L.A. Anatomía

Here at LA Anatomia, we don’t get many comments from real people. Instead, we get lots of spam, and what interesting about that is how the comments have changed. In the beginning, the comments were so obviously spam that trickery was impossible. Then they progressed into large novelesque paragraphs full of key words and jibberish that were sometimes amusing to read. The latest batch of spam is actually trying to masquerade as human.Example:I think I’ve seen this somewhere before.Zoran zoranisspam@xxxxyb!.comAnother  example:Nice work but keep it short.Gigiiamaspamrobotinfiltratingyoursystem@spammer.comSee what I mean? Some days, there are spam. And other days, there is SPAM in the inbox in which we have to comb through hundreds of noncomments, deleting them one by one.Now let’s leap into the Los Angeles part of this entry:Last Saturday, I went hiking at Placerita Canyon Park. Friend and I took the Canyon trail two miles west and then a mile and a half north to get to a waterfall.It was a beautiful day with beautiful foliage. Anyway, one thing friend and I noticed was there were a lot of charred trees. Like a LOT. We reasoned that these were the scars of last year’s autumn fires. Placerita is in the way north of Los Angeles in dry, desert country. When you hear California fires, that’s where they are.Despite all the black bark, nature was alive all around. There were birds. There were birdwatchers. There were hikers and dogs, particularly dachsunds….Friend and I wondered if, as movies had taught us, the fires were necessary to burn out everything start life anew for this spring. And this is my not completely elegant link back to spam: It’s there. It needs to be purged out of the system sometimes for new things to grow.I’m a Angeleno on the go. I don’t always get the chance to sew everything up tight.

As one of the most iconic plays in the American and modern literary canon, I was surprised to learn that A Streetcar Named Desire hadn’t been shown on stage in Los Angeles for 20 or so years. It seems that the William estate does not allow many productions of the play, and I was suddenly quite glad that I had decided to attend.

Rewind a bit.

Tonight I was up in Valencia to see A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams at the Repertory East Playhouse. The theater is a small but cozy venue with close ties to the community. While sipping wine and chatting with patrons before the show, I learned that it was more like a four-degrees-of-separation among the audience, cast and crew.

I always like to see canonical and classical plays on stage because they open your eyes to the substance behind their fame. It’s like with Casablanca. People are able to quote more than a few lines from the movie even without having seen it. But when you finally do sit down and watch that old black and white, you know why “we’ll always have Paris,” that “this is the start of a beautiful friendship”, how “you’re shocked SHOCKED to find gambling in this establishment” and “how she had to walk into mine.”

Such is how I feel about Tennessee Williams’ play. My only background with it before seeing the production tonight was the famous Elia Kazan movie with Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski and Vivian Leigh as Blanche Dubois. I guess I could also add in the numerous references made to the play by Pedro Almodavar in his beautiful film Todo Sobre Mi Madre.

Anyway, the production was excellent. I left the theater full of thought because I’ve always been bothered by how I knew the play ended. In writing classes, teachers usually instruct students to create stories that change. Characters have to change. In plays specifically, playwriting books instruct that what characters really want has to be hidden up  until the point when it happens or doesn’t, causing change that affects the play. I’ve never really understood what exactly the pivotal change was in Williams’ play. Yes, Blanche goes crazy, but nothing else seems to really change because Blanche is still lost, Stella is still with Stanley and Stanley is still Stanley. Critical analysis and precedence would have me believe that it’s a battle royale between Stanley or Blanche. But I’ve always felt that the person with the most to lose or gain was Stella. Who’s the most affected by the change? Who should the audience be focusing on in the end when doctors drag Blanche away to the nuthouse and leave Stella crying on a chair and Stanley playing poker with his friends?

