Like any big city, Los Angeles is full of surprises and odd corners. In a way, I think that's what drew me to big city life, the need for a sense of possibilities that don't exist in a smaller town. I remember a time when I would spend my Friday evenings endlessly driving around Lexington, mostly in the suburbs, with the radio on. I think what I was really looking for was something I hadn't seen before, a street I had never driven down, a house I had never seen, something, anything that seemed new and unexpected.
There can be something comforting in the familiar, but too much of it leads to boredom. Somebody said to me once that after moving to a much smaller town, she realized you didn't really need to have a million choices of where to shop for groceries or go to get coffee, but I don't agree. I think that some people do need variety to thrive and that most of those people are in cities. I remember coming out of a cafe in Paris once and thinking that part of that city's magic was the sense that you never knew what you might find around any corner; the air itself was alive with potentialities.
It's true that different cities have different personalities and offer varying degrees of this sense of openness. I have been in some cities that, while offering a variety of things to do and places to go, somehow seemed like larger versions of smaller towns. There was something quotidian about them, and this isn't a put-down, just an observation. Los Angeles isn't like that. While there is a certain quality that lets you know, yes, this is definitely L.A., no matter where you are, neighborhoods do offer distinctly different faces, and I've always had the sense that it would be important to figure out which part of town you want to be in.
There is a practical aspect to this, of course, because most people have to consider such things as commute distances and school districts and may not end up living precisely where they would go if they consulted their own wishes. I was once having lunch in a Silver Lake cafe on what may have been my first visit to that neighborhood when I noticed a young man at a nearby table observing me closely. It was not an unfriendly or threatening look but more of a keenly observing one, and combined with the fact that he had a notebook, gave me the idea that he might be a writer (I've been known to jot down notes about random people and events in just that same way).
I may be wrong, but my take on it was that I somehow looked out of place in that particular setting, and that that was what caught his eye: "Ah, I wonder what this very conventional, Middle America woman is doing in this hipster Silver Lake hangout so far off the tourist track? What possible combination of events could have brought her here? This could be a good story." (I made a mental note at that time that toning down the Lands End aspect of my wardrobe might be something to consider.) It was the first time I had a sense of myself as possibly looking exotic to someone else, and while amusing (if I was right about what was happening), it wasn't exactly pleasing. I'm not a hipster, but I'm not a soccer mom either. (And what is that, anyway?)
I wasn't drawn to Santa Monica in my first visits there, but I gradually ended up believing that that was probably where I would gravitate if I moved to L.A. It seemed clean and safe, if perhaps a little bland and a touch snobby. But then I had a bad experience on my last visit there (a hotel door that didn't lock properly, stuck in a remote corner of the property, so alarming that I immediately went down to the desk and told them I'd changed my mind about staying there). While it was all very unsettling (and mysterious), perhaps it was good that it happened. It made me realize that maybe Santa Monica wasn't the place for me, if something as simple as a securely locked door was so difficult to come by there.
When I first visited some of the neighborhoods east of the 405, I found them to be a bit edgy for my taste. I couldn't imagine feeling safe there. Now I find them more appealing and less threatening than they once seemed. Have the neighborhoods changed, or have I? Maybe it's some of both. Even Los Feliz, which three weeks ago seemed rather grubby, revealed itself to have possibilities when I explored it more thoroughly. Sometimes going a few blocks in a different direction makes a difference. I find that I'm drawn neither to the hipster hangouts nor the yuppie ones. I look for something that seems only to be trying to be itself, which really means a lack of trying, if you think about it.
Despite the pressure of adjusting to a new place and achieving secure footing professionally and financially, I still see the soul of Los Angeles peeking out at me at certain times and places, usually unlooked for: the slant of light through the windows in Union Station; a halting conversation in Spanish in which I nevertheless managed to convey my meaning (I think); a piece of art in a Metro station illustrating the constellations; a beautifully crafted latte in an unpretentious setting; a smile from a stranger; an early evening walk around the lotus pond in Echo Park, a public space that actually seems to live up to its function; a dignified older building suddenly glimpsed in a quiet corner at the end of a walkway; a taco at Grand Central Market (I plead guilty to getting the mild sauce); a doorman dressed as an American soldier, circa World War II, materializing suddenly at the door of the Vista Theatre; a sudden urge to tap dance (if I only knew how) while waiting for a train; branches alive with brightly colored blooms hanging over a wall; and a mural on the side of a building, studied while waiting for a traffic light, hitting me with the force of a dream, a visual poem that I could not unravel but that spoke to me deeply.
