L.A. Anatomía

I know. I can’t believe I wrote that, too.

I was supposed to blog yesterday, but I got caught up in watching the Bleak House miniseries with Diana Rigg. I’d seen the one with Gillian Anderson, which is so good, but this one has its own merits that also make it so good.

For the non-literati, the Bleak House miniseries are based off of the book by Charles Dickens, and generally, they are very loyal to the text, which is also absolutely fantastic.

One thing that I really enjoy about the book is that it follows the paths of a plethora of characters, especially as to their fates as based on freewill. It is there choices that decides their destiny, and each choice is mapped out in the book. From the very beginning, for each character, a decision links them to a consequence, which spurs on another decision that links to a consequence. Is it not Lady Dedlock’s our decision to underestimate her spouse’s love of family honor over herself? Is it not John Jarndyce’s decision to put happiness over bleakness? Yes, he does get taken advantage of for his goodness, but he decides it is the better evil than to be involved with the law case that caused his great-uncle to kill himself. Isn’t it bleak that the characters can really only blame themselves? Or is it the extreme opposite?

But now that I think on it, I’m not sure if I can categorize the streetsweep Jo with the other characters.

My only other thought to add: Why do the actresses that play Lady Dedlock always get top billing and not the actresses who play Esther Summerson?

Suddenly! Out of the bleakness of a regular, moody, uneventful day, I learned that there was an Italian Food Festival happening not there! Not there! But right there! Right there down the street! So close in all its imagined pasta-filled, pasta-sauced slathered goodness.

Did I mention I love food festivals?

One thing that I’ve been discovering more of lately is Los Angeles’ ethnic oasises-es. I began out in the Pacific Rim by attending New Year festivities in Little Tokyo awhile back. (The food? Delectable yakisoba and munchable, lovable onigiri.)

There was the two small venue rock concerts that were dominated by Armenians. (Yes. They do live among us.)

I fell into adventures with Eastern Europeans at an Eastern European film festival held by the Goethe Instistute of Los Angeles. (African wine with bite-sized petit four-type cookies.)

And now, there were Italians.

The sad news I have to report is that the Italian Food Festival was not so Italian or gourmet as I might have wished. In a pocket-sized corner of a megasized mall, the festival had fenced itself off from outside contact unless foreigners wished to pay its visa fee of $10. Only then could they cross the border.

Once inside, the booths, a mere handful, charged $5 or more for what would generally be considered $5 or less for food. I tried to jump into some kind of Mediterranean spirit. I wandered among the booths, singing a song of little fortune and great curiousity so that vendors, quite amused vendors, peddled out a few free samplings.

I also bought a meatball sandwich, which was my first. The audience thinks: Girl has eaten raw horse but never a meatball sandwich?! The horreur!

I apologize; the audience thinks: The orrore!

But there is a bright, silver lining to this non-red-white-and-green tinted event. Among the booths, I found myself talking with a kettlecorn entrepreneur. Life in the cubicle did not suit him so he had been on the lookout for a calling that was not only more interesting but doable. He found kettlecorn.

I had to explain to him that though I loved the stuff (especially that which he put into my hand), I did not exactly know what made kettlecorn kettlecorn.

Readers! I give you the answer!

1) As its name suggests, kettlecorn is popped in a kettle. It looks something like this: <img src=”http://www.kettlepopper.com/img/Kettle_Corn.jpg”>

2) It’s made with a special variety of corn known as “magic mushroom corn.” (I kid you not!) That’s why it’s so much fluffier than other kinds of popcorn.

3) The entrepreneur couldn’t explain why kettlecorn tasted better, but he attributes it to the kettle and the magic mushroom. He also sifts through all the popped kernels to rid customers of the unpopped ones so that they only pop the popped popcorn into their mouths.

And yes, I enjoyed learning all this a lot.

(Poetic, artistic, blissful thing! There were children dancing like they weren’t being watched on the dance floor. They spun, tangoed, did arabesques, ring-around-the-rosies and more while laughing a lot. Don’t you sometimes think it would be more satisfying to dance like a child than eat on the sidelines like an adult)

(Sad, lamentable news! The egg is gone from the dead lavendar pot! My metaphor is ruined! Fortunately, I have the resources to rebuild it, so here goes: With the egg vanished, change must come. I shall uproot the plant and plant something new, much like this blog will come to replace what was planted here in the past.

