“One Reporter’s Opinion”, George Putnam, Conservative TV/Radio Commentator, Los Angeles, died September 12th, 2008 - guest blog 3 MITM

Four days after SavannahMarshMama and I returned to the marshes of Savannah from Los Angeles, George Putnam passed away. Why, you may ask, is this at all relevant or important? The answer lies in an old adage – You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. We were sitting on a couch at our daughter’s L.A. apartment, having feasted on a seafood gumbo (almost our recipe, not giving away all the secrets! ) that we made for the clan. Included in this group was an old family friend of ours — a dyed in the wool, child of the labor movement, 60s radical to the extreme, Irish-American woman who had seen her share of political battles, demonstrations and picket lines. She and SavannahMarshMama talked a long time about the upcoming elections and the candidates — no holds barred. My daughter, to her credit, listened intently. I mentioned to my daughter, after listening to the two “raving leftist”, that I didn’t see much change on the horizon and that both candidates, McCain and Obama, had major flaws in their approach to governance, foreign policy and the economy. I basically said they all had fingers in the same pie and were not willing to make the major changes Americans needed to meet future challenges. She paused for reflection, looked at me and said point blank, “You people are too cynical”. It was an indictment, a blunt separation of her reality from our past. I was reminded immediately of my youth, my grandfather and the reporter George Putnam. Let me explain.

My grandfather was a Mississippi, Bay St. Louis Creole cowboy, raised in the delta and the bayou. He was amongst the last regiment of Buffalo Soldiers who fought in the 1916 Excursions into the Philippines. His background was the mish-mash that made America great — a mix of Austrian (Dalmatian) sailor, Choctaw Indians and Black slaves — the “gumbo” that is New Orleans. He spoke French Creole until he was 12 years old and had to learn English to work in New Orleans. He played Dixieland Jazz on a one-string washtub bass. He worked as a postman to sustain his family, then as a carpenter, until the time that he escaped the south and moved to L.A. to make wooden overhead cabins for McDonald Douglas DC7 airplanes. He basically fled the south for two reasons, 1) his daughter, my mother, lost her husband and had four whelps to take care of, and, 2) he had his fill of the “color line” politics of the old South. He and my grandmother packed up the house, the old Packard, and headed for L.A. This event occurred circa 1950s. You’d think that such a man would have embraced the political and cultural changes that took place in America during the 60s. This was far from his reality. He loved the right wing commentaries of George Putnam and defended his “America Love It or Leave It” philosophy over wine and cigars in his garage carpentry shop whenever he felt the need to pontificate. I’d talk about Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Muhammad Ali (who he always called Cassius Clay) and he’d talk about the communist takeover of America, defending God and country, why we had to go to Vietnam and win, etc. I loved him, learned from him, but we had major differences. Hence, what goes around comes around. I realized that I had a lot to learn from my daughter. SavannahMarshMama and I may be becoming her George Putnam! I hope, in retrospect, that the differences are not as extreme.

My daughter and her man, a good Southerner from Atlanta don’t ya know, face a world that is fraught with economic uncertainties, changing political climates, and a declining American contribution to the world on the heels of years of inept American leadership. They are both highly committed to their communities, to teaching and to making a difference. I realized, after spending some time with them and visiting their workplace, just how difficult it is for them to maintain their commitments to service in today’s America. It is not what we faced at their age. It is more difficult by exponential factors. And it is apparent that this is true for their counterparts worldwide. My daughter, a woman who has faced her demons on many levels and conquered them, struggles to push on. She is my heroine in that she continues to have hope in her future. I realized that her comment about our old age cynicism was correct and had a basis in fact. Our reality is not her reality and the America she and her children will inherit is as much in her hands as it was when we were her age. This is as it should be. Just as I learned from my grandfather, she has learned from me — keeping the essence of the experience and discarding the lessons stuck in a certain time, a certain historical process.

I watched, listened and hopefully learned. She is an extraordinary teacher and gives to all her students every fiber of her being. They are the better for it without a doubt. Her experiences in the U.S. and Europe are given freely to her students. She makes them know that they can be whatever they want and achieve their dreams if they face their future as she has had to face hers. She and her man are making a home, preparing for their future and at the same time, honoring their families’ history. Somewhere my grandfather and George Putnam must be smiling.

We cooked two home meals with them – a beautiful Seafood Risotto that the men prepared, and a Seafood Gumbo that she and I prepared. Their home was as inviting as an old pair of jeans. I took comfort in that and I know, even after listening to her anxieties, that she will be OK and that my grandchildren will have a solid footing to carry on the traditions of this family. And all of this smack dab in L.A.

L.A. is many things to many people. One of the heads of the chimera is definitely as a fashionista. The rag trade is a big deal in L.A. Such is the world my youngest son and daughter-in-law embroil themselves in on a daily basis. They run a company that makes lingerie for the woman who is on the go, on the make, and need I say, somewhat skinny. You know the type, you’ve seen them — the “I’m a lawyer, a professional, but if you could see my underwear you’d want to have hot sex with me on top of the Xerox machine at least twice a day”. The sex in the city, nitty gritty, come fuck me pumps wearing, apple martini drinking crowd, or the pierced nipple and clit post-punk ingénues that have more money then body fat buy these little panties. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge them their time in the sun and I certainly hope they’ll all visit the company’s webpage f’leurt and take home something that makes them feel good, but we are of the age, and girth, where Willie Dixon & Howlin Wolf's tune, Built for Comfort, now means something dear to our hearts. So be it. But let me tell you, when it comes to the rag trade, think about the quote from the wizard in the Wizard of Oz — “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” This business is tough with a capital T. We visited their offices in downtown L.A. and were immediately awash in a sea of fabric, pattern cuttings, samples, sales reps selling their line, and on and on. They spend a considerable amount of time at sales shows around the country and have to balance their business on the whims of the ever-changing fashion world. Not an easy feat, to say the least. I realized that these two are basically artist, not business people. This is not necessarily a negative, just a temporary inconvenience on the road to success. My son is an extremely bright man, a writer, a free person and a creative soul. My daughter-in-law is an artist, a committed entrepreneur, a free person and a creative soul. Can you see where this is going – they need a pragmatic businessperson to manage them. They’re making a living, paying employees, paying their rent and expenses and have continued to keep a market presence with a line that my daughter-in-law started. They are also a real L.A. couple that has more in common with being L.A. people than the two diverse cultural backgrounds they come from. This is their ultimate strength. We felt privileged to have a brief view into their working reality and to spend time with them.

We were invited to a meal with them and my son’s father and mother-in-law. They are an older Korean American couple, first wave immigrants, and very religious. We are what you have gleaned from this blog. I need not say more. We went to a chic new wave Japanese restaurant in the hip loft district in downtown L.A. — R23. My son’s father-in-law lives with vivid memories of the Japanese invasion of Korea. It’s actually one of the endearing things about the old boy. I’ve had lively discussions with him in the past as he recounted his dislike of the Japanese. Needless to say he had some gems for me during the meal at R23 — why Korean food is different (code better) than Japanese. Fun and games. My daughter-in-law, long ago comfortable with her Americaness, is always a joy to observe. She should switch careers and join the State Department.

We visited my son’s apartment in Glendale, a nearby suburb of Los Angeles. They live in a community that is now predominately Iranian. It dawned on me that the new immigrants to L.A. are not so much interested in L.A. as they are in making money. They come to L.A. like ants to sugar, each taking a grain of sugar until the pile is depleted. This is the danger to L.A., the balkanization based on economics. Somehow I think L.A. will survive and turn all the carpetbagger’s children into Angelenos in spite of their cultural biases.

My son and daughter-in-law’s commitment to be their own persons, to stay independent, was refreshing. I left their business in downtown L.A., although it is under siege, knowing that whatever happens, they will survive and stay apart from the 9-5 crowd. I’m hoping that my son finds a way to be a mini-Balzac. Balzac ran a printing press and wrote novels as a means to keep the press going in financial bad times. Rag trade – writing – it can happen.

Behold, the youths betook themselves to the Cave: they said, "Our Lord! bestow on us Mercy from Thyself, and dispose of our affair for us in the right way!" Quran: Surah 18, The Cave.

This Quranic quote is for my oldest son, a man currently emerging from his cave after a brief period of hard times. I have to say, he was right. He told me via email not to long ago to just listen to him, see him as he is now, and know that he’s gonna be OK. We spent time with the “eye” at his digs on the periphery of a quaint neighborhood — his place of refuge. This flat, although spacious and nice for the price, was in a neighborhood controlled by a Hispanic gang. He had long ago set the rules for engagement and the neighborhood was not going to open that door. Not the best place to live, however, given his work — gone a lot. And his dog, Ghost Face Killah, is a hunting dog not a watchdog. It looked like a Rottweiler hood to me.

We went to lunch, hung out at some of our favorite spots (had dim sum in Chinatown after which, he and the dog went surfing), went to a five star dinner with him and his woman, and generally learned about his life and his take on L.A. today. He’s still waiting for an L.A. apocalypse to clear out all the wannabees. I think the city does this on its own, not through a great cleansing event, just through the daily grind and the resulting attrition. You either accept that L.A. will change you or you leave. End of story. And a man like him, at home on the street, surfing at his favorite beach, or hunting the surrounding deserts, is, like all of our offspring, made by L.A.


I was happy to see that he’s taken up reading again. There was a time during the recent past when he had stopped feeding his brain. Now his intellect is demanding full attention. He’s as opinionated as ever, as cantankerous as ever, and I love him as much as ever. I know the Hollywood Biz is wearing him down, but I also know he is one of those people who can persevere and rise to the top. I’m looking for him to make the next move — DP (Director of Photography). But that’s just me. Hooray for Hollywood!

We learned, upon our return to Dixie, that he moved temporarily to a better neighborhood — he’s house sitting for a bud whose house is being renovated. He’ll be setting up house in the near future and leaving the healing man-cave era behind. Here’s to his resurrection, well on the way.

As I post this last guest blog, I’m preparing to hit the road again. SavannahMarshMama and I are stretching out every minute together. Our second son and his wife are on their way back to the states from a three year sojourn in Spain. Good news, I get to see them before I leave. I will have to blog again in the future to tell you about the Madridniks, as SavannahMarshMama calls them. I’m sure she’ll have something to say about them over the next few weeks.

To all my children — I love you madly. Thanks to all my wife’s friends and readers for reading my entries and for your encouraging comments.

P.S. — Going pheasant hunting in South Dakota with my dudes when I get back. Thank God for small favors.

Peace
MITM

i'd like to thank ...

t-shirt galpal has kindly and generously passed this award to me! there are rules and regulations about presenting this weblog award and i will post those later. i'll also post my 7 selections.

ok, i'm a little behind on my posting today. this was supposed to be done hours ago, but things got a bit hectic around here...so anyway:

here are the rules from chez bonbon aka candy who gave the award to t-shirt galpal who gave it to me!

1. The winner can (and should, really) put the logo on his/her blog.

2. The winner must link to the person from whom they received their award.

3. The winner must nominate at least 7 other blogs for an award.

4. The winner must place links to those blogs on their own blog.

5. The winner must leave a message on the blogs of the people they’ve nominated.

so, now we'll take a brief break while the representatives from price waterhouse deliver the envelopes! (which means i'm still trying to chose only 7 blogs!!) all that aside, the MITM is working on his final installment of home is where you hang your hat. actually, he has a name for this one, but he hasn't shared it with me, so we'll all be surprised!

sunday update

1. last night was the main event during the jazz festival. it was a long evening and there are pictures! (i'll post these later today.)
2. the MITM is out playing golf.
3. the MITM will post his last and final installment of home is where you hang your hat.
   
4. i just noticed this numeric order feature.
5. i need more coffee. (it was a hellva night)

~~~~~~
rich over at beantown posted this yesterday. the newmans own foundation put it together. it is a moving tribute to a good man.



R.I.P. Mr. Newman

from yesterday's new york times

i'm taking the liberty of doing a cut & paste posting of this editorial observation from the septenber 26th, 2008 print edition of the nyt for a reason. governor palin is, as the article reminds us, running for the vice presidency based on her experience as mayor of wassila. you be the judge:

September 26, 2008
Editorial Observer
Wasilla Watch: Sarah Palin and the Rape Kits
By DOROTHY SAMUELS

Even in tough budget times, there are lines that cannot be crossed. So I was startled by this tidbit reported recently by The Associated Press: When Sarah Palin was mayor of Wasilla, Alaska, the small town began billing sexual-assault victims for the cost of rape kits and forensic exams.

Ms. Palin owes voters an explanation. What was the thinking behind cutting the measly few thousand dollars needed to cover the yearly cost of swabs, specimen containers and medical tests? Whose dumb idea was it to make assault victims and their insurance companies pay instead? Unfortunately, her campaign is shielding the candidate from the press, so Americans may still be waiting for answers on Election Day.

The rape-kit controversy is a troubling matter. The insult to rape victims is obvious. So is the sexism inherent in singling them out to foot the bill for investigating their own case. And the main result of billing rape victims is to protect their attackers by discouraging women from reporting sexual assaults.

That’s why when Senator Joseph Biden, the Democratic vice-presidential nominee, drafted the 1994 Violence Against Women Act, he included provisions to make states ineligible for federal grant money if they charged rape victims for exams and the kits containing the medical supplies needed to conduct them. (Senator John McCain, Ms. Palin’s running mate, voted against Mr. Biden’s initiative, and his name has not been among the long list of co-sponsors each time the act has been renewed.)

That’s also why, when news of Wasilla’s practice of billing rape victims got around, Alaska’s State Legislature approved a bill in 2000 to stop it.

“We would never bill the victim of a burglary for fingerprinting and photographing the crime scene, or for the cost of gathering other evidence,” said Alaska’s then-governor, Tony Knowles. “Nor should we bill rape victims just because the crime scene happens to be their bodies.”

If Ms. Palin ever spoke out about the issue, one way or another, no record has surfaced. Her campaign would not answer questions about when she learned of the policy, strongly supported by the police chief: whether she saw it in the budget and if not, whether she learned of it before or after the State Legislature outlawed the practice.

All the campaign would do was provide a press release pronouncing: “Prevention of domestic violence and sexual assault is a priority for Gov. Palin.”

Eric Croft, a former Democratic state lawmaker who sponsored the corrective legislation, believes that Wasilla’s mayor knew what was going on. (She does seem to have paid heed to every other detail of town life, including what books were on the library’s shelves.)

The local hospital did the billing, but it was the town that set the policy, Mr. Croft noted. That policy was reflected in budget documents that Ms. Palin signed.

Mr. Croft further noted that right after his measure became law, Wasilla’s local paper reported that Ms. Palin’s handpicked police chief, Charlie Fannon, acknowledged the practice of billing to collect evidence for sexual-assault cases. He complained that the state was requiring the town to spend $5,000 to $14,000 a year to cover the costs. “I just don’t want to see any more burden put on the taxpayer,” the chief explained.

“I can’t imagine any police chief, big city or small, who would take on the entire State Legislature on a bill that passed unanimously and not mention to their mayor that they’re doing this,” Mr. Croft said. Even if he didn’t inform her, the newspaper article would have been hard for her to miss.

In the absence of answers, speculation is bubbling in the blogosphere that Wasilla’s policy of billing rape victims may have something to do with Ms. Palin’s extreme opposition to abortion, even in cases of rape. Sexual-assault victims are typically offered an emergency contraception pill, which some people in the anti-choice camp wrongly equate with abortion.

My hunch is that it was the result of outmoded attitudes and boneheaded budget cutting. Still, Ms. Palin has been governor for under two years, and she’s running for vice president largely on her experience as mayor of tiny Wasilla — a far superior credential, she’s told us, to being a community organizer. On the rape kits, as on other issues, she owes voters a direct answer.


yeah, that's why i'm voting for the OBAMA/BIDEN '08 ticket!

if you can. . .

end childhood hunger

eat out, make a donation online or donate to your own local food bank, but let's remember to share!

just because

thursday under the clouds

the stage was set and ready to go...the evening opened with eric culberson's blues band, followed by wanda johnson & shimp city slim . the night ended with the james cotton blues band! sadly, the camera battery died before he took the stage.

good times under the clouds and spanish moss...more tomorrow night.

the new new thing

so, yesterday, google blogger went nutso on everyone and today...i've installed follower! sure, why not? it's the latest widget from blogger! (yes, i like the gadgets, you should see my kitchen...) let's overload the system, so the bugs can get worked out and pave the road for smooth publishing...(yes, it's true, i'm really tired and can't get to sleep, it's been a hellva day.)

it might be another day or so before the MITM publishes his next installment of home is where you hang your hat. i think he's really starting to like the idea of blogging.


the 2008 savannah jazz festival has started and we're going to attend blues night tonight in forsythe park. the weather is lovely, the music will be fun and our party weekend starts early this week!

more later. . .

read glenn greenwald thank you, bock

so that happened

did anyone else have problems with blogger today? as in getting an error message? for some reason, i kept getting "google thinks you're a bot"....granted, i am a little off my game, but damn, cut a girl some slack!

back to R & D.

Whose Fault is it Anyway?, guest blog 2 MITM

“The San Andreas Fault is the sliding boundary between the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate. It slices California in two from Cape Mendocino to the Mexican border. San Diego, Los Angeles and Big Sur are on the Pacific Plate. San Francisco, Sacramento and the Sierra Nevada are on the North American Plate. And despite San Francisco’s legendary 1906 earthquake, the San Andreas Fault does not go through the city. But communities like Desert Hot Springs, San Bernardino, Wrightwood, Palmdale, Gorman, Frazier Park, Daly City. Point Reyes Station and Bodega Bay lie squarely on the fault and are sitting ducks.”

Dr. David K. Lynch at geology.com

Sitting ducks. There you have it. Not a warning, not a prediction, but a statement of fact—an immutable predicament written in shifting stone. You’ll never see the mayor of Los Angeles, the governor of California, the head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency or the Director of our latest Gestapo, Homeland Security, issuing an evacuation order for the citizens of Los Angeles before The Big One. No way, no how, no warning. A major earthquake in Los Angeles, and its resulting chaos, will make every hurricane, tsunami and tidal wave ever look like a pimple on the ass of Mother Earth. Sitting ducks indeed. So what does this mean for Angelenos?

As I drove around Los Angeles, noted various buildings that SavannahMarshMama and I had worked in from teenage years to adulthood (City Hall, Downtown Public Library, The Main Post Office), strolled down Olvera Street, walked through Chinatown, gazed at high-rise buildings, observed my children as adults dealing with their varied lives and careers and breathed in my hometown, the deeply sublimated image of catastrophe that every Angeleno harbors surfaced periodically as a dimly perceived anxiety—this could all come tumbling down at any fucking minute. And just as quickly as it pricked my subconscious it was mitigated by my reality of having lived through several earthquakes. You give them names. You measure them. You note their epicenter. You remember where you were when it hit, what you were doing, what bumped lose, what moorings shifted. Then you drink your coffee and go to work. That’s it. That’s how Angelenos really deal with “Living on the Fault Line” as the Doobie Brothers sang about. Earthquakes become topics of conversation as in “back in the Northridge quake”, or they mark time as in “so and so quit his job right after the such and such quake”.

And what might seem like a constant state of cognitive dissonance to the outside observer is in actuality a pragmatic acceptance of time and place, a realistic understanding of where you are and who you are on the planet. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Angelenos sleep through earthquakes below a magnitude of 4, might pay attention to a 5, will take note of a 6 and 7+ — we will have to wait to see. Why you may ask? Why doesn’t everyone live in fear and anxiety over the impending doom? The answer—earthquakes are a constant. You don’t get anxious when you accept continuity as a living principal. I can say this, the reason why buildings of relatively young age are celebrated as iconographic architecture in Los Angeles is because they may be tentative structures to say the least. So there it is — sitting ducks as things of beauty.

I had a construction management and cost engineering company in Los Angeles in the distant past and happened to meet, during the course of my work, an interesting older man. He was the retired Head of the Los Angeles Building Department, a stodgy, cigar smoking, levis and suspender wearing made in the field, not in the classroom, civil engineer. We sat on a bench in the West gardens of the Downtown Public Library smoking cigars, and as everyone who ever smoked a cigar does, put our heads back to blow smoke into the L.A. summer breeze. In so doing, we were staring at the top of the then First Interstate Tower (it is now U.S. Bank), the tallest building in Los Angeles, a magnificent building of structural steel and glass on a concrete base and multi-level underground parking. You know the type — the typical my dick is bigger than yours architecture. He laughed to the point of coughing. He told me that he had opposed this building on the grounds that it would not withstand a major earthquake. His opinions had been ignored by city council members most likely in bed with developers’ dollars. The joke, he said, was that not only had they built the monstrosity but the “new breed of structural engineers” (spoken with his cigar punctuating the term) had designed a method to counteract the movement of the building in the wind currents at the upper levels. It is a fact that some people who suffer from motion sickness cannot work above a certain level because they sense the movement of the building in the wind. A well designed building is made to shift. The new breed’s design was apparently a large piece of solid metal, floating in a pan of oil at the top of the building, connected to a computer system that continually monitored the movement of the building and shifted the weight of the metal to counterbalance the movement, thereby decreasing the sensation of movement at the upper floors. The old codger told me that in a major earthquake that slab of metal is “fucking coming out of the top of that mother fucker like a slingshot!”. He couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t know enough about structural engineering to know if he was telling the truth and even if such a system was in use, but I surely enjoyed that day on the park bench. I left him there waiting, watching, anticipating and laughing.

Splat! The image of that metal coming down on a section of L.A., killing countless people, destroying say a section of Hollywood, Beverly Hills or South Central L.A. is simultaneously horrifying and comic. Whenever I recall this, I think of my oldest son, the cinematographer, who is waiting for three catastrophic events to occur in a 24 hour period — a major earthquake, a riot and a devastating canyon fire — to chase some of the new L.A. crowd out of the city, scurrying back to their east coast, mid west landscapes. I could just see him filming the disaster and saying, “I told you to leave”. He’s like many Angelenos in his disdain for newcomers who refuse to take advantage of all that Los Angeles has to offer, but continue to try and define it, judge it and create it from the comfort of expensive hilltop homes, the gated enclaves of the rich or within the confines of the L.A. power elite. Sound like class warfare? Nah, just a nice excuse to say “stop fucking up my city, get over your racist phobias, realize that there is life beyond La Cienega Blvd., and if you can’t, take a fucking hike”. My son would sleep through an earthquake, drive to work through a riot, and BBQ by the pool watching the glow of a distant canyon fire as it burns “stick and stucco” manses to the ground clearing the terrain for yucca and manzanita, mule deer and California quail, raccoons and coyotes, bringing his L.A. back in line. My daughter, the schoolteacher, and my youngest son, the entrepreneur/writer, also share some of these feelings, to varying degrees and to varying conclusions, however, they function as true Angelenos. The week would give me great insight into their struggles, hopes and aspirations. I am amazed at their achievements and take much delight in their differences.
We spent our first night in L.A. going to dinner with friends and family at an old L.A. establishment — The Pacific Dining Car — well old in L.A. terms anyway. I hadn’t seen my crew for some time. I’d been in Africa for over six months and missed them dearly. I was eager to see them and as things went, a few family friends made the date also. We settled into a meal of steaks, trimmings, cocktails and good wine. The PDC was living on its reputation and offered a mediocre preparation of most of the meals, however, old school cocktails (this started my Bloody Mary binge in L.A. for some reason), great atmosphere and a large unrushed table. The rest of the week would include some great meals out on the town, going for comfort rather than the latest new new restaurant (Water Grill, El Cholo, ABC Seafood, Phillipes, Monsieur Marcels, Say Cheese), some great home cooked meals (seafood risotto, New Orleans seafood gumbo, Pete’s Hot Sausage), great conversations with my children and significant others in their lives, and a deepening understanding of what each of them are attempting to do as they define themselves. The latter was the most rewarding for me..

We drove around L.A. to see some old neighborhoods and landmarks (Leimert Park, Farmers Market), do a bit of shopping, dine and generally get a feeling for how the city had changed. I gave SavannahMarshMama my camera so she could randomly shoot pics from the car window. She wasn’t amused at first, but then got into it, capturing the dichotomies of the streetscape. We bought cookbooks for our three children as gifts. It’s an amazing book that SavannahMarshMama had discovered — Cooking by James Peterson. We visited Pasadena. We argued politics, philosophy, the existence of God. We saw our daughter at work, met her colleagues, and got to see once again why she is so passionate about teaching and how hard she works under difficult circumstances. We got a tour of the “rag trade” in downtown L.A. up close and personal with our youngest son and our daughter-in-law. And we chronicