Yup, looks that way to me.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Intermission
Coming to you from the midst of the memo homestretch. This picture was from a car wreck that tied up I-5 for several hours during the morning rush. The paragraph immediately following the picture started: "No one was injured in the three-car accident..."
Yup, looks that way to me.
Yup, looks that way to me.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Microcosm
I stayed on campus late today working, so by the time I left to go home it was about 10:30 pm. My usual (more direct) bus doesn't run that late, so I had to catch two to get home--one east to Hollywood, then one south to my area. I stood at the bus stop waiting for the 2, which at that point only comes every half hour. I was relishing in a couple weather-related things: namely, that I was quite comfortable in a hoodie, jeans and sandals, and that the back of my neck felt a little itchy-rough from reading out in the sun this afternoon. Then I realized the woman at the stop next to me was bundled up in a coat, with her knit hat pulled down and scarf pulled up so only her eyes were showing, shivering and cursing the wait for the bus.
Just as the bus came, I heard an owl. If I had only heard it once, I would have doubted myself, but I heard it again as I was getting on; definitely an owl. Another woman who arrived just as the bus was pulling up heard it too, and we talked for a minute about nothing in particular. She works for the UCLA hospitality services, and takes that bus so often that she usually can time it so she gets to the stop right when it's about to come.
I got off the first bus at Sunset and Vine, and waited for the next one. At that point it was about 11:15, and the next one was due to come shortly after 11:30. While I was waiting, a pseudo-goth chick lit a bunch of papers on fire and threw them in a trash can, then knocked the trash can off the sidewalk and spent a few minutes kicking it around the parking lane on Vine, spreading smoldering flakes of paper everywhere. An old white guy dressed in business-casual type clothes and an old worn fishing hat looked at her, looked at me, and said, very deliberately, "She's craaazy. I think she had something to smoke. If the cops were here, she'd be in jail." When the bus came, the goth chick picked up the now-extinguished garbage can, set it upright on the sidewalk, and threw her fast food garbage into it.
I got off the bus in my neighborhood at around midnight. It was incredibly quiet - aside from very light traffic, the only sound was that of a beautiful solo voice rehearsing a song, coming from the Korean store-front church whose only English language sign says, "Happy Life With Jesus!" It was the first time I'd ever seen any signs of activity at that church--its metal security gate was closed, but the front door inside that was open and light streamed out.
On the walk home, I spent a minute saying hello to and rough-housing with Doggie, the "guard dog" who lives in the parking lot of a tire store near my house. I waved to Armando, the security guard at the place across the street. I can't quite figure out what the place IS, but they have a nighttime security guard who sits outside their door on a metal folding chair at night. In the last block before home, one of a myriad old alarm clocks was busily beeping away in the second hand/junk store.
Just as the bus came, I heard an owl. If I had only heard it once, I would have doubted myself, but I heard it again as I was getting on; definitely an owl. Another woman who arrived just as the bus was pulling up heard it too, and we talked for a minute about nothing in particular. She works for the UCLA hospitality services, and takes that bus so often that she usually can time it so she gets to the stop right when it's about to come.
I got off the first bus at Sunset and Vine, and waited for the next one. At that point it was about 11:15, and the next one was due to come shortly after 11:30. While I was waiting, a pseudo-goth chick lit a bunch of papers on fire and threw them in a trash can, then knocked the trash can off the sidewalk and spent a few minutes kicking it around the parking lane on Vine, spreading smoldering flakes of paper everywhere. An old white guy dressed in business-casual type clothes and an old worn fishing hat looked at her, looked at me, and said, very deliberately, "She's craaazy. I think she had something to smoke. If the cops were here, she'd be in jail." When the bus came, the goth chick picked up the now-extinguished garbage can, set it upright on the sidewalk, and threw her fast food garbage into it.
I got off the bus in my neighborhood at around midnight. It was incredibly quiet - aside from very light traffic, the only sound was that of a beautiful solo voice rehearsing a song, coming from the Korean store-front church whose only English language sign says, "Happy Life With Jesus!" It was the first time I'd ever seen any signs of activity at that church--its metal security gate was closed, but the front door inside that was open and light streamed out.
