On an abstract level, there must an organizing principle. If not an argument. If not a thesis. A curiosity, or a cliché.
I feel protective over Los Angeles because parts of this sprawling, center-lacking city could break off and fall into the ocean. My grandmother, Gladys, warned this might happen when my mother first brought me to Los Angeles in 1982. What my grandmother didn't realize was that if this did happen, many of us wouldn't notice.
Mike Davis might call this our collective "disaster amnesia," an amazing, Angelino ability to recover from separation (even if parts of our own bodies break off and fall into the sea). Wouldn't we just become imbalanced, hobbling versions of ourselves?
In 1949, the "L-A-N-D" was either removed from the Hollywood sign, or it slid down the hill. The transition went smoothly. Nobody remembers it. We became HOLLYWOOD, as if the HOLLYWOODLAND version never existed. There were a few protests. Weren't there? And some nebulous memories. Right? But mostly, those people were curmudgeonly Luddites possessing paranoid, repellent nostalgia, shaking their impotent fists at the inevitable. Maybe even hurting themselves in the process. Cutting off their noses to spite their faces, my grandmother might say.
The survivors translate their past, creating a new mythology that rewrites (and thus includes) HOLLYWOOD sans LAND. Lest we cut off our noses to spite our faces, we reinvent archives to accommodate history.
There are only two things in Los Angeles that I do not understand: a store next to the Arclight Theater's parking garage (don't know the name); and Darque Tan.
On the store next to the Arclight's parking garage: I can't figure out its theme, and this bothers me. The store is attractive, the way Famima is attractive. Well lit. Colorful. Climate controlled. The staff is friendly and well dressed. They are attentive, and have had their hair cut recently. In the store, there are lots of little things that you'd like to own. The entire store is an impulse purchase. The problem at the Arclight store is that I want to buy something, but I can't tell what's for sale. There are beauty products (not for sale). High-end pastries for pets or humans- they are so perfect, I'd eat either- but they're not for sale. Cellular phone accessories (incompatible with the iPhone) Tasteful furniture (not for sale). It's like being in Pinkberry, where those colorful, plastic, alien-looking kitchen accessories (can't think of the artist who made them right now) trigger the impulse of an impulse to buy, but it's impossible to justify following through with that impulse because I don't want to spend 78 dollars on a pair of acrobatic salt and pepper shakers that stack sideways, and spill the salt and pepper granules onto the table. Plus, my grandmother collected salt and pepper shakers, and I'm trying to break the patterns of my past. At least at Pinkberry, I know why I'm there. For yogurt (Is it indeed yogurt? Has that debate finally been resolved?) And those artsy, plastic, impractical kitchen accessories keep me entertained while I'm in line. Bright colors make time pass more quickly. I totally get it.
On Darque Tan (The Corner Market): My cousin pronounces it in French, emphasizing the 'ARE,' and dropping the end vowels, "d'AAARRq Tan." I trust her pronunciation because she is their ONLY customer, and took French in high school. I prefer exposing the direct, racist implications of Darque Tan in my pronunciation, calling it, "Darkie Tan." How does Darque Tan make its rent (which surely must be 10,000 dollars a square foot per month)? Drugs? Human Trafficking? I'm promised by the media that these businesses make up the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles, and Darque Tan has the requisite closed-circuit television, obvious lack of customers, odd hours, and suspicious name. Is there a basement, where a fat man is bound and gagged, a red rubber ball stuffed in his mouth? Darque Tan can't be a leader in pornography or guns because Van Nuys already dominates that market. How else could miniscule Darque Tan compete with the Barney's, Tiffany's, Neeman's, and BMW dealerships of Wilshire Boulevard?
The point is this: how are these businesses surviving when (at the risk of sounding like a fist shaker) Dutton's has lost its lease? Mrs. Gooch's was bought out by Whole Foods (I know that was in 1993, and I should be over it by now). And, okay, I still haven't recovered from the closing (and subsequent demolition of the historic Beverly Theater twenty years ago, and more recently Beverly Vista Elementary School. Nor am I over the bust of a very convenient "hair salon" on Melrose that sold nothing but perfectly-rolled (but admittedly overpriced) joints when you asked for a "bottle of conditioner," winking. Am I really nostalgic for the pre-legalization of medical marijuana? I can't be. I'm not the nostalgic type. I'm a survivor after all.
But then again, I'm very worried because of the petitions to save The Reel Inn. Is the Reel Inn in some kind of danger? I've been signing those Reel Inn petitions for six years. Has there been progress? Any progress?
On the bright side, there's The Resistance. The Shine Gallery in Farmer's Market restores my faith in both Fairfax & Third, and humanity. Their theme is recycled, carnival memorabilia. Everything comes in its original packaging.
My faith in Fairfax and Third had been previously destroyed by The Grove simulacrum one day when a security officer "suggested" that my bike might be more comfortable locked in the parking lot in the designated bike parking slots, rather than attached to the fake street lamp on Main Street, Grove, USA.
The truth is, I need EVERYTHING at The Shine Gallery, and I've only bought ten or twelve items so far, including Nixon propaganda that reads, "Lady Bird Start Packing, The Nixon's Are Coming!" and a carney name tag that reads "Butch." They sell toy guns from before the make- toy-guns-look-like-toys-so-cops-won't-shoot-at-children mandate. They sell used clothing from when gas station attendants wore uniforms. Hell, from when gas station attendants existed. And, they're STAINED uniforms. I even need the displays that are not for sale at The Shine Gallery, those empty clown mouths that you throw bean bags in and win a prize. Those floating ducks that you try to capture by tossing rings. The Shine Gallery sells ALL THE PRIZES from ALL THE CARNIVALS in ALL THE WORLD. They sell those tiny onion-looking paper things that explode when you throw them on the ground. Thank you, Shine Gallery, for reminding us that toys were once dangerous.