While it's obviously a very modern and trend-setting city, Los Angeles seems, at the same time, to be somehow very old to me. Its history is alive in its place names and in many of its public places, and its function as the backdrop to countless Hollywood movies and television shows means that once you arrive here, you find that it already seems strangely familiar, since the reality corresponds to a city already existing in your imagination. The predominance of Googie and other architecture from the mid-20th century also resonates with me personally, since it hearkens back to my early childhood when that style was much in evidence. There are moments when I feel that I've fallen into a time machine, and past, present, and future are all on display at once.
While being very "of the moment," Los Angeles also reveals a layer of mythic time that runs through everything else and seems tied to something much older than even recorded history. You don't need to look any further than the fossils at the La Brea tar pits if you want physical evidence of this, but it's also apparent in the creative life of the city, in the murals and the public art, in the films that are one of the city's signature products--both creating and reflecting the myths and dreams of our culture--and in the infrastructure itself. I'm surprised to find myself concluding that Los Angeles is similar to Boston in this characteristic of past and present being very visibly on display side by side. I've always considered Boston to be an extremely graceful example of this historical layering, whereas in L.A. it seems more chaotic. Nevertheless, though it may surprise you to hear me say this, L.A. seems in many ways to be the more ancient city of the two.
Monday, July 31, 2017
Monday, July 24, 2017
Cultivating the Sarcastic in You
How are ya'll doing out there? I'm still settling into life here in SoCal, where the weather is (for a change) a bit gray today. I was thinking about the line in the Billy Joel song "My Life" where he talks about the old friend who sold his house and moved to the West Coast, where "He gives them a stand-up routine in L.A." There are several reasons why, though in L.A., I don't think this would work for me, and the main one is that people don't seem to get my jokes. I had a few examples of this just this week at my temp job and one that happened not long before I left Kentucky, and that's enough to make me think that comedy is not my line, no matter how funny I might think I am. Strange, people used to laugh at my jokes, and I still think they're funny--but of course there's no accounting for taste.
I was in a Louisville coffeehouse in April looking at baked goods when the sight of scones triggered a memory of a vegan item I purchased one night in a Portland, Oregon, coffeehouse. I was recounting the story, which I thought was pretty humorous, to the barista, and he looked at me so blankly that I was waiting for the prop cane to come from stage left and pull me away from the counter. When I protested to the counterman that I thought it was funny, he told me he thought I was talking about the Portland area of Louisville. Oh, okay. I didn't realize there was a Portland in Louisville, but that explains the lack of response. Let's be generous and put that one down to a failure of specificity, but still.
I was looking at a list the other day that had what was apparently a typo, making it appear that the person's first name was "Brain." I found that hilarious even without anything else happening, but then I thought how much funnier it would be if the person's last name were "Trust." I said this to someone else and got almost an identical lack of response. Gosh, what are you waiting for, the punch line? Gracious, that was the punch line. Granted, it's not funny "ha-ha," but I would have thought it rated at least a smile. I didn't even get a smidgen of one. Cultural barrier? Too sarcastic?
It's true, my sense of sarcasm has sharpened over the last few years. A lot of people who knew me before that may have suspected me of an occasional incipient tendency toward sarcasm but probably didn't consider it a prominent feature of my repertoire, and it's true that I'm normally mild-mannered. But you have to change with the times if you're not going to become irrelevant, and dang it, if you don't feel sarcasm stealing upon you now and then, I don't know what's wrong with you. Some people are born sarcastic, some people achieve sarcasm, and some have sarcasm thrust upon 'em and find they have a little talent for it after all. It could happen to you.
The third example I'm going to tell you about didn't really start out as a joke but was just me telling a story. I'd been talking to someone on the phone and could hear someone in the background, rather inexpertly, playing "Für Elise" on the piano. It was kind of pleasant to hear music in the background, that was all, so when I got off the phone, I mentioned it to people sitting nearby. I said, "Someone was playing "Für Elise" on the piano in the background of that call, and it sounded like a child practicing his lesson." It was just sort of a nice thing that happened, a pleasant interlude that I thought I'd share, but once again--dead silence. Granted, it wasn't even a joke, but still--what is this, a funeral? Couldn't someone at least smile at the thought of a child on a Sunday afternoon in the summertime struggling through his piano practice? Now here's where I did get a little sarcastic, though it was more because I felt the need to explain myself than anything else. I leaned over to the person sitting next to me and said, a little louder than I needed to, "That's Beethoven." (No response.)