Ok, a bit clunky, but I’m off! Happy Friday!)

–SD

Last Saturday, I decided to give the opera another go. I’d gone once before more than a decade ago whenI saw Manon Lescaut. I didn’t like it. Much of what I remember is based on the fact that it took the heroine forever to die. The story was slow. The singing endless, and Manon just wouldn’t get on with the tragedy and end herself.

But I was never easy with the idea that that sole opinion would stand for my whole opinion on opera. As an artistic-minded person, I’m more than aware that art forms come in more varieties than atoms. They exist to hit, bond, split and smash against others in their efforts to become something meaningful. After that decade, I felt brave enough to give opera another try.

The L.A. Opera has enjoyed a lot of prosperity recently. I’ve read nothing but good critiques in the L.A. Times and the maestro puppeting the strings is none other than Placido Domingo himself! I jumped on board, drove down to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion at the Music Center, bought my ticket and got ready for a bunch of death in the tragedy of Tosca.

I absolutely loved it.

Here’s why I think opera is not mainstream:

1) A lot of popular songs, musicals and television shows are based on language whether sexual, political or intellectual. Characters race through dialogue peppered with cultural references, puns, innuendo and etc. In opera, because of the language barrier, the audience misses that. If there is a subtle humor in words, rhyme or accent, it is most likely lost, even among a culturall diverse audience. (When wandering through the theatre before the show started, I heard the English, Spanish and Italian language from more than a few seats.)

2) Popular music today is based on a rhythm or beat. It’s easy for listeners to catch it, bob or sway to it, and enjoy from there. Opera’s a bit more complex. Like a classical piece, listeners are supposed to pick through the layers. It’s not a bob and sway kind of music, but a sit back and be kind of music. Don’t process. Don’t search for theme. Just let it overtake you as you begin to see its layers.

3) In musicals and movies, language is always first. Music is an ornamentation; it is a device to spur along the dialogue and plot. In opera, the music is the main communicator. The words are just ornamentation. In fact, while watching Tosca, I began to feel like the opera’s score was like a poem. It’s not so much that the listener needs to understand every line and stanza to enjoy the piece. Instead, they just need to catch the feeling.

That’s my new opinion of the opera. Perhaps it was because the production was exceptionally fine. Perhaps it was because unlike other, more classical operas, had more lyrical librettos. Tosca jumps right into the action.

Act 1: Escapees! Political revolution! Faith vs. Non-Faith! Church vs. Radicals! Jealousy! Betrayals!

Act 2: Torture! Ultimatums! Blackmail! Lust! Love! Sacrifice! Murder!

Act 3: Dawn! Death!

Actually, what was interesting was that Act 3 was the most mellow. Instead of blowing the execution of the hero up into a melodrama, the production presented it as mundane. Perhaps that was Puccini’s point: In the scheme of life, Cavaradossi’s death is just another execution, and Tosca’s eventual suicide is not a “bang” but a “whimper.” Considering that Act 1 opens with a chase and Act 2 opens with a song on lust, Act 3 opens with no people, no lights, no nothing. For 20 or so minutes, the orchestra plays the calm morning, signaling that life is going on even as the life of our protagonists is about to end.

Opera. Go figure. I like it.

Anyway, I have a point to all this. Puccini’s opera had life, death, hope, sorrow, and so does this blog. The time has come to reinvent it again!

I’m bringing in a fellow blogger/writer to add her perspective on L.A., writing, art and whatever moves the artistic soul. We hashed out a plan in Starbucks this evening. The company will be so pleased that great writing was inspired within its walls! I sometimes think that is Starbuck’s secret hope–that it will birth greatness. We’ll see!

Oh yes, the lavender is in reference to the plan in my backyard that has died. However, an unhatched egg was discovered in the pot. (It’s mother took flight when humans approached.) We can’t possibly water the lavendar plant now as it might make the mother decide not to come back. Nor can we discard the plant. Metaphor time! So the plant will stay much like this blog. Even though it withered, life has been left behind and will hatch into something new!

See, it’s a metaphor! I’m kind of talented like that.

–SD

And they all said, “No.”

Fortunately, I’m a modern woman, living in a modern time. I traverse borders without fear! I go to the bathroom by myself! I sit at restaurants alone and order what I will! That is the genius of the emancipation of women from the veil! From the corset!