Then I began to think on the play’s strange name. The streetcar is only mentioned about three times in the play. But I wondered if the play wasn’t so much about the characters as it was about how desire is a streetcar that clanks back and forth back and forth on the same tracks for years and years and years. I also thought about how Blanche, even from the beginning, tries to open Stella’s eyes and show her sister that she is living in a trap. And then I wondered if the whole play was about how desires are a cage? Stanley and Stella are mutually codependent on their physical desire for the other. Blanche’s desires have taken everything away from her and left her in the power of Stanley; now her own desires aren’t strong enough to save her, but rather they’ll only destroy her. And I wonder if at the end, when Stella’s desires to protect her sister are finally stronger than her desire for Stanley, if she finds herself trapped on the street haunted by Desire by a husband who won’t physically let her leave and by a baby? But then I wonder if Williams’ intended for desire to be so stark? Blanche tries to paint the world with watercolors but a bucket of reality easily washes away her pictures. Stella’s life is full of her desire for Stanley until Blanche intrudes and reminds her of other responsibilities. And Stanley….Stanley is such a hard character because I wonder if Williams wanted to be a thug of a romantic?

Anyway, I’m so glad I finally saw this on stage. It reminded me why it’s famous and why it’s classic. And it makes me sad that so few people get to enjoy it on stage. I don’t know if I’d agree that less is more in the case of plays. Plays were meant to be played out and it seems a crime to rein in and closet such forces as those found in Williams’ play on desire.

For reasons that I shall never divulge to any living person (unless I do and probably shall do without hesitation), I had to come into possession of a book by Sunday, January 18. But here were the problems: 1) I didn’t know I needed the book until January 13. 2) I, for said reasons given above, couldn’t purchase the book online unless pricing and shipping were reasonable. 3) The book plus shipping even at a reasonable price and date were not doable. 4) The book, called The Typographic Workbook, is not easily found unless you look online.5) There’s a new edition of the book coming out at the end of February, which means all current copies are rare.It was a dilemma similar to the one I found myself back in when I was in high school. As a senior, my teacher sent 80 of her students out in the pre-Amazon days to find a copy of Samuel Becket’s Waiting for Godot. We students searched bookchains, used bookstores and libraries. But, as you can imagine, Waiting for Godot is not so popular a read. So it came down to a battle royale among us classmates–who could find the books first and claim them as their own?I found that I needed to actually do a little searching to find my typographic workbook, which in these post-Amazon days, took a little thinking.First, I tried to see if I could bum it off someone. Nope.Second, I tried to beg for more time. Nope. Third, I called my local Borders and Barnes and Noble. Neither of them had the book in stock, but they would happily order it if I was willing to wait 7 to 9 business days.Not so much.That pretty much ex-ed out all local bookstore options for me.I retreated into solitude to think.Now, I thought, this is Los Angeles. I know their are many chain bookstores and many specialty bookstores. I know there are bookstores for fiction, poetry, comics, mysteries, erotica and comics. I know that I know people who can list five places in which to find books. But I know of only one place that might have the book I’m looking for. However, being that this is the age of technology, why go to the store only to be disappointed?I hopped online and did a search. I found my book. The bookstore in question had it.So on Friday, I bypassed early-weekend traffic and headed down Wilshire to Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. I planned to step into Hennessey + Ingalls for the first time ever to get my book. (I had called earlier to put it on hold.) I have good and bad memories of bookstores on Third Street Promenade. It used to be the home of Midnight Special, which had awesome book sections like Arabic literature. The local Barnes and Nobles also used to hold a very hip poetry series. I’d seen great and local LA poets like Marvin Bell, David St. John and Dorothy Barresi there. But like the once great indie bookstore, the poetry series is no more.But Hennessey + Ingalls is there. It’s a design and architecture bookstore, which had my book. I parked. I walked in. I bought my book and I left.I guess all adventures can end very simply–like when I found Godot. I was driving down a street when a used bookstore that I’d never visited caught my eye. Within moments of entering, I found a copy in the shelves. But the simplicity never would have come without the search. Instead of pulling a Vladimir and Estragon, it’s always better to search out some solution. Heck, that’s usually how good and necessary books fall into your seeking hands. 

Four years ago, I was in a Best Buy at the Westminster Mall in Huntington Beach, buying a Hewlett Packard laptop. Four years later, my laptop had undergone international travel several times, two harddrive meltdowns and a burned-out backlight. Because of the last item on the list, my poor HP was officially declared deceased by the Best Buy Geek Squad on Saturday December 20th. Ok, it’s not dead, but it’s no longer functional. With no monitor capability, my HP must be put out to pasture and unplugged permanently.The nice thing about New Years, which I’ve learned to take advantage of in recent years, is that they do offer people an opportunity to move forward, step outside of their comfort zones and try something new. So, it was with the spirit of 2009 in mind that I found myself in an Apple Store over the Christmas holidays.Apple Stores are weird. They remind me of bookstores….but not. You know how you can go into a bookstore, browse, read, chat with friends, drink coffee and never actually buy a book? That’s the vibe I got from the Mac crowd on December 26. The stores are set up with large tables. On each table, there are several pieces of equipment for customers to play with. There were children’s stations. There were people just browsing on the net. There were Apple geeks.Go figure.I’m always surprised at how easy it is to buy a computer. I’ve bought one online, I’ve bought one at Best Buy and I’ve bought one at the Apple Store now. Salespeople are never as helpful until you actually have decided to make the purchase. Apple Rep 1, who helped me in my pre-hunt for a computer, was very unhelpful. He was all like, “You know Apples are awesome. Yay!”  Whereas Apple Rep 2, who helped me in my I-want-to-buy-a-Mac hunt, was all, “You know Apples are awesome, and I want to make sure you are very comfortable with your purchase.”But in the end, you take a risk in buying any piece of equipment. I remember standing in line with a new TV at the Best Buy when a fellow customer helpfully remarked that he had bought the same TV for a friend; it had broken a week later.And that’s kind of the way with New Years. Who knows what they’ll bring or if your investments will payoff. Much like the economic shakeup of 2008, we can only know so much right?So it is the same with this blog, which is now being written to you all from a Mac. Thank you so much for tuning into the ups and downs of 2008. We hope that you’ll stick around and enjoy the happenings of Los Angeles, as reflected here, during 2009. 

There were so many unprecedented precedents achieved in this US election: the first female presidential candidate, the first Republican female vice-presidential candidate, the first black presidential candidate, the largest voter turnout in the history of the U.S. and the first time I ever voted at a polling place. I’ve never seen such a display of politicism by voters. I heard that parents who dropped their kids off at elementary school and kindergarten overheard young citizens discussing whom they thought would be the best president or what measures they felt needed to be passed. When walking to my polling place, I saw a man standing on that oh-so contested corner, now empty but for him, wearing a red and white-striped cape and brandishing a sign that said: “Before you go to the polls, ask what God would he do”

At 8 PM, the major networks announced that Barack Obama was our newly elected leader. AH and I were together. We acknowledged the absolute jubilation onscrean–streamers, banners, horns and confetti. We acknowledged that that jubilation only mirrored half the thoughts of the citizens of this country. We thought about the slogan being posted on websites everywhere: “Change is here.” And we thought about how tenuous that promise was even at this hopeful new beginning.

Most of all, we remember our Allen Ginsberg and a poem he once penned to America’s poet that says:

      Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors 
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point 
tonight? […]
       Will we walk all night through solitary streets? […]
       Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love 
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent 
cottage?
       Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit 
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank 
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black 
waters of Lethe?

excerpt from “A Supermarket in California” (1955)

This weekend seemed to have a lot of quintessential Los Angeles in it.

It started off with an art show in Los Feliz, that bohemian bureau in which parking is scarcer than celebrities. (AH and I saw Keifer Sutherland there a few months ago. We were dining on wine and cheese and exchanging books at the Alcove Cafe and Bakery, when Jack Bauer himself walked right by!) At a very nice space that seems to have no name, young hipsters, poets, artists, musicians and art lovers wandered among original pieces, listened to original music, and enjoyed original reading. Oh yeah, AH performed, and totally rocked it! She read this piece.