It's just a good thing I have no ambitions in that direction, is all I'm saying. Now if you were to say, "Well, Mary, why don't you tell us a funny story about how your cell phone charger disappeared from a zipped bag in your room sometime in between July 4 and July 7," I would probably look at you blankly, but see, there's a good reason for that: it's not funny. You might counter that a good comedian can find humor in almost anything, and I would tell you that I consider that an unsettled existential question, whether or not there's humor to be found in everything that happens. What I do find funny is that a cell phone charger that was obviously not mine showed up in a very odd place in my room later on, as if someone were trying to convince me that, oh, silly you with your police report, you just misplaced the goofy thing. Now I could make something out of that material, but once again, we're verging into the realm of sarcasm, and it seems that almost no one(?) appreciates a talent for it these days--so no Comedy Store for me. That's OK, I can always fall back on my Myth Studies degree. Plenty of others have.
I was in a Louisville coffeehouse in April looking at baked goods when the sight of scones triggered a memory of a vegan item I purchased one night in a Portland, Oregon, coffeehouse. I was recounting the story, which I thought was pretty humorous, to the barista, and he looked at me so blankly that I was waiting for the prop cane to come from stage left and pull me away from the counter. When I protested to the counterman that I thought it was funny, he told me he thought I was talking about the Portland area of Louisville. Oh, okay. I didn't realize there was a Portland in Louisville, but that explains the lack of response. Let's be generous and put that one down to a failure of specificity, but still.
I was looking at a list the other day that had what was apparently a typo, making it appear that the person's first name was "Brain." I found that hilarious even without anything else happening, but then I thought how much funnier it would be if the person's last name were "Trust." I said this to someone else and got almost an identical lack of response. Gosh, what are you waiting for, the punch line? Gracious, that was the punch line. Granted, it's not funny "ha-ha," but I would have thought it rated at least a smile. I didn't even get a smidgen of one. Cultural barrier? Too sarcastic?
It's true, my sense of sarcasm has sharpened over the last few years. A lot of people who knew me before that may have suspected me of an occasional incipient tendency toward sarcasm but probably didn't consider it a prominent feature of my repertoire, and it's true that I'm normally mild-mannered. But you have to change with the times if you're not going to become irrelevant, and dang it, if you don't feel sarcasm stealing upon you now and then, I don't know what's wrong with you. Some people are born sarcastic, some people achieve sarcasm, and some have sarcasm thrust upon 'em and find they have a little talent for it after all. It could happen to you.
The third example I'm going to tell you about didn't really start out as a joke but was just me telling a story. I'd been talking to someone on the phone and could hear someone in the background, rather inexpertly, playing "Für Elise" on the piano. It was kind of pleasant to hear music in the background, that was all, so when I got off the phone, I mentioned it to people sitting nearby. I said, "Someone was playing "Für Elise" on the piano in the background of that call, and it sounded like a child practicing his lesson." It was just sort of a nice thing that happened, a pleasant interlude that I thought I'd share, but once again--dead silence. Granted, it wasn't even a joke, but still--what is this, a funeral? Couldn't someone at least smile at the thought of a child on a Sunday afternoon in the summertime struggling through his piano practice? Now here's where I did get a little sarcastic, though it was more because I felt the need to explain myself than anything else. I leaned over to the person sitting next to me and said, a little louder than I needed to, "That's Beethoven." (No response.)
It's just a good thing I have no ambitions in that direction, is all I'm saying. Now if you were to say, "Well, Mary, why don't you tell us a funny story about how your cell phone charger disappeared from a zipped bag in your room sometime in between July 4 and July 7," I would probably look at you blankly, but see, there's a good reason for that: it's not funny. You might counter that a good comedian can find humor in almost anything, and I would tell you that I consider that an unsettled existential question, whether or not there's humor to be found in everything that happens. What I do find funny is that a cell phone charger that was obviously not mine showed up in a very odd place in my room later on, as if someone were trying to convince me that, oh, silly you with your police report, you just misplaced the goofy thing. Now I could make something out of that material, but once again, we're verging into the realm of sarcasm, and it seems that almost no one(?) appreciates a talent for it these days--so no Comedy Store for me. That's OK, I can always fall back on my Myth Studies degree. Plenty of others have.
Monday, July 17, 2017
On the Air
A few weeks ago, I asked someone about a building I had seen that I thought looked like an old radio station, probably due to the tall tower standing next to it. The next time I went by it, I took a closer look at the side of the building and spotted the call letters. I looked up the letters online and spent several enjoyable hours reading about the history of the station, which has been a part of daily life for Southern Californians for decades.