On the walk home, I spent a minute saying hello to and rough-housing with Doggie, the "guard dog" who lives in the parking lot of a tire store near my house. I waved to Armando, the security guard at the place across the street. I can't quite figure out what the place IS, but they have a nighttime security guard who sits outside their door on a metal folding chair at night. In the last block before home, one of a myriad old alarm clocks was busily beeping away in the second hand/junk store.
Monday, March 2, 2009
People Watching
People tend to have a lot of different impressions about Los Angeles. For some people, LA is Hollywood. (Although not actual Hollywood--the "Hollywood" most people think of is more like Beverly Hills and the Palisades...the real Hollywood is way different.) For some people, LA is smog and traffic. For some people, it's the Dodgers. For some people, it's WeHo and the L Word. For some people, it's Santa Monica and Manhattan Beach.
For me, though, LA is the people.
Not the movie stars, fashionistas, or club goers. For me it's the real people. The draw that a city like this has to pull people of all walks of life from near and far is amazing to me. It's the underbelly of Los Angeles - beneath what dominant American culture sees as the capital of glitz and glamour, is a world of people in the trenches, making LA what it really is.
It's the guys who get paid to stand on street corners, holding big arrows directing prospective renters to apartment complexes, some of them turning sign-holding into an Olympic sport.
It's the community organizers, who breathe life into community-based groups at a rate unlike anything I've seen elsewhere.
It's the guy skating down San Vicente in WeHo, in a cowboy hat, Hawaiian shirt, cutoff jean shorts and old-school roller skates, not just skating down the sidewalk, but skating down the middle of a traffic lane, continually pivoting from front to back to front the whole way.
It's the random group of people who, all independently, have become really great friends with the local guard dog.
It's the street character actors at popular shopping and tourist areas. They are movie characters in Hollywood, and are anything and everything on the Promenade in Santa Monica.
It's the friendly guy with a mohawk who bums cigarettes off of other motorists at stop lights.
It's all the people I ride the bus with, every day. Women toting kids, people obviously toting all their earthly belongings, the people who have gotten to know each other over time just because they always end up commuting on the same bus.
It's the bus driver, who has pulled a double shift that day and, when I talk to her at 6:00 in the evening, tells me she's been driving since 3:00 that morning.
It's the guys working in the carpentry and upholstery shop that I pass when I go home, who are always there working even if I walk by at 10:00 at night.
It's the sheer number of stories and personal histories that I brush with in any given day. It's all the people who have come to LA, for whatever reason, and whether they accomplished what they set out to do or not, have made something out of nothing, and give this massive concrete jungle such vital humanity. I admit, given my previous expectations of LA from popular culture, it is not what I expected.
For me, though, LA is the people.
Not the movie stars, fashionistas, or club goers. For me it's the real people. The draw that a city like this has to pull people of all walks of life from near and far is amazing to me. It's the underbelly of Los Angeles - beneath what dominant American culture sees as the capital of glitz and glamour, is a world of people in the trenches, making LA what it really is.
It's the guys who get paid to stand on street corners, holding big arrows directing prospective renters to apartment complexes, some of them turning sign-holding into an Olympic sport.
It's the community organizers, who breathe life into community-based groups at a rate unlike anything I've seen elsewhere.
It's the guy skating down San Vicente in WeHo, in a cowboy hat, Hawaiian shirt, cutoff jean shorts and old-school roller skates, not just skating down the sidewalk, but skating down the middle of a traffic lane, continually pivoting from front to back to front the whole way.
It's the random group of people who, all independently, have become really great friends with the local guard dog.
It's the street character actors at popular shopping and tourist areas. They are movie characters in Hollywood, and are anything and everything on the Promenade in Santa Monica.
It's the friendly guy with a mohawk who bums cigarettes off of other motorists at stop lights.
It's all the people I ride the bus with, every day. Women toting kids, people obviously toting all their earthly belongings, the people who have gotten to know each other over time just because they always end up commuting on the same bus.
It's the bus driver, who has pulled a double shift that day and, when I talk to her at 6:00 in the evening, tells me she's been driving since 3:00 that morning.
It's the guys working in the carpentry and upholstery shop that I pass when I go home, who are always there working even if I walk by at 10:00 at night.
It's the sheer number of stories and personal histories that I brush with in any given day. It's all the people who have come to LA, for whatever reason, and whether they accomplished what they set out to do or not, have made something out of nothing, and give this massive concrete jungle such vital humanity. I admit, given my previous expectations of LA from popular culture, it is not what I expected.
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