The following day, I spent at Hermosa Beach, a true seaside beachtown for families and sunlovers by day and partygoers by night. Several friends had rented a beach house just yards from the sand. It’s quite common for people to own beach houses, which they only use during the summer. Like many of them, ours was decorated in a beach theme–seashell chimes, Hermosa Beach-related reading, sand and palm tree towels and framed pictures, etc. What was also fun, aside from sitting on the sand and sunning with the rest of the population, was sitting on the beach house’s patio. Like most beach towns, there are pedestrian walkways build right along the houses, so there is quite a bit of traffic. While sitting on the patio, flipping through a magazine and sipping on some juice, I watched toned runners jog by with their dogs, families on bicycles glide by, half-garbed surfers and girls in sarongs saunter by in their flipflops. It’s really amazing how toned and tan some people can be in Los Angeles. I subscribe to a regime that requires wearing 150 SPF and sitting in lots of shade, while others seem to be braver and toast to a very warm shade of brown.

Sunday, I went to the Farmer’s Market in Santa Monica while I waited for my friend to get a Brazilian wax. While she pampered her body, I went to pamper my stomach, wandering along a crowded sidewalk of persons of all persuasions, passed trattorias, cafes, indie clothes shops and bicycle valets and into the heart of the market. There were all the regular booths of fruits and veggies at the market and then some–gourmet French crepes, aqua-farmed oysters and other shellfish, organic hot chocolate and raw-food finger foods. It was a small space, as generally seems to happen in the beach communities of L.A., but the lawn was crowded with all kinds of people chowing down on local produce.

Despite the heat of the weekend, it was just a nice mellow, truly L.A.ian time. And then, while driving back to my northern hermitage, I saw a sign on the 10 Freeway that I’d never seen before. It said that the 10 was a transcontinental highway! I never knew that! In fact, it is the southernmost east-to-west highway in the United States, connecting cities like Phoenix, AZ., Houston, TX. and Jacksonville, FL. And I thought, how L.A. is that? Here was something that had always been right in front of my face, and I’d never known to connect the dots until now.

I saw a lot of dead people last week–mostly because I’ve discovered hulu.com and the entire first season of Bones.

It’s an interesting show in that it places death, specifically rotting, gooey, slimy, violently abused corpses on an elegant, scientific and hygenic table for the viewing enjoyment of the audience. The lovely Emily Deschanel runs her hands over the bones, coaxing out the truths found deep within the marrow. Her team of smart, but attractive and young, scientists rip apart the dirt that covers the mutilated bodies and rebuild the the skeleton image as the bones implies the face looks, and etc. to tell the audience the mystery. The whole show is centered around death, particularly the corpse of a person who never gets to speak but who is the diving board from which the show launches action, plot, drama and even romance!

Basically, as a forensics team, Emily and co. piece together and paint a portrait of the victim’s last moments.

I also saw real dead bodies last week (more…)

With more than 600 Starbucks cafes closing, the once ubiquitous coffee stop is now calling me. I don’t set foot in a Starbucks if I can help it. Who would want to be like the crowd and drink what everyone else drinks?

On a similar note, my fellow blogger in crime has made me set a rule for myself. I’m no longer allowed to blog about a) writing, b) the writing industry c) any other writing related things, unless they specifically relate to a topic that I am discussing that is unrelated to writing.

She does this because she loves me.

I’m kind of excited. The world’s opened up with new possibilities — much like tonight. I have a friend flying in for a long layover, and she’ll want to go out. Los Angeles beckons! Where to go? What to do? Who knows?! Who cares?!

 I’ll be back with a post for the weekend.