Something about the building, surrounded by nondescript structures in an industrial area, made me think of the radio station in American Graffiti, visited by one of the film's main characters, in search of answers to large questions on the eve of his entry into adulthood. When I looked at the building, obviously of an older vintage than everything else around it, I could see it in my mind's eye as it must once have been, a solitary outpost surrounded by fields and orange groves, an intimate presence in tens of thousands of homes daily while itself maintaining a lonely vigil outside of town.
When I was growing up (not in Southern California, but I suspect the same was probably true everywhere), the radio was a friendly presence, dispensing the great variety of pop, rock, folk, jazz, and country music that provided the background of my growing up years. I didn't know the difference between a "corporate" playlist and an independent one made up by the radio station's personnel--all I knew was that music was the pulse of the times, the soundtrack of our lives that was shared by everyone, something that not only entertained us but connected us all.
In the small towns I grew up in, the radio stations played great music and a great variety of it. That's what I usually miss with most of the stations I hear today: their carefully crafted playlists and endless commercials often lack soul and offer instead a bland predictability. It was nice to turn on the radio, have no idea what the DJ was going to play but feel assured you would hear some favorites, and listen to someone talking who sounded like a real human. There are stations today where you can still get this, but they seem harder to find, and I know of very few that exhibit the kind of footloose and relaxed approach to programming that I used to enjoy. If there's a station on which you might hear music from both Bobbie Gentry and Ray Charles these days, I'd like to know where it is.
It was entertaining to read the reminiscences of the Southern California radio engineer who wrote down his memories of his station. He made it sound like a real adventure to be a part of a broadcast team, especially in the early and middle decades of the 20th century. I didn't realize, for one thing, how many physical hazards existed in the day-to-day running of a station, from high voltage areas, to fire dangers, to hazardous chemical waste. Nostalgia can be a dangerous emotion, but I do think something has been lost in the modern era of audience tracking and marketing studies, a certain flying by-the-seat-of-the pants quality that used to be a bit more apparent when you switched on the dial.
I would have liked to work in a radio station in the '40s, '50s, and '60s. It would have been nice to be in on the industry in its pioneering years when it was easier to be adventurous and try new things without considering shareholders and profit margins quite so much. There was an unmediated connection between the broadcaster and the audience members, a genuine intimacy that is tough to match these days, though I think a lot of the college stations do a pretty good job. Why would Curt have gone to Wolfman Jack for advice on love if he hadn't considered him almost as a friend?
I know some people enjoy the syndicated radio shows in which listeners phone in their personal stories and requests, but it always seems too much like "reality TV" to me--even if it isn't--because of the way it's packaged. Give me a lonely caffeine-addicted DJ in a rumpled shirt with a little pizzazz to his personality and an ear for a good song any day over a slickly coordinated corporate playlist and canned patter that might just as easily have been phoned in from Mars for all I know. I still look to radio for entertainment, even though I often come away disappointed. If only there were more of those independent voices still out there.
Something about the building, surrounded by nondescript structures in an industrial area, made me think of the radio station in American Graffiti, visited by one of the film's main characters, in search of answers to large questions on the eve of his entry into adulthood. When I looked at the building, obviously of an older vintage than everything else around it, I could see it in my mind's eye as it must once have been, a solitary outpost surrounded by fields and orange groves, an intimate presence in tens of thousands of homes daily while itself maintaining a lonely vigil outside of town.
When I was growing up (not in Southern California, but I suspect the same was probably true everywhere), the radio was a friendly presence, dispensing the great variety of pop, rock, folk, jazz, and country music that provided the background of my growing up years. I didn't know the difference between a "corporate" playlist and an independent one made up by the radio station's personnel--all I knew was that music was the pulse of the times, the soundtrack of our lives that was shared by everyone, something that not only entertained us but connected us all.
In the small towns I grew up in, the radio stations played great music and a great variety of it. That's what I usually miss with most of the stations I hear today: their carefully crafted playlists and endless commercials often lack soul and offer instead a bland predictability. It was nice to turn on the radio, have no idea what the DJ was going to play but feel assured you would hear some favorites, and listen to someone talking who sounded like a real human. There are stations today where you can still get this, but they seem harder to find, and I know of very few that exhibit the kind of footloose and relaxed approach to programming that I used to enjoy. If there's a station on which you might hear music from both Bobbie Gentry and Ray Charles these days, I'd like to know where it is.