 Although, there were a lot of corsets being worn at the Renaissance Faire. And (wait for it people): Boobs.  Dear god! There were so many boobs uncomfortably pushed up to unnatural altitudes that I was afeared they would pop, fall out, spill over or jiggle unto death! Ok. That’s all I have to say about that.

So I went to the Renaissance Faire this weekend. It twas my first gentle readers, but I am determined that it shall not be my last. I had a merry time wandering among booths, minstrels, rat sellers and other persons of Renaissance-type backgrounds.

Now certain L.A.ians might be thinking, dude. We have a Ren Faire?

Oh yes! This magnificent gala of lords, ladies, peasantry, pirates and ladies of negotiable affections occurs yearly in Irwindale.

Irwindale?!

Oh yes!

“But pray,” gentle native readers ask, “where is Irwindale?”

Think of L.A. as the world. Oh wait, I did this metaphor before, but it is so very apt! To the north, you shall find desert, valleys and suburbs. To the west, you shall find beaches, hippies and bohemians. To the south, you shall find beaches, hippies, bohemians and soccer moms! To the east, you shall find Irwindale, population of approx 1500.

Eastern L.A. is best summed up by Pasadena: green and suburban. You drive toward the rising sun and there is none of this “movie L.A.” that international audiences know best. Perhaps this is why it’s the best place to have a Ren Faire. There is open space for die-hard Ren Faire folk to spread out and infiltrate every crevice until….there is nothing left!

By the way, it was a very hot day, and yes, I did ask the Faire Folk whether they were wearing the proper number of undergarments. Some: yes. Others: no.

So I arrived, was greeted and entered the Faire. I attended some very fun shows where the players assured the audience that they made a living from these theatrics. There were wenches singing bawdy songs, more wenches singing bawdy songs and some men doing plays about bawdy things. Really though, they weren’t that bawdy. Maybe it’s because I’m literary because I’ve blushed at much dirtier things in great classics….or on British TV.

Anyhoo. I give you pictures! Thus, my blog now offers multiple forms of media!

 Pictures to come while I figure out how to upload them.

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves was on tonight.

When the movie first came out (a century ago), I remember all the gossip. It was violent! It was graphic! It was not for children! Today, it was shown on the ABC Family network.

It really is a funny movie. Overdramatic action and dialogue with an underdone plot. Really, Alan Rickman, who plays the sheriff of Nottingham, is the best part. He even seems to find the whole movie funny. I guess it just goes to show that what was considered “PG-13″ for kids a decade ago is no longer the case now. Prince of Thieves was so…..tame. Cheesy. I loved it. Morgan Freeman as an Arab? Alan Rickman as the villain? Kevin Cosner is able to scale tall buildings with a single leap? Fabulous.

 I had a transition. But it’s gone now. It’s hot here in Cali tonight. Here is what the NY Times says you need to do to be a famous poet: Write bad poetry. Here’s the amusing story. (At least it ain’t Vogon.)

This past month I’ve made a concerted effort to find newsources that I will check more than a couple times a week to stay up-to-date on the world. I’ve felt ashamed of myself ever since Hurricane Katrina. I didn’t realize New Orleans had been evacuated till a week after the fact.

 If the Blue Man Group is to be believed, then I use them as my credible excuse: Modern society people like me are bombarded with information and things daily. We can’t cope. We shut it out and watch reality TV instead, hoping that Tyra Banks will let fall a few crumbs of wisdom. (And oh, she does.)

The fast-paced life of an L.A.ian doesn’t help too. “Success” is the name of the game in this city, which means multitasking, iPhone carrying toddlers are commonplace. So the dilemma that I had to solve was this: Where could I find quick, fast, thorough news, which will not require a lot of reading unless I so desire.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

L.A. Observed for its writing-ness: www.laobserved.com

L.A. Now, www.latimes.com/lanow, for its now-ness

Broadsheet at Salon.com, http://www.salon.com/mwt/broadsheet/, for its I-am-woman-powerfulness in a not militant way

Notice how they are all blogs. Yep, blogs are the future. And that’s sad. I used to read magazines like Harper’s and etc., but the only time life allows me the mental serenity is when I’m at the airport. It looks like the bloggers at Jacket Copy (another L.A. Times blog) are right: the friendly skies are the last true reading room.

The Lede at the New York Times is also amusing for people who like newslite.

