went for the stereotype went for the stereotype (come on NY you’re not all that important). I cannot deny that it took much more courage for the photographer of the Los Angeles panoramas to give us an LA we might not like or even know was there, and for that I commend her honesty and willingness to show a bit of the cold hard truth.

-- Erin Golightly

(photo credit: top, Zabowski; bottom, OmarOmar, flickr creative commons)

Greetings From Our "Island" -- Again -- Literally

ISLANDS OF LA'S, Ari Keltzky, paid a visit to "class" last week by, well, removing the walls and borders around which we think about the place we occupy. This will begin our deeper discussion about what place means and how we define it.

Some images from our Island, the grassy knoll/median at the entrance of LMU's "Alumni Mall."

Any post-discussion thoughts? Did it alter in any way the way you think about "public" or "private"; space or place? How we define where we are is subjective and powerful, Kletzky suggests . . .

Here we are pondering nostalgia, in the dark, by the light of the crescent moon...











Kletzky has some questions on his blog for you all to ponder (the password is LMU) and we'll talk more in class when you return from break about what thought of the whole enterprise. Also, feel free to post here in the comment area below. Express/exchange.

-- L.G.

(photo credit: yours truly)
-- L.G.

Frank Zappa and the Watts Riots

THIS SONG is about the Riots of '65, though I think it applicable to any riot. What do you think the lyrics say? Deeper meanings? Any hint of the social structures that caused the riots?



Trouble Every Day
Lyrics by Frank Zappa

Well I'm about to get sick
From watchin' my TV

Been checkin' out the news
Until my eyeballs fail to see
I mean to say that every day
Is just another rotten mess
And when it's gonna change, my friend
Is anybody's guess

So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin'
Hopin' for the best
Even think I'll go to prayin'
Every time I hear 'em sayin'
That there's no way to delay
That trouble comin' every day
No way to delay
That trouble comin' every day

Wednesday I watched the riot . . .
Seen the cops out on the street
Watched 'em throwin' rocks and stuff
And chokin' in the heat
Listened to reports
About the whisky passin' 'round
Seen the smoke and fire
And the market burnin' down
Watched while everybody
On his street would take a turn
To stomp and smash and bash and crash
And slash and bust and burn

And I'm watchin' and I'm waitin'
Hopin' for the best
Even think I'll go to prayin'
Every time I hear 'em sayin'
That there's no way to delay
That trouble comin' every day
No way to delay
That trouble comin' every day



Well, you can cool it,
You can heat it . . .
'Cause, baby, I don't need it . . .
Take your TV tube and eat it
'N all that phony stuff on sports
'N all the unconfirmed reports
You know I watched that rotten box
Until my head begin to hurt
From checkin' out the way
The newsman say they get the dirt
Before the guys on channel so-and-so



And further they assert
That any show they'll interrupt
To bring you news if it comes up
They say that if the place blows up
They will be the first to tell,
Because the boys they got downtown
Are workin' hard and doin' swell,
And if anybody gets the news
Before it hits the street,
They say that no one blabs it faster
Their coverage can't be beat

And if another woman driver
Gets machine-gunned from her seat
They'll send some joker with a brownie
And you'll see it all complete

So I'm watchin' and I'm waitin'
Hopin' for the best
Even think I'll go to prayin'
Every time I hear 'em sayin'
That there's no way to delay
That trouble comin' every day
No way to delay
trouble comin' every day

Hey, you know something people?
I'm not black
But there's a whole lots a times
I wish I could say I'm not white

Well, I seen the fires burnin'
And the local people turnin'
On the merchants and the shops
Who used to sell their brooms and mops
And every other household item
Watched the mob just turn and bite 'em
And they say it served 'em right
Because a few of them are white,
And it's the same across the nation
Black and white discrimination
Yellin' "You can't understand me!"
'N all that other jazz they hand me
In the papers and TV and
All that mass stupidity
That seems to grow more every day
Each time you hear some nitwit say
He wants to go and do you in
Because the color of your skin
Just don't appeal to him
(No matter if it's black or white)
Because he's out for blood tonight

You know we got to sit around at home
And watch this thing begin
But I bet there won't be many live
To see it really end
'Cause the fire in the street
Ain't like the fire in the heart
And in the eyes of all these people
Don't you know that this could start
On any street in any town
In any state if any clown
Decides that now's the time to fight
For some ideal he thinks is right
And if a million more agree
There ain't no Great Society
As it applies to you and me
Our country isn't free
And the law refuses to see
If all that you can ever be
Is just a lousy janitor
Unless your uncle owns a store
You know that five in every four
Just won't amount to nothin' more
Gonna watch the rats go across the floor
And make up songs about being poor

Blow your harmonica, son!




Just for kicks:






Zappa was Indeed what people would call the man.

-- Jason Collins

(photo credit, The Googly, from flickr creative commons)

"We Tell Stories . . . " : Joan Didion

PUBLISHED IN 1970, Joan Didion's,The White Album, is a scrapbook of the political/pop culture landscape of California of the late 60s and 70s. California, and Los Angeles in particular, was lucky to have such an eye turned on the length of its expanse. Deeply reported and even more deeply felt, Didion is able to convey not just political climate, social disarray and personal upheaval but the very texture of the era's tensions, fears, confusion and sense of possibility. As a journalist and essayist, Didion set not just a tone but presented a different template. She was a model for many aspiring reporters and writers who wanted to dig deeper and peer behind perception. Her stories had more than resonance they left an afterimage.

As we turn the corner and begin to contemplate your final pieces -- writing the Los Angeles you see into being, we'll be looking at different writers -- journalists, essayists -- who have left indelible impressions about their Los Angeles. As you think about putting together your reported observations, think about creative ways to weave the facts with observations. Details, very simply set down, are often key in writing prose that draws you in with its careful rhythms.

Here is a sample from The White Album in which Didion recollects the night that the Manson Family murders were set in motion:

"We put 'Lay Lady Lay' on the record player, and 'Suzanne.' We went down to Melrose Avenue to see the Flying Burritos. There was a jasmine vine grown over the verandah of the big house on Franklin Avenue, and in the evenings the smell of jasmine came in through all the open doors and windows. I made bouillabaisse for people who did not eat meat. I imagined that my own life was simple and sweet, and sometimes it was, but there were odd things going around town. There were rumors. There were stories. Everything was unmentionable but nothing was unimaginable. This mystical flirtation with the idea of 'sin' -- this sense that it was possible to go 'too far,' and that many people were doing it -- was very much with us in Los Angeles in 1968 and 1969. A demented and seductive vortical tension was building in the community. The jitters were setting in. I recall a time when the dogs barked every night and the moon was always full. On August 9, 1969, I was sitting in the shallow end of my sister-in-law's swimming pool in Beverly Hills when she received a telephone call from a friend who had just heard about the murders at Sharon Tate Polanski's house on Cielo Drive. The phone rang many times during the next hour. These early reports were garbled and contradictory. One caller would say hoods, the next would say chains. There were twenty dead, no twelve, ten, eighteen. Black masses were imagined, band bad trips blamed. I remember all of the day's misinformation very clearly, and I also remember this, and wish I did not: I remember that no one was surprised."

-- L.G.

photo credit: academy of achievement

There Are Two L.A.s: Blame the 405

WATCHING THE FILM Falling Down, I found the portrayal of Los Angeles quite interesting in that all areas are exposed (geographically, psychosocially, sociologically), yet inevitably linked to specific stereotypes and connotations that reinforce it’s realities as well as its myths.

As a third generation Angeleno, I feel overqualified to argue that there are two LA’s, east and west, divided by the 405. West of the 405 you’ll find, Malibu, Santa Monica, “Hollywood”, UCLA, palm trees, organic farmers markets, and last but not least convertibles to go with your sunglasses. East of the 405 you’ll find deserted buildings, homelessness, gentrification, riots, threatening minorities, and dirty streets governed by territorial gangs.

We have all seen these images at some point and have never seen any good come of the two sides meeting. As much as I want to deny the separation, and follow alongside the popular image that we all do run into stars everyday, the fact of the matter is that we don’t and the separation exists.

The popular images of Los Angeles cover nowhere near the actual size of LA, so we have managed to elect the smallest community as the ambassador of our Los Angeles. The reality is there are more communities living in poverty than there are ones that are not. In fact, the images, in my opinion, cause these realities of isolation and division to persist.

We have now grown comfortable with the fact that there are areas, specifically east of the 405, that you should not associate with, and therein lies one of the many problems these images reinforce.

Isolation and exclusion are by no way a means of solving problems, especially as in relation to members of a society. This causes the members of these societies as well as others, to buy the myth that this is the way LA is "supposed to be" -- divided by a line supported by class, stratification, and race.

Obviously the popular perception is that of west of the 405, and the reasons why many people come to Los Angeles in the first place -- for their dreams of stardom to come true, or at least walk amongst those whose dreams are coming true. This is supposed to be the place where opportunity resides, alongside success, and the carefree lifestyle California is most often associated with. If this popular image is the stronger of the two, then the true Los Angeles is largely underrepresented.

Why not, as neighbors, be alarmed by this division and push for some sort of unity? In my own experience I have seen many people disappointed when they come to visit Los Angeles. often it is not what they ‘pictured’, whether they are referring to the fact that Hollywood is not as glamorous as it’s made out to be, or the fact that the parts shown in the popular images are not nearly the size of the rest of Los Angeles.

For now we will have to at least recognize the fact that there are two very different LA’s. One LA that will continue to be the enticing yet false face of Los Angeles, and the other darker side, which might never get the recognition associated with its magnitude.

-- Erin Golightly

photo caption: the 405 Freeway from the Getty tram
photo credits, kinga-san, omar, omar,flickr creative commons)

Urban Legends of Venice Beach

AFTER MOVING into my new apartment in Venice Beach, I took a walk with my roommate who had already been living in the apartment for a semester, so he knew the ins and outs of the neighborhood. What was interesting was the first story he told me about a man living in a house across the street from us.
“The guy who lives in that house is crazy” he said. “What do you mean, crazy?” I asked. Apparently the man has been living in Venice Beach for over 50 years, and rumor has it that he once went to the Venice Beach boardwalk where he invited a homeless man and a drug addict to live in his home with him. As my roommate explained this story, I stared across the street at this man’s home. Surrounded by a metal gate, the front yard is covered with old, broken chairs, tables, and shrubs that look like they haven’t been attended to in years. It was like a game of I Spy; I found four American flags hanging in various areas, a large mirror on top of the house, a clock displayed next to a window, and an old bike covered in dirt. His car sits in front of the house, an old blue VW wagon with all of the windows rolled down as if he has no concern for the car being robbed or stolen. As we walked back to our apartment, the man was leaving his home with his three dogs, all of which are of some mix of Pitbull—all without a leash. One is wearing a cone around its neck, and one has lost the functioning of its back right leg. The third dog, with a fatty tumor on its back the size of a baseball, has crossed paths with a smaller dog and is barking furiously in its direction as the man walks ahead, seemingly uninterested in the conflict.
Soon enough I believed the rumor to be true—this man must be crazy, yet there also must be a story there. How true are the stories we hear about “crazy” neighbors? With so many American flags, could he be a veteran? Has he created a halfway house for the homeless and the addicted? Venice Beach has always steered clear of being considered a stereotypical Los Angeles community, and he is the epitome of this ideal. Taking the advice of Professor George, I have resisted the urge to walk up alone, knock on his door and talk to him, but not a day goes by that I don’t look at his cluttered yard and wondered what his LA story is.

-- Lauren McHale

(photo credit: Lauren McHale)

Surprise in the Alley

ON A Saturday night, I walked down 2nd Street only focused on getting to Little Tokyo. It was the first time that I had walked around Los Angeles without the protection of my father or my family and I was nervous. But that night I realized that if you’re concerned with only your destination, you fail to appreciate the journey getting there.