It was entertaining to read the reminiscences of the Southern California radio engineer who wrote down his memories of his station. He made it sound like a real adventure to be a part of a broadcast team, especially in the early and middle decades of the 20th century. I didn't realize, for one thing, how many physical hazards existed in the day-to-day running of a station, from high voltage areas, to fire dangers, to hazardous chemical waste. Nostalgia can be a dangerous emotion, but I do think something has been lost in the modern era of audience tracking and marketing studies, a certain flying by-the-seat-of-the pants quality that used to be a bit more apparent when you switched on the dial.
I would have liked to work in a radio station in the '40s, '50s, and '60s. It would have been nice to be in on the industry in its pioneering years when it was easier to be adventurous and try new things without considering shareholders and profit margins quite so much. There was an unmediated connection between the broadcaster and the audience members, a genuine intimacy that is tough to match these days, though I think a lot of the college stations do a pretty good job. Why would Curt have gone to Wolfman Jack for advice on love if he hadn't considered him almost as a friend?
I know some people enjoy the syndicated radio shows in which listeners phone in their personal stories and requests, but it always seems too much like "reality TV" to me--even if it isn't--because of the way it's packaged. Give me a lonely caffeine-addicted DJ in a rumpled shirt with a little pizzazz to his personality and an ear for a good song any day over a slickly coordinated corporate playlist and canned patter that might just as easily have been phoned in from Mars for all I know. I still look to radio for entertainment, even though I often come away disappointed. If only there were more of those independent voices still out there.
Monday, July 10, 2017
Panorama
The question you've probably wanted to ask all week is, "Wordplay, how did you spend your first Fourth of July in L.A.?" Hopefully, no one missed any sleep over it, but in any event, I'm about to satisfy your curiosity: first I went downtown to the festivities at Grand Park, and later I went up to the Observatory to take in the view. There was no formula to it other than the fact that both events were low-cost and sounded like fun, and that's pretty much it.
I thought that going downtown, where the music and food trucks promised to bring in a cross-section of people, would be a good way to see a microcosm of the city. I suppose it also seemed most similar to the type of celebrations I'm used to in Lexington, where most of the main events take place downtown. I went to the Observatory because I was fascinated by the prospect of watching multiple fireworks shows going off at once. That promised to be quite a spectacle (and it was). Why restrict yourself to one fireworks show if you can see all of them for the cost of bus fare to the top? I had already enjoyed some fireworks that I could see from my window the night before; it was nice to have such a good view without having to go anywhere.
On the Fourth itself, I was feeling a little daunted by the thought of looking for parking downtown, so I decided to park in Los Feliz and take the Metro in. When I got there, it was by no means deserted but wasn't exactly bursting at the seams either. I had to ask for directions to Grand Park, and I told someone that at first glance it really didn't seem like the Fourth of July. I was comparing it with Fourth of July celebrations I remembered from Lexington and actually felt a bit homesick for a little while. Never mind the fact that I hadn't attended any downtown festivities in Lexington for quite a while; I believe I was remembering Fourth of Julys from happier times. Certainly, the celebration in Lexington used to have a "Main Street USA" feeling that was different from the feeling I got in scattered downtown L.A.
Once I made my way to Grand Park, I found a very lively scene and walked around for a while, taking a few pictures and trying to get the pulse of the place. I felt more like an observer than a participant, and it certainly didn't look like half the city had crowded into the festival area, but OK. The people-watching wasn't bad, and I had a really good chicken sandwich for dinner. I was starting to think of staying downtown instead of making the trek to Griffith Park, but I decided I'd be sorry if I missed the panoramic view while I had the chance, so I hopped back on the Metro at Pershing Square and caught the observatory shuttle at Sunset and Vermont.
I've been up to the Observatory before, but the bus trip to the top that night on a road crowded with cars and revelers was something I doubt I'll forget. That's where the traffic jam was, not downtown. The Observatory was brightly lit, and there were people everywhere at the top. When I got off the bus, I was rooted to the spot for a while, riveted by my first glimpse of the myriad lights of greater L.A. spread out below and fireworks going off simultaneously all over town. When I walked over the hill and to the side of the Observatory, the view was even better since I could see the L.A. skyline.
I felt something up at the Observatory that I had been missing earlier, a sense that L.A. had its own way of exhibiting pride in America, that it had something to show me that I had never quite seen before: what patriotism looks like when a number of individual celebrations are seen to be part of a greater whole. That's what America actually looks like on the Fourth of July, after all, if you could reach a high enough vantage point to see it all at once. What my Fourth of July in L.A. lacked in intimacy it made up for in awe. I think it would have been nice if someone had arranged to have a band playing patriotic music in front of the Observatory, and maybe a few ice cream stands and flags and so on, but for sheer visual fascination, I've rarely seen anything to beat the view.
The ride down on a crowded bus was a little tiresome, but never mind that. I was glad I went, and I only had to walk around for about 10 minutes before finding where I had parked my car. When I got there, I was greeted by two nocturnal animals of uncertain pedigree grazing in the grass nearby. I had two thoughts, and one of them was badgers. Since I didn't think L.A. even has badgers, I was pretty sure I was looking at skunks. I gave them a respectful distance, and it ended happily for all concerned. On the way back to my lodging, I saw multiple fireworks going off all along the way, and it was the first Fourth of July I can remember that ended in fireworks partly shrouded in fog.
So that was about it: fireworks, food trucks, a chicken sandwich, Metro rides, incredible views, skunks, and a finale of fog. The experience would have been enhanced if I had had someone to share it with, but I will go ahead and make a recommendation: if you ever find yourself in L.A. on the Fourth of July, alone or not, make your way up to Griffith Observatory to cap things off. You'll never see fireworks in quite the same way again, and maybe, by that time, someone will have thought to hire a band for the night.
I thought that going downtown, where the music and food trucks promised to bring in a cross-section of people, would be a good way to see a microcosm of the city. I suppose it also seemed most similar to the type of celebrations I'm used to in Lexington, where most of the main events take place downtown. I went to the Observatory because I was fascinated by the prospect of watching multiple fireworks shows going off at once. That promised to be quite a spectacle (and it was). Why restrict yourself to one fireworks show if you can see all of them for the cost of bus fare to the top? I had already enjoyed some fireworks that I could see from my window the night before; it was nice to have such a good view without having to go anywhere.
On the Fourth itself, I was feeling a little daunted by the thought of looking for parking downtown, so I decided to park in Los Feliz and take the Metro in. When I got there, it was by no means deserted but wasn't exactly bursting at the seams either. I had to ask for directions to Grand Park, and I told someone that at first glance it really didn't seem like the Fourth of July. I was comparing it with Fourth of July celebrations I remembered from Lexington and actually felt a bit homesick for a little while. Never mind the fact that I hadn't attended any downtown festivities in Lexington for quite a while; I believe I was remembering Fourth of Julys from happier times. Certainly, the celebration in Lexington used to have a "Main Street USA" feeling that was different from the feeling I got in scattered downtown L.A.
Once I made my way to Grand Park, I found a very lively scene and walked around for a while, taking a few pictures and trying to get the pulse of the place. I felt more like an observer than a participant, and it certainly didn't look like half the city had crowded into the festival area, but OK. The people-watching wasn't bad, and I had a really good chicken sandwich for dinner. I was starting to think of staying downtown instead of making the trek to Griffith Park, but I decided I'd be sorry if I missed the panoramic view while I had the chance, so I hopped back on the Metro at Pershing Square and caught the observatory shuttle at Sunset and Vermont.
I've been up to the Observatory before, but the bus trip to the top that night on a road crowded with cars and revelers was something I doubt I'll forget. That's where the traffic jam was, not downtown. The Observatory was brightly lit, and there were people everywhere at the top. When I got off the bus, I was rooted to the spot for a while, riveted by my first glimpse of the myriad lights of greater L.A. spread out below and fireworks going off simultaneously all over town. When I walked over the hill and to the side of the Observatory, the view was even better since I could see the L.A. skyline.
I felt something up at the Observatory that I had been missing earlier, a sense that L.A. had its own way of exhibiting pride in America, that it had something to show me that I had never quite seen before: what patriotism looks like when a number of individual celebrations are seen to be part of a greater whole. That's what America actually looks like on the Fourth of July, after all, if you could reach a high enough vantage point to see it all at once. What my Fourth of July in L.A. lacked in intimacy it made up for in awe. I think it would have been nice if someone had arranged to have a band playing patriotic music in front of the Observatory, and maybe a few ice cream stands and flags and so on, but for sheer visual fascination, I've rarely seen anything to beat the view.