How do you kids handle the situation of being cosmopolitan and aware?

Item  #1 

Apparently, you can check people out (in a library) in London. Can you imagine how your bibliography would look if you did that? Can you imagine how far that could set you back if you were a ”book” not chosen? The Times has the article here, or here is a snippet to encourage you to transcend beyond this page and on to the link:

“The idea, which comes from Scandinavia, is simple: instead of books, readers can come to the library and borrow a person for a 30-minute chat. The human “books” on offer vary from event to event but always include a healthy cross-section of stereotypes. Last weekend, the small but richly diverse list included Police Officer, Vegan, Male Nanny and Lifelong Activist as well as Person with Mental Health Difficulties and Young Person Excluded from School. I [the author] was there as Gay Man.”

 Item #2

“ It starts with a phone call from someone claiming to be an author. Then the caller asks for money. But sellers are catching on.”

Apparently, scammers have moved out of inboxes and on to bookstores. Like the famous Nigerian scam, this is just ridiculous, and yet, it’s just so sad. L.A. Times article here.

Item #3

Not so much a book item, but it is language related, which is all that matter to me. The BBC translates the translation difficulties behind making British comedy classic ‘Allo ‘Allo funny to Germans. For those of you who don’t know the show, it follows the flops and foibles of a French cafe owner during WWII. Basically, nothing is sacred, every line is drenched in innuendo and nobody is safe. What also makes the show unique is that the French characters speak in a French accent while the Brits speak in an exaggerated British one, but neither character can understand the other. With less meaning than Brian Friel’s Translations, I really wonder if ‘Allo ‘Allo will last one zany, twisted, plot in Deutchland.

When words help you bring home the bacon, even a comma can stop you dead in your tracks and make you ask, “Why?” In a world where current media trends show that the population doesn’t especially mind bad grammar or incorrect phrasing, you’d think such a halt and question would be unnecessary. But, I still bet that the average reader, who in between their morning coffee and workload reads a gossip column just for a brain break, still spies the stray grammatical mistake and thinks, “What the—?”

 So today, question that paused the cosmos in the lives of my fellow grammarians was the difference between “because” and “as.” What makes them different? When is it ok to use “because” over “an”? Is there a hard and fast rule.

Before you yawn, put yourself in our shoes. Life is rocking along like a boat on a pond, and suddenly, it hits the shore. How did that happen? You weren’t aiming for the beach. You were content to float in this perfect circle of liquid calm, but now the ground has risen up and demanded that you take notice.

AP stylebooks and Chicago manuals burst into our hands, as if summoned by the power of Greyskull (Yes. I just did that.) Internet sites were searched. Credible websites consulted, but all we could find was what was unacceptable: “as is a synonym of because.”

Curses English ambiguity!

 It was almost as heartening an answer to the time my fellow grammarians and I paused on “effectual” and “effective.” Was there a difference? No. Then why would the English language use/have/need two derivatives of the same adjective?! It makes the mind implode.

Anyhoo, here’s a link that explains the whole mystery behind “as” and “because” because I care and so should you. But, here’s a warning–the site hails from the UK, and we all know that the Brits and Americans tend to disagree on what is effectively effectual grammar. (I mean effective.)