Because it is almost midnight and I’m on the cusp of being “in transit,” I’ve decided life, more specifically my future life of tomorrow, is like a honey bran muffin.

Let me tell you my story:

In order to be on time for my flight to LAX tomorrow, I drove down from my perch in the northern reach of LA to a more sourtherly neighborhood where a friend had agreed to put me up for the night. Like any good traveler, I packed before I left, and did a 101 other things, giving me just enough time to get down to that southerly region at 10 PM. I was hungry. I had eaten only what was left in my fridge–a fridge I had not stocked in anticipation of being in transit for more than a week. So friend(s) and I went to Manhatten Beach, one of the beach-y communities of LA, family friendly by day and trendy by night, to eat at the 24-hour Kettle.

The Kettle is a longtime institution. It serves the community, the college students, and other Californian folk. They offer breakfast all day and dinner only at night. Friends and I arrived, we impressed the staff with the fact that we were hungry. I ordered an omelette and a muffin, and then our wait commenced.

Oh my muffin! So long did I wait for it! I watched and gazed at servers, hoping they would realize that I wanted my muffin now! Rather than later! I watched them go behind the counter, up to the food window under the heat lamps, chat with the chefs, take plates of burgers and fries and salads and other yummy stuff away, but never go to get my muffin!

Such pain! Such patience! Such fortitude to be asked to call upon at a late hour after a long day on an empty stomach!

And this is when I realized that it was all like traveling. Tomorrow, I would go to LAX. I would sit and wait. Read and wait. Fly and wait. And be and wait. And then! After an eternity of gates and passes and obstacles and security and waitresses who don’t bring you your muffins– there would be an end and satisfaction.

Perhaps you’ve seen the headlines?

LA residents wait weeks for trash cleanup

Illegal dumpings plagues some Los Angeles neighborhoods

And the stories usually mention the fact that probably gets most readers to cringe: The garbage includes rotting animal carcasses.

Why the scoop about the trash? Has Los Angeles hit the problems of Naples? There’s no place to throw trash but in the streets?

I don’t know. Some of the articles suggest that this tardiness in cleanup is due to the city reallocating funds to security, and I’m sure there are other reasons too. But what struck me about the story was how the residents of these illegal dumping grounds either a) call for action and receive none, or b) dump their trash in the streets without a second thought. This made me juxtapose my own pretty, picket-white suburban neighborhood. The lawns are manicured, the city provides plastic bags for dog walkers along carefully tended bike paths, and traffic light cameras guard all major intersections. And yet, despite this care of a masterplanned city by a masterplanned local government, I crossed paths with two dead birds on the same street, just feet from each other. One, I had met the day earlier. The other I met when trying to avoid the path of the earlier, albeit more smooshed, bird. I just threw up my hands.

This kind of ties in with my entry of last month about the dead duck. Obviously, trash is a sensitive, unpopular topic to discuss, and I think many people just assume someone else will take care of it. Not only in LA, but in the States. I think Americans are used to delegating the removal of unsightly blemishes like trash, tires and dead animals to other persons. Like with the dead duck, I bet many people assume the a) gardener, b) street cleaner or c) other person will take care of the problem. I also wonder if it has to do with our car culture–when driving 30 mph or more, and talking on your cell, and listening to music, and drinking coffee, and doing whatever, it’s probably doubtful people even realize there’s something on the road. That might be it. I should know because I’m a bicyclist. I face death daily.

But really, it’s just ridiculous. What will it take to get people to notice what is in their path and do something about it? No matter where they live?

On a sidenote: The literary industry is agog over the fact that the fictional, not-really real book of Love Letters by Great Men have sent droves of consumers to the internet and beyond to snatch up any book that resembles it. Maybe the sanitation industry should snatch up the opportunity to tie in their job with with the star power of Carrie Bradshaw and Sex and the City?

Trash. It’s not just reusable. It’s also fashion. (Yes. Even in the movie Carrie clarifies that it’s not just a bunch of feathers, but a bird)