The ride down on a crowded bus was a little tiresome, but never mind that. I was glad I went, and I only had to walk around for about 10 minutes before finding where I had parked my car. When I got there, I was greeted by two nocturnal animals of uncertain pedigree grazing in the grass nearby. I had two thoughts, and one of them was badgers. Since I didn't think L.A. even has badgers, I was pretty sure I was looking at skunks. I gave them a respectful distance, and it ended happily for all concerned. On the way back to my lodging, I saw multiple fireworks going off all along the way, and it was the first Fourth of July I can remember that ended in fireworks partly shrouded in fog.
So that was about it: fireworks, food trucks, a chicken sandwich, Metro rides, incredible views, skunks, and a finale of fog. The experience would have been enhanced if I had had someone to share it with, but I will go ahead and make a recommendation: if you ever find yourself in L.A. on the Fourth of July, alone or not, make your way up to Griffith Observatory to cap things off. You'll never see fireworks in quite the same way again, and maybe, by that time, someone will have thought to hire a band for the night.
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Tattoos and Shadows
Last week I wrote about my attempts to settle into L.A., and it seems a bit redundant to talk about job search woes again this week, though that is what I think about most of the time. What to do for a topic, then? I've been watching a little TV, but I'm circumspect about giving too much space to what I see there. How about a book review? I may have mentioned that I have a visitor's card to a local library that will let me check out one book at a time, but if I didn't, it's true--and for some reason I settled on The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo last week.
Someone recommended the book to me years ago, and I had seen the previews for the film that was made of it, but I never got around to reading it. The characters looked interesting, but I don't read a lot of suspense thrillers, which is what I suppose you would call this book. Having finished it, I have to say that I don't think I agree with the casting of the film: Daniel Craig seems too hardened and cynical for the main character, Mikael Blomkvist, a journalist who runs afoul of a criminal and ends up on a kind of sabbatical, writing a family history for a wealthy industrialist. In the book, the Blomkvist character, while no Pollyanna, is painted in somewhat softer tones as a nice guy who does his best but ends up in a compromised position anyway.
The most unforgettable character in the book, is, of course, Lisbeth Salander, crack investigator, computer hacker, and social misfit who ends up helping Blomkvist solve a decades-old mystery and reopen his investigation of the criminal mastermind. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo came out in Sweden twelve years ago and has probably been read already by almost everyone except me. The only thing I can add to what everyone else has said is that I was struck by what a Hecate-like character Salander is. Hecate is probably a much less familiar figure to most people than the other Greek goddesses, shrouded as she is in mystery, darkness, and associations with magic. Salander, with her tattoos, piercings, and unconventional (not to mention off-putting) attire, personality, and habits, is an almost pure embodiment of that seldom seen goddess most associated with the black arts.
If you've ever read Greek mythology, you may have noticed a certain lack of what I would call morality in many of the gods' dealings with mortals. It's often hard to say whether the gods are "good" or "bad" because their actions often seem arbitrary--they seem to just do what they want to do, though they can sometimes be prevailed upon to assist mortals and arbitrate disagreements. They're a law unto themselves.
Hecate has an even darker profile than most of them, but is she "bad"? My sense is that because of the nature of what she does, which is to operate in darkness and concern herself with magic, with things just outside the ken of everyday concerns, most people would rather not think about her too much--until they need her. She might be the one they turn to for a potion or for matters requiring secrecy, guile, and a certain amount of ruthlessness, situations in which playing by ordinary rules won't get the job done. When this happens, most people would rather not talk about it.
That's the very definition of Salander, who operates by her own code and her own conventions; she isn't "bad" but she is certainly dangerous. She isn't motivated by petty concerns or greed, but once you make an enemy of her, she's implacable. Blomkvist is unable to figure out how she is able to find out some of the things she knows and do some of the things she does: firewalls, locks, laws, ethical conventions, and other people's opinions have no meaning for her. So, is she "bad"? A lot of people consider her so, and they certainly find her scary, but she isn't exactly amoral. She will go to great lengths to right a wrong (and when she considers something to be wrong, it usually is). She doesn't even have to be the target of the wrong but will act on someone else's behalf, without their even knowing anything about it.
The problem (or the advantage, depending on how you look at it) is that her solutions tend to be drastic as well as unlawful, but that's the Hecate coming out. She often operates in areas in which wrongs would go unpunished or even unnoticed if not for her intervention, situations in which ordinary remedies aren't available. Her actions can often be justified even as they veer into vigilantism. You sympathize with Salander and may even like her, but you're never really comfortable with her. She's just too devastatingly effective at operating in the shadows and outside the conventions that restrain most people. She's both unpredictable and uncanny.