There was a dead duck in the gutter. Drivers zipped passed it for more than week, ignoring it . After three days, it’s wing was in the middle of the road while the rest of it still lay in the gutter, and I probably would have closed me eyes to the corpse too if it wasn’t directly in my path. See, I bike to work, and that bike ride takes me along a street where there is no sidewalk or bike path. So for several mornings, I would hold my breath and hope that someone had finally taken responsibility and removed that duck.But no one did.The funny thing about Southern Californians is that they live in a land where public transportation is not often used by the majority of the population. Californians, L.A.-ians, can go through their entire lives without boarding a bus, train or anything. I have no idea how to use the bus system in Southern California, let alone my home city. I tend to drive to distant locations because the drive usually is as long as the train ride AND just as expensive. That’s why I drive, but, but the thing is that because so much of our lives occur in transit, Southern Californians are very good at treating life like they are constantly driving. Meaning, we only tend to see the road, what we’re focused on driving toward, rather than taking in our entire surroundings.That’s why it really didn’t surprise me that the duck was there for so long - on a very public street, in a commercial area, decomposing for all to see. And that’s really something that separates north L.A. from south L.A.; there tends to be more roadkill. I can’t even begin to tell you how many dead animals I’ve biked over this month. Yes, it is as pleasant as it sounds. In good old Orange County, animals stay on leashes or in purses. Up in the valleys, they tend to be a bit more feral.Anyway, I decided to be an American and clean up my city streets. The duck had to be removed, or I would have to find alternate bike routes to avoid it. But when I considered that the duck could be there till…..whenever, I knew someone had to step up to the plate; that someone would be me.But how does one remove a dead animal? I didn’t plan to take a shovel and do it myself. My elementary school education had cemented into my mind that tipping trash, pet feces or anything else down a storm drain just polluted the ocean. No, I would not only have to be a good citizen, I would have to be a good citizen that called upon my government to act. But, again, how does one do that?I zipped onto the internet highway and looked up the city hall’s website. After various searches and discoveries (government-sponsored tattoo removal and water-softener cleaning services), I discovered that my attempt to find a service for “dead animal” brought up results. Well, not exactly. I typed in “dead animal,” and the website directed me to the city’s Animal Care Department.Having had to dig through various layers of bureacracy to find quotes for articles, I prepared myself for this next ordeal: calling the Animal Care center and then having them direct me to another department; repeat process. I called, I was put on hold and listened to really awful elevator music for 20 minutes. Then a representative got on the line:Me: “Yes, I’m calling to see if you’re the right place to help me out.”Person: “Yes m’am, what seems to be the trouble.”Me: “There’s a dead duck on the road. It’s been there for days. I think it’s head is missing. It’s really gross.”Within minutes, the Animal Care representative had looked up the duck’s location, made the call a matter of public record and assured me that someone would get down there to dispose of the body. We said goodbye and hung up. I had this warm, fuzzy feeling; perhaps it was that patriotic pride that our president likes to talk about? I had done a little something to make our city a better place, and what do you know? When I left that afternoon, the streets were clean, and my little suburbia north of L.A. was as picture-perfect as it should be, once again.

I first learned about Meetup.com from two strangers at a birthday party. It’s a social website where people can create groups to “meet up” with persons of similar interests, and there are groups for everything! Central Los Angeles obviously has the most variety in groups, with meetups becoming more sparse the farther north you go. But really, before the internet, I don’t know how people met new people. I don’t think it’s acceptable anymore to knock on a neighbor’s door and introduce yourself. Suburbia definitely doesn’t seem conducive to that idea, especially with it’s gated communities, closed-curtained windows and double-locked doors. People in suburbia tend to work and then return home to their spacious homes and widescreen TVs. It’s a comfortable lifestyle, but it’s not very communicative.

So, to counteract the lifestyle and shake things up, I went to Meetup.com, found a group based in my city and joined. Three months passed in which I did nothing but worked, drove home and watched cable on my widescreen TV from my very comfortable couch. Obviously, I had not taken my advice seriously.

So, I went back to the group and just signed up for an event: a 5k marathon to benefit breast cancer research. It wasn’t my first marathon nor was it one I planned to take seriously. Instead, I decided to handle the situation the way I’ve handled many unknown situations - by winging it while pretending to know exactly what was going on.

The marathon started at 8 A.M. on a Sunday morning a the city’s central park. When I arrived, I thought that I had gotten something wrong because I saw no crowds, no booths and no signs. I was really expecting some bright and gaudy signs. However, I was not wrong - this was the park, this was the day and the crowd was present if not large. There were, perhaps, fifty or so runners and walkers or all ages, 5-50, warming up in the park’s back field. There were two tables for registration and one booth. I wandered over, signed in, got my goody-bag and then, as one would expect from such a name, met up with two other members from the online group.

The marathon reminded me a lot of the marathons I saw in Japan. There were warm up exercises lead by a group official, a welcome speech and a signal to go. It was all the same and yet so different. There’s really no better way to explain it. But, I do want to say that my attitude changed from start to finish. I came because I had originally thought that if I was going to do a marathon then I might as well fight cancer. However, while warming up with all the participants, who happened to be female, I began to wonder how many of them were survivors of breast cancer or currently battling against it. From the look of any of them, there was no way to tell. But it struck me greatly nonetheless.

Anyway, I walked my marathon, finished it in 50 or so minutes and sauntered across the finish line to good-natured laughs. All in all, it was a good experience and a beautiful Sunday morning to step out and go for a walk.