Nothing but concrete buildings towered above me with the lights on the top floors dotting the night sky. The breeze shifted my bangs out of place and as I went to shake my head and move them out of my eyesight, the colors pink and yellow flickered in my peripheral vision. To my left was a dark alleyway with one light illuminating a brick wall and just where the light faded and reached its range, a vibrant masterpiece caught my attention.

With the recent talks of graffiti being an art I looked at this differently than when I saw markings on the underpass on a freeway as a child. With a new understanding I was able to see the passion the artist must have had to create this. It's location was even more appreciative because it was in a place where it wasn’t obvious that it was there but hidden enough to be a treasure. Had I not glanced a little to my left I would have continued bee lining down the sidewalk with no disregard. The true colors of Los Angeles jump out at me even more now that I actually take time to try and find them.

-- Antoinette Ochoa

(photo credit: Antoinette Ochoa)

Only in LA: A Winter Saturday

THE SUN'S shining but the semi-dark cloud hanging over the Hollywood hills is a more of a threat than anything -- put in place, I think, to pacify those who actually enjoy the winter months. I call up my good friend Sem, we both agree the only thing to do on a day like this was to spend it outside as much as possible.

We meet for breakfast, and find the best seat in the house, considering it was an LA winter, the balcony. Arriving at 8am we find our perfect outdoor table, making sure to enjoy the cool and energizing mixture of the sun and crisp clean air. After about an hour or so of French music, French atmosphere, and American style French food, Sem and I make our way to the Getty museum. Quick to grab our sunglasses we boarded the tram, which takes us to the mountain top entrance of the museum, and enjoy the progressing aerial panoramic views of Los Angeles on the way up, the sky, so clear, we can see all the way to downtown, to the Marina, and even clearly made out the white LMU letters marking the bluff of Loyola Marymount University.

The Getty is amazing as usual, with its garden-like setting mixing artwork both inside and outside, a setting arguably designed specifically for the Los Angeles area it sits on. Perfect spot for us Angelenos to get our outdoorsy fix amongst the metropolitan region. The Getty landscape is intricately designed and kept and creates a space where you can enjoy the richness of the city as well as the rural agricultural spaces of LA. Yes, it’s man made, but what isn’t in LA?

As breakfast begins o wear-off and the effects of our LA trademark, the sun, began to sink in, Sem and I were ready to eat again. We chose another Angeleno favorite -- also my personal favorite -- a Mexican restaurant. In my opinion, a quesadilla, chips & salsa and a margarita, is the perfect meal to bring any LA day to an end.

Back home I begin reminiscing about my sunny winter Saturday, while watching the treacherous weather reports for the rest of the US. I realize while everyone else was shoveling snow and snarling at their frozen vehicles when they unsuccessfully attempted to start them, Sem and I hid behind our sunglasses, had breakfast and dinner on a balcony, and soaked in the views Los Angeles in all its’ glory. Did we forget it’s February?! Only in LA…

-- Erin Golightly


(photo credit, erin golightly)

Mythmaking in L.A.: Wear Clothes, Don't Speak

WHAT DOES it take to be a working model in Los Angeles?

There are currently hundreds of girls living in LA believing the false hopes and empty promises of the modeling industry. About four years ago, I too fell into the trap of believing I could become the next ‘supermodel.’ But it only took a taste of mega-dysfunctional hypnosis that eventually led to a rude awakening.

One day while shopping at a local mall, a man came up to me and asked if I had ever considered a career in modeling. “Not really” I said as my cheeks turned red. “Here’s my card, give me a call so we can talk about your future.”

I was a junior in high school, and a varsity swimmer and basketball player, but a model? I bought into the lure of superstardoom and quit sports because I was told they make me “bulk up” and learned how to starve in the name of potential. At my first “test shoot” in New York, a photographer laid on the floor aiming the camera upwards, a trick used to make my body appear longer and leaner as he told me to “look sexy” and “seduce the camera.”

A few months later I am a “new face” with two modeling agencies in Los Angeles. Going to castings was miserable; I would drive for hours in traffic just to wait several more hours before being called into the room. There seems to be this myth about LA that models are these glamorous prototypes for beauty and fashion which every woman should aspire to become. However, in reality the working models I waited with at casting calls were a far cry from what anyone should aspire to look like; cheek bones protruding from their face, eyes sunk so deeply into their skull it’s impossible to tell their color, knees are the widest part of their legs, and their concave stomachs make you hungry at the sight.

When it was my turn to meet the client, they would take my comp card instead of asking my name; then holding a camera, ask me to face forward, click, turn to the side, click, turn to the other side, click, then they would take my measurements and ask me to leave. Two minutes was all it took for them to determine my fate and the fate of every girl who walked in that room.

As a working model, I was always imperfect to the modeling industry. “Just another five pounds” they would say, but when five pounds were shed, “just five more” was all I would hear. After four months of wasting my first year of college trying to become a professional hanger, I finally broke through the shiny plastic cover of that dark, cruel world of self-hatred and mutilation—I quit, escaped, ran away and only look back in sympathy for those hundreds of girls still blinded by the stars in their eyes.

-- Lauren McHale

(photo credit: Seth Sebal)

Vanished L.A.: "The Great Room"

"The great room, over one hundred feet in length and seventy-five feet in width, was a sunburst of light. Great crystal chandeliers blazed from a dozen vantage points, while softer and smaller lights were placed along the four sides of the room. ... The perfection and symphony of the great room held the guests spellbound upon their arrival. As the stately ladies and gentlemen entered the salon the pause each made at the threshold as with intense interest they swept the salon with their gaze was noticeable.” (LA Times, October 1911. Grand Opening- Alexandria Hotel)

LIKE MOST people today, I’d be lying if I said that I had had ever heard of the Alexandria Hotel in Downtown Los Angeles, prior to last weekend. Somehow, I had managed to find myself walking past transients, through dark glass doors that opened into the marble lobby of a century’s old Los Angeles hotel. Built in 1906 in its current location, the corner of 5th and Spring St., the hotel, much like the Titanic on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, is a mere ruin of the elegance that it once beheld. There is no flowing red carpet to greet an entrance, no butler to take your bags (or trunks), no shoeshine boy to polish your shoes and there are no Hollywood starlets cascading down wooden stairs.

Today, there are only mere remembrances of the golden age; signed photos of silent movie stars the likes of Greta Garbo, Charlie Chaplin and Humphrey Bogart line faded walls. In 1912, a story in the L.A. Times stated that, “What Union Square was to old New York, what Forty-second street is to the present metropolis, and what the vicinity of the Cort Theater is to San Francisco, the Alexandria mezzanine seems to be to theatrical Los Angeles... Hardly ever does the day pass in which some nationally-known actor or actress does not linger in the low settees or pause at the golden rail, looking down into the lobby below”. During its heyday between 1911 and 1922 the Hotel was the grandest location in all of Los Angeles. It housed a million dollar carpet in the lobby, a world famous stained glass Tiffany Skylight, and the premier Ballroom in the western United States. The ballroom, which came to be known as “The Palm Court”, “The Grand Ballroom” and The “Franco-Italian Dining Room” saw speeches by Presidents William Howard Taft and Woodrow Wilson. It was this room where Paul Whiteman, later to be known as the “Jazz King” got his start in 1919. Charlie Chapman, D.W. Griffith, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks formed United Artists Pictures there in 1919 also. The staircase of the hotel is rumored to be the staircase famously used in “Gone with the Wind”. Sadly though, with the introduction of the Millennium Biltmore hotel in 1923 the hotel slowly lost its grandeur and faded into memories now since lost. Today the hotel is a near ruin, rooms are boarded closed, nailed shut; the deep red staircase is tattered, the carpets and ornaments long since sold, and the grand ballroom is empty. The rooms that are today available, are rented as low-income apartments. If you’ve any imagination or appreciation for times past and old architecture, I strongly suggest wandering down Spring Street, through glass doors and into the Alexandria. The clash between new and old, while sad, is amazingly beautiful.

-- Greg Boss

(photo credit: Greg Boss)

A New "White Spot"?

LA NOIR, by Jim Buntin, describes the “white spot” as a place where “native, white born Protestants could enjoy the magic of the outdoor inviting always…trees in blossom throughout the year, flowers in bloom as well as mystery, romance, charm, and splendor all safe among others of their kind.” Almost a century later, it seems that many parts of Los Angeles have tried to redefine the “white spot” and uphold some of its main tenants. Where the white spot used to denote a sort of Utopian feel by keeping the land and people beautified, many exclusive Los Angeles bars try to keep a similar aesthetic sense of perfection, perhaps a more modernized version of what the original white spot represented.

This weekend, I ventured out to Bardot in Hollywood for a friend’s going away party and quickly discovered that getting in is about as stressful as going through customs to get into Europe. You have to either know some kind of code that is a word too big and pretentious for most of the people there to even pronounce or know someone that can get you in the door, and they still spend about 20 minutes making you feel like you are not going to fit, even though there are really only 30 people inside. They pride themselves on only letting in the beautiful people, and by beautiful I mean the heavily made up ones, not the ones that have perfect Kate Winslet bone structure. Once you get inside, it looks a lot like a hipster that read half of Siddhartha decorated the place in gaudy old-world cloths and antique lamps. A group of mediocre looking girls in five hundred dollar dresses scowl at my date and I as they catch us pouring cheap booze out of a flask into the Cokes that we ordered, and it seems like everyone is holding a $20 drink just to remind others of their place in society and how easy for them it is to drop that ‘chump change’ on a fancy little drink. A girl to the right tells me that she spent $20 on each drink like it was a complaint, then gives me a little wink and tells me that she believes the drink will make her look better in the morning. The same woman proceeds to light her cigarette in a nearby candle.

These bars are great places to hang out with Hollywood's elite and the people that know them through three degrees of separation. The people inside are the ones creating this fake exclusivity, wanting to be at a place that is difficult to get into. It is all part of an elaborate game, but at the end of the day, the patrons inside of these places are desperate to get in and stay in: the dive bars of today with their three dollar beers are similar to the areas outside of the original white spot, taking over and seeping in, and these clean little pockets of bars with ninety pound shot girls, expensive drinks, and gaudy décor seem to serve as a larger metaphor for those early ideals of the Hollywood white spot….But, ironically, of course.

--Thea Green

(photo credit: Thea Green)

Vanished L.A.: The Exiles

A FRIEND of mine tugged my coat about this one. The Exiles is a 1960 documentary profiling a Native American community that sprouted up in Bunker Hill in the late 50s early 60s in downtown Los Angeles. The film was a project put together by a USC student and was "lost" for many years until some footage showed up in a sprawling documentary about the region that screened around town a few years ago -- Los Angeles Plays Itself, directed by Thom Anderson. The Exiles, made by Kent Mackenzie, was never released theatrically and by most accounts was never seen in its entirety. Anderson's film led to a search for what was else the Mackenzie family might have had stored away. This was part of the bundle of lost L.A. jewels. Last night you saw Mackenzie's USC thesis film, "Bunker Hill 1956." What follows is the trailer for The Exiles. For any of you curious about the nuances of what L.A. used to be should go out and rent if not own this. A beautiful pause on a moment that was about to pass.

-- L.G.

-- L.G.

Iconic L.A.: Philippe's

IN THE reality-TV culture that we currently live in, so many things can be described as being “LA.” But, the real LA is much more than what the average hipster perceives it to be. It can be found all over this vast, experience-rich city. One such experience can be had at Philippe’s. This 102-year-old restaurant has been representative of my LA for as long as I can remember. And, being that I am only 20-years old, it has been representative of LA, in general, for decades before that. As a child, my mother used to take me to Philippe’s for lunch every time she took me to the eye doctor. I remember sitting in the car during the drive downtown, looking with excitement at all of the murals on the walls of the freeway, thinking about the Chessman cookies Dr. Brown was going to give me after checking my eyes and the delicious Philippe’s French dip and potato salad I would have for lunch shortly thereafter. We’d arrive at Dr. Brown’s office and the anticipation would already be building inside of me. I’d always jump across the threshold of the elevator doors on the way out of the building, ready to go.

The ride to Philippe’s would fly by, and, suddenly, we’d be right outside of that ancient cream and brown building that I thought so fondly of. As a child, I was excited by the sawdust or peanut shells or whatever that stuff is they have all over the floor, kicking it around as I waited in line. There is a certain hustle and bustle about the place reminiscent of some sort of market. To me, Philippe’s has a sort of underground vibe. I’ve always seen it as part restaurant, part market and, only in my mind, possibly a former prohibition-era speakeasy. I’ve always been interested in scandalous things, imagining Philippe’s as a former watering hole for bootlegged alcohol comes at no surprise. Even though the place is just a restaurant, I still have a special attraction to it. Regardless of how many times I have dined there, I still always order a French Dip dipped in au jus with a side of potato salad – nothing beats it.

The roll the dip comes on is flaky and soft all at once, even when dipped in the au jus, and the meat is always tender; the sandwich seems to melt in my mouth. Although this is Philippe’s big-ticket item, their potato salad is amazing as well. I’m not sure what they do to it, but it is my absolute favorite potato salad. Even after 102 years, Philippe’s is still delicious as ever. They don’t change what they do and that is their secret. Maintaining a standard of consistency, they have kept a large following of customers coming back time and time again. My grandparents used to take my parents to Philippe’s, my parents, in turn, have taken my brothers and I to Philippe’s, and I will, without a doubt, take my children to Philippe’s one day as well. It is a place that I will always see as LA, and, for many Angelenos, the feeling is forever mutual.

-- Michael Magdesian

(photo caption: philippe's, "the" french dip
photo credit: jason lam, flickr creative commons)

Falling Down: Present Tense

TONIGHT, we are going to take a look at some footage -- a documentary and a feature film -- that speak to the readings this week -- L.A.-behind the curtain; the all-powerful Oz unmasked.

Ruben Martinez, Mike Davis and Wanda Coleman all wrote about the underpinnings of what led the 1992 riots (Coleman connecting the dots from the Watts conflagration in 1965) -- marginalization, limited economic opportunities, unbalanced distribution of wealth. The "melting pot" wasn't melting. It was a cauldron boiling-over.
This film, Falling Down, which came out in February 1993, touched on issues that led up to the 1992 riots. Miachel Douglas, a sort of Everyman who was employed by the defense industry, goes from comfortable to, well, crazed.
I haven't seen it since it's debut so it will be strange to look back at it. All that I remember at this point is the mood: The director, Joel Schumacher, was able to capture this ambient tension that was twisting around Los Angeles in the months leading up to and after the events of April 29th, 1992.

Below is Roger Ebert's assesment of the film, which as I recall, seems spot on:

Falling Down

BY ROGER EBERT / February 26, 1993

A lot of the reviews for "Falling Down" are going to compare it to earlier movies about white men who go berserk: "Joe," for example, or "Death Wish." Some will even find it racist because the targets of the film's hero are African-American, Latino and Korean - with a few whites thrown in for balance. Both of these approaches represent a facile reading of the film, which is actually about a great sadness which turns into madness, and which can afflict anyone who is told, after many years of hard work, that he is unnecessary and irrelevant.

The movie stars Michael Douglas, in a performance of considerable subtlety and some courage, as a Los Angeles man who a few years ago thought he had it all figured out. He was a well-paid defense worker, he had a wife and child, the sun came up every morning, and what was there to worry about? But already there must have been danger signals, and we learn later in the film that he had flashes of violence against his wife and child, that he is divorced, that a court order prevents him from approaching them.

On the morning the film begins, he is stuck in traffic on the freeway. Nothing is moving. Exhaust fumes rise all around him.

The director, Joel Schumacher, deliberately shoots this scene as a homage to the famous opening of Fellini's "8 1/2," but instead of finding himself floating up into the sky, like Fellini's hero, the man gets out of his car, slams the door, and goes walking alone across Los Angeles. This is not always a safe thing for a crew-cut white man, wearing a shirt and a tie.

The man has no name in the film; he becomes known to the police as D-FENS, after his license plate. He is already unhinged when he starts his walk, but eventually the tools of violence fall into his hands, and he uses them. In a grocery store, he asks for change for the telephone, and is refused by the Korean proprietor. He tries to buy a can of pop, but the change from a dollar would not be enough for a phone call. His frustration rages, until he grabs the owner's baseball bat and starts swinging, taking down piles of junk foods, cans of diet soda.

He keeps walking. During the course of his day he will meet, and confront, Latino gang members who want to steal his briefcase, fast food workers who tell him it's too late for breakfast, a neo-Nazi gun-shop owner, and other characters who seem placed in his way to fuel his anger.

Eventually he comes to the attention of the police, as Prendergast (Robert Duvall), a cop in his last day on the job, puts together scattered reports to deduct that the same goofy white guy is causing a series of disturbances. Prendergast is, in his own way, an example of the same syndrome afflicting the Douglas character. He feels impotent, unnecessary, obsolete. His superior officer tells him frankly he is sick of him. The story builds to a final confrontation between Douglas and Duvall - between a man who has snapped, and a man who has held together, under many of the same pressures. If this film had been made 10 or 20 years ago, it might have been an audience-pleaser in which we cheered as the white hero shot up druggies, or got vengeance on rapists. Schumacher and his screenwriter, Ebbe Roe Smith, have not made a revenge movie, and the film isn't constructed to inspire cheers when Douglas pulls the trigger. Maybe it will play that way for some audiences, but more thoughtful viewers are likely to pick up on Douglas's anomie - his soulsickness that has turned to madness, his bafflement at becoming obsolete and irrelevant.

Because the character is white, and many of his targets are not, the movie could be read as racist. I prefer to think of it as a reflection of the real feelings of a lot of people who, lacking the insight to see how political and economic philosophies have affected them, fall back on easy scapegoating. If you don't have a job and the Korean shop owner does, it is easy to see him as the villain. It takes a little more imagination to realize that you lost your job because of the greedy and unsound financial games of the go-go junk bond years.

What is fascinating about the Douglas character, as written and played, is the core of sadness in his soul. Yes, by the time we meet him, he has gone over the edge. But there is no exhilaration in his rampage, no release. He seems weary and confused, and in his actions he unconsciously follows scripts that he may have learned from the movies, or on the news, where other frustrated misfits vent their rage on innocent bystanders.

Nor does Schumacher build to some kind of easy audience-pleasing climax. The way the movie ends is the way it must, in real life - not the way it would in "Death Wish VII." And the values and style of the Duvall character reflect, not a triumphant cop, but simply a guy who still believes in trying to roll with the punches and make the best of things. "Falling Down" does a good job of representing a real feeling in our society today. It would be a shame if it is seen only on a superficial level.

Iconic L.A.: "All You Could Want -- But More"

"LOS ANGELES, a world within itself, wouldn’t be all that it’s cracked up to be with out me. Arguably, I am the “Iconic” landmark to which LA owes much of its’ sparkling recognition. Governing approximately 22 miles I cover a range of neighborhoods from downtown Los Angeles, all the way to Pacific Coast Highway. In 1912 I was the first to see the fabulous Beverly Hills Hotel constructed in all of its glory, and the last to see the noteworthy author F. Scott Fitzgerald when he died in 1940. In 1994 I got the Blues on Argyle, and in June of 1995 Hugh Grant came to me for a little evening company, trust me he wasn’t the first.

The night is my favorite, I light up like Las Vegas and thousands of people come to see me. The poor and homeless the rich and famous, young and old all can’t get enough of me. I have all you could ever want plus more. I know where the stars live and if you want to find them, I have maps to guide you. I have discovered musical talent at the Roxy and I can get you into the coveted UCLA. You can find me on rodeo drive, and if in you’re in the mood for a laugh meet me on Laurel. Hungry, I’m known to have just about any type of food you can ask for. Brazilian, Mexican, Asian, American, and Hawaiian I have it all.

If that isn’t proof enough that I am “Iconic” Los Angeles than what if I told you that in 1950 Billy Wilder wrote and directed a movie all about me. My movie won 3 Oscars plus accumulated another 13 wins & 13 nominations. That’s right Billy’s movie starring William Holden as the ambitious writer, Joseph Gillis, and Gloria Swanson as the demented has been, Norma Desmond was all about life with me. No doubt LA is much different today than how it was in those days, but I’ll never forget mingling with the stars as my movie was made. That won’t be the first time I’ve had a front row seat or even a role for that matter, in movies about Los Angeles. That list goes on and on.

I’ve been on special events, birthday, wedding, and baby shower invitations. People come from all over the world to spend time with me. Hearing myself speak of these momentous experiences and characteristics, I am beginning to sound a little arrogant; some Angelenos no doubt gets that from me as well. It should be obvious by now, that I’m pretty important when it comes to drawing attention to Los Angeles. With this resume, not to mention the countless additional things I can add, I’ve seen it all and the sky’s the limit. Everyone knows me on a first name basis and believe it or not you do as well, I am Sunset Blvd. and I am Iconic Los Angeles."


-- "As Told To" Erin Golightly


(photo caption: Sunset Strip
photo credit: top, babyknight; bottom, clinton seeds, flickr creative commons)

Iconic L.A.: Angel's Flight

CLOSED FOR nearly a decade after a German tourist died in an rail-related accident, Angel Flight, literally rises again. Today marks it's first day open to the public since 2001. The funicular, which rises up Bunker Hill connected the Broadway entertainment and business corridor to the "Hill." According to Kevin Roderick's site, L.A. Observed "Let's return to the days when the funicular originally called the Los Angeles Incline Railway was an integral part of Downtown life. Passengers paid a penny (later a nickel) to ride Olivet and Sinai between 3rd and Hill streets and the neighborhood of hotels and rooming houses on Bunker Hill." His full post relating the history of the two rail cars, Olivet and Sinai, that scale the steep grade and boast a mix of Arcadian and Utopian views of Los Angeles here.

The above piece, called "Angels Flight," was painted in 1931, by artist and architect Millard Sheets, a Claremont native. Sheets reinterpreted many L.A. street-scapes and this one hangs at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. You don't need a Way-back machine when you have these. This is John Fante's L.A.

-- L.G.

illustration credit: LACMA Collections Online

Waiting for the Rainbow Sign: L.A. April 29, 1992

TIME PLAYS tricks.

It's impossible to believe that almost 20 years has passed since the L.A. Riots of 1992. This week we will look at a set of essays that look at what was brewing under the surface of airbrushed, nip-and- tucked L.A. for decades.

I found a bit of my piece I wrote for L.A. Weekly online over the weekend and it brought it all back in a rush...


from: "Waiting for the Rainbow Sign"

By midnight, no one phoning long-distance bothers with hello. Instead, they just ask, ‘Is it as crazy as it looks?’ I want to say, ‘It started long before all this . . .’ Long before this afternoon’s bewildering decision left me less astonished than strangely numb. Long before George Holliday ran tape capturing Rodney G. King’s struggle and submission. Long before Latasha Harlins, Eulia Love and Marquette Frye became cautionary symbols. Long before Watts shouted its existence into the sky in ’65, sending up searchlights in the form of flames...

Everything felt different for a long time after that: The way people interacted with one another -- or didn't. The texture of the city changed for some time after -- much like the way it feels after you've been in an argument with someone whom you love dearly yet are not what sure the first sentence out of your mouth might or should be.

Years later, essayist Richard Rodgriguez wrote of those three days in April 1992:

"It was the worst moment for Los Angeles. It was also the first moment, I think, when most people in L.A. realized they were part of the whole. The city that the world mocked for not being a city, for lacking a center, having only separate suburbs, separate freeway exits -- L.A. realized that it was interconnected. In fear, people realized that what was happening on the other side of town implicated them.”

A Letter from the Future -- Fifty Years After the L.A. Riots (Jinn Magazine 4/28/97)
-- by Richard Rodriguez

Rodriguez was right, though only partially. Three days after, the first day of "clean-up" community volunteers crossed the region attempting to pick up the mess as if one would be cleaning a negligent child's messy room. But it was a powerful symbol watching people working together. Eerily, however, there were little pods of town that seemed to be operating as if nothing happened: people near the water meeting for their lattes and such talking about work, childcare, and maybe, the "bad air" that the smoke, curling into the sky, was creating -- while others, not so far away, were digging through ash, rubble and worry.

But I guess that's L.A. -- a swirl of stories, a cacophony.

-- L.G.

photo caption: watching l.a. burn on t.v.
photo credit: dan graves, flickr creative commons

Read L.A: Ruben Martinez's Territories

LAST CLASS, Professor Ruben Martinez, who is the Fletcher Jones Chair in Literature and Writing here at Loyola Marymount University (and my longtime colleague), spoke passionately about his time served here in Los Angeles as journalist, poet, performance artist and pundit -- and how at one point all of that seemed to have merged. He also spoke eloquently about race and class; about communities and causes that had been marginalized by the media; about how a writer finds his/her voice while attempting to describe life from the inside out, make the invisible visible.

Post session, I asked him to share a few of his favorite/resonant texts that deal with Los Angeles. Pulling from various sources and disciplines, he didn't stick to the page as you'll see.

Top-of-the-head response from a quick email:

ask the dust , john fante
white album, joan didion
chavez ravine (the album, the play, the book of photographs)
& of course city of quartz, mike davis

- L.G.

Celebrity Prom

DAVID FINE discusses the rise of 'unreality' in his Imagining Los Angeles. In the 1920s, studio back lots started to seep into daily life and turn the city into a massive theme park that did little to separate fantasy from reality.
Perhaps, the most disturbing part of the Oscars to me was the film clipdiv>

Let's discuss this theme park's favorite holiday: The Oscars. I knew it was going to be an interesting night when a friend arrived at my door with a case of Blue Ribbon and said "I thought I should bring this....since James Cameron is involved." In the style of theme park, the show opened with Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin flicking Avatar creatures across the screen, which was less than impressive to George Clooney, whose countenance spoke loudly. It featured a series of break dances to the nominees for best score, which definitely looked like a part of that bad show you try to avoid at Disneyland while eating your twenty dollar hamburger. Steve Carell, a natural funny man, looked like he had been told someone just died. And a poor old man in some obscure category was cut off before he could even begin his speech with the swell of the Oscar music.

that they chose to associate with the film Precious: a very large Gabourey Sidibe steals a bucket of fried chicken and runs down the street with it, fat flowing out everywhere. And the audience laughed. This one clip managed to miss the genius of this monumental film.

Fine talks about "fiction that played , at times obsessively, on themes of unreality, masquerade, and deception." The Oscars, to me, can often be that place of unreality, where the interviewers have to act like Miley Cyrus has a chance in hell at winning an Oscar one day.

We still live in this "fantasy world", and for some odd reason, I don't hate it. I think that we've found a happy medium in that we can appreciate these unrealities for what they are and still fun of them at the same time. Precious was not acknowledged properly, but Mo' Nique still received an Oscar, even after admitting she would ditch the after party to binge eat at El Pollo Loco. Ben Stiller was allowed to go on as an Avatar creature gone wrong. Tyler Perry was allowed to announce onstage that he feels he literally has no place at the Oscars. And Woody Harrelson could be called out openly for being blazed out of his mind. Though in L.A. we still always feel like we're interning on a back lot, we're allowed to make fun of ourselves in the process. Slowly but surely, the industry is starting to become a place where reality meets the early makings of L.A. fiction that Fine describes. The Oscars are that place where we can find a happy medium of making fun of celebrities with friends, learning about striking new fiction, and celebrating genuine talent in the most ostentatious manner imaginable.

-- Thea Green
(photo caption: ferris wheel
photo credit: puttal, flickr creative commons)

The Glory of Getting Lost is Finding Your Way Around

“GET LOST on purpose.” The funny thing is that when Mike Sonksen came to speak to our class, it wasn’t the first time that I had heard those words. I actually had interviewed someone for the profile piece whose stories were about nights planned with an open-ended agenda. Up until the last weekend of February this idea seemed so dangerous and would have been one of the last things I would do.

I spent the weekend showing a friend of mine the city of Los Angeles. He attends the University of Michigan and is originally from Wisconsin, so coming here to California was a first for him. Our only big plan was seeing the LA Philharmonic and some project bands at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. We intended for the rest of the weekend to be random, but nothing beat that Friday night.

Before the show started, the two of us were walking through the venue and my friend ran into a colleague of his from Michigan. He lives close to the hall so we asked him where he recommended eating after the show. He replied one word: Wurstkuche.

Driving down 3rd and Alameda, I thought to myself that this would never be an area that I would drive through—especially at that hour and just for a hot dog; something didn’t seem right. We had no idea where we were going but after a few minutes of driving it didn’t matter. The spontaneity was enticing and the mixing of nervous and exciting feelings cancelled out any fear I had for being out of my element.

If it weren’t for this moment, I probably would have never known about the existence of such an eccentric eatery: The five-year-standing, dimly-lit venue filled with people, ranging from the early 20s to early 70s, sitting and standing around long tables that stretched across the room. Belgian beers lined the bar in one corner and a DJ was mixing beats and playing popular songs in the other. The eccentricity of the place was overwhelming.

Even though the restaurant blew my mind, nothing was more mind boggling than the idea that I had actually thrown myself, willingly, into a different idea. It used to sound like the most challenging thing to do, but I’ve come to realize it’s not so bad.

-- Antoinette Ochoa

Hidden L.A.: Late Night Speakeasies

ONE OF the best things about L.A. is finding the hidden pockets that you only discover by talking to people, the kind of places that people don't necessarily want to let you know about because they want to make sure that only the right people are there. You know when you meet a guy who is trying to pick up girls in a Venice bar by simply using the line "I'm a musician" that A: this guy is shady! and B: he's weird enough to know some really rad hangouts.
This is how I stumbled onto the speakeasy at the Stronghold, which is a clothing store by day, free-for-all by night. I couldn't give you any specific details other than the fact that magic goes down there on most weekend nights, as there doesn't seem to be an established time, cover, or genre. First, you stand downstairs and drop a general name of someone who you clearly don't know (but there's always a Bill, right?) to try to get into the place for free, which we did by yelling at someone who poked his head out from an upstairs window. You make your way upstairs to a sea of locals, real musicians, "musicians", druggies, forty-something soccer moms, and other twenty-two year olds with empty pockets like myself, trying to live on the edge of adventure.

There's a thirty-year-old woman in a vintage wedding dress and glasses heating up the dance floor. The band is good, and they've got the kind of sound you'd probably pay thirty dollars to see on Sunset with a jazzy-country blend that's got people going wild, and the old, blind, bass player with sunglasses on is just jamming out. For good conversation, there are the smokers on the back porch, who seem to either be members of the band or drunk singles trying to figure out where they fit into the scheme of things. I was there until after three A.M., but it seems that at the Stronghold, the party never stops. I highly recommend checking out this hidden nook of Los Angeles, especially with friends that seem to be in the anti-L.A. funk. This place has a twenties feel that brings L.A. back to another decade with less headaches and more fun. Those from small towns will feel right at home, the trendy chic won't feel out of place, and the music lovers will be hit in all the right places.

The Stronghold- 1625 Abbott Kinney Blvd, Venice

-Thea Green

Bukowski Court: Almost Vanished L.A.

WHILE WE'RE the subject of Bukowski, this story had his fans up-in-arms. The little bungalow where the author wrote "Post Office" was almost razed. At the 11th hour, the City of Los Angeles moved to protect it as a historical landmark, but this story isn't unfamiliar. This is how much of L.A. history is erased, quickly, quietly and under the cover of night.
-- L.G.

(photo: Charles Bukowski's Hollywood house
photo credit: from LAist)

Read L.A.: What Makes Mike Run?

JOURNALIST, TEACHER and poet, Mike Sonksen, (BKA, Mike the Poet) touched down in class last Monday night and spun L.A. history via shimmering rhyming couplets. He threw out names of some of his favorite books, authors and hidden places in L.A. Full list to follow but here are a few of the books and/or authors he made mention of both in conversation and verse:



Budd Schulberg: What Makes Sammy Run?





Kamau Daaood, Leimert Park CD



John Fante, Ask the Dust




Charles Bukowski, Hollywood

L.G.

The Hart of Newhall

BY 1925, William S. Hart had starred in over 60 silent films and retired from the Hollywood lifestyle. The silent movie star then moved to the Santa Clarita Valley and built his own home and ranch. His home, which is now The William S. Hart Ranch and Museum, boasts a 22 room mansion, containing many of Hart's treasured items including Native American artifacts and western themed art. After his death in 1946, his ranch was opened to the public and is still open to this day. The museum has also become home to many farm animals including the esteemed bison.

-- Nicole Ryan









(photo caption top: View from Hart Ranch
photo caption, bottom: William S. Hart Ranch Museum
photo credit: Nicole Ryan)

Iconic L.A. : Olvera Street

OLVERA STREET is distinctly Los Angeles due to its history. 1781, when the 44 pobladores accompanied by a militia and two priests as legend has it made their way to the very spot that the first mayor of Los Angeles had declared to the king of Spain a good spot to build a town the City of Angeles was born: Olvera Street. The Street, or as some would call it the very first calle in this city shows the spontaneous aspect of growth and development that has turned this desert into a city (chaparral). The sociology of this city has formed around the power of people and the continuous influx of new people has kept the heart of this city beating booms. As both a haven of immigration being that the original settles of Los Angeles were of mestizo, mulatto, and African ancestry it seems that Los Angeles grew into its Anglo centered origins long after. For myself with the air gorged on the thick smell of chicken, beef, and pork with all sorts of different spices and flavorings you just feel as if this place is an emblematic symbol of “old style Los Angeles.” a possessive feeling that one gets once going downtown and seeing the adobe re-creations and colorful dresses all juxtaposed not only against gentrification but also the ebb and flow of the 21st century being next to Union Station, “One of the last great railway stations,” all its own just makes you feel proud. Olvera Street isn’t just speckled with facts about the first street but also is a temptress, wanting the tourist to join into the traditional dances, song, and dress. Olvera Street is truly a symbol of Los Angeles and is a quaint reminder of those that called this place home way before today. Olvera Street seems to also be a beacon for the immigrant who comes to this city and needs a healthy dose of home. No place actually incorporates with such vigor elements of its past such as Olvera street serving as a real life representation of how things used to be. Even within the glitz and glamour of Hollywood and the domineering figures that have made Los Angeles a city of wonder. Olvera Street speaks to the immigrant and culture in a very real way. With Mexican flair and faithfulness the Immigrant can find a home away from home inside its Spanish speaking environs.
The wares that are sold can also be cherished Time after time. Tourism spots have made Olvera Street a must for those coming to see California and most of all Los Angeles. This city tainted with the light of a dystopia can find a very real culture beating under the heart of artificiality.

-- Jason Collins

(photo caption, middle: "Found on Olvera Street"
photo caption, bottom: "Avila Adobe on Olvera Street."
photo credits: Loren Javier, flickr pool, creative commons)