Salander is also misunderstood by most of the people who know her, which is largely what has made her such an outlier, but the point is . . . a little bit of Hecate goes a long way. For a while, I had a plaque with Hecate's likeness on it in my bathroom, and even though I had several Buddhas and Shivas and the like scattered around because of my interest in mythology, I was never altogether comfortable with Hecate. For me, it was more a reminder that there are various forces at work in the world, whether we like them or not. I didn't bring her with me when I moved, as I decided that I'd had enough of a reminder. I'm not sure if I'll read any more of Stieg Larsson's books, either, but I'm certain I'll never forget the gothic and intransigent Lisbeth Salander. I think she has something to say to each of us.
Someone recommended the book to me years ago, and I had seen the previews for the film that was made of it, but I never got around to reading it. The characters looked interesting, but I don't read a lot of suspense thrillers, which is what I suppose you would call this book. Having finished it, I have to say that I don't think I agree with the casting of the film: Daniel Craig seems too hardened and cynical for the main character, Mikael Blomkvist, a journalist who runs afoul of a criminal and ends up on a kind of sabbatical, writing a family history for a wealthy industrialist. In the book, the Blomkvist character, while no Pollyanna, is painted in somewhat softer tones as a nice guy who does his best but ends up in a compromised position anyway.
The most unforgettable character in the book, is, of course, Lisbeth Salander, crack investigator, computer hacker, and social misfit who ends up helping Blomkvist solve a decades-old mystery and reopen his investigation of the criminal mastermind. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo came out in Sweden twelve years ago and has probably been read already by almost everyone except me. The only thing I can add to what everyone else has said is that I was struck by what a Hecate-like character Salander is. Hecate is probably a much less familiar figure to most people than the other Greek goddesses, shrouded as she is in mystery, darkness, and associations with magic. Salander, with her tattoos, piercings, and unconventional (not to mention off-putting) attire, personality, and habits, is an almost pure embodiment of that seldom seen goddess most associated with the black arts.
If you've ever read Greek mythology, you may have noticed a certain lack of what I would call morality in many of the gods' dealings with mortals. It's often hard to say whether the gods are "good" or "bad" because their actions often seem arbitrary--they seem to just do what they want to do, though they can sometimes be prevailed upon to assist mortals and arbitrate disagreements. They're a law unto themselves.
Hecate has an even darker profile than most of them, but is she "bad"? My sense is that because of the nature of what she does, which is to operate in darkness and concern herself with magic, with things just outside the ken of everyday concerns, most people would rather not think about her too much--until they need her. She might be the one they turn to for a potion or for matters requiring secrecy, guile, and a certain amount of ruthlessness, situations in which playing by ordinary rules won't get the job done. When this happens, most people would rather not talk about it.
That's the very definition of Salander, who operates by her own code and her own conventions; she isn't "bad" but she is certainly dangerous. She isn't motivated by petty concerns or greed, but once you make an enemy of her, she's implacable. Blomkvist is unable to figure out how she is able to find out some of the things she knows and do some of the things she does: firewalls, locks, laws, ethical conventions, and other people's opinions have no meaning for her. So, is she "bad"? A lot of people consider her so, and they certainly find her scary, but she isn't exactly amoral. She will go to great lengths to right a wrong (and when she considers something to be wrong, it usually is). She doesn't even have to be the target of the wrong but will act on someone else's behalf, without their even knowing anything about it.
The problem (or the advantage, depending on how you look at it) is that her solutions tend to be drastic as well as unlawful, but that's the Hecate coming out. She often operates in areas in which wrongs would go unpunished or even unnoticed if not for her intervention, situations in which ordinary remedies aren't available. Her actions can often be justified even as they veer into vigilantism. You sympathize with Salander and may even like her, but you're never really comfortable with her. She's just too devastatingly effective at operating in the shadows and outside the conventions that restrain most people. She's both unpredictable and uncanny.
Salander is also misunderstood by most of the people who know her, which is largely what has made her such an outlier, but the point is . . . a little bit of Hecate goes a long way. For a while, I had a plaque with Hecate's likeness on it in my bathroom, and even though I had several Buddhas and Shivas and the like scattered around because of my interest in mythology, I was never altogether comfortable with Hecate. For me, it was more a reminder that there are various forces at work in the world, whether we like them or not. I didn't bring her with me when I moved, as I decided that I'd had enough of a reminder. I'm not sure if I'll read any more of Stieg Larsson's books, either, but I'm certain I'll never forget the gothic and intransigent Lisbeth Salander. I think she has something to say to each of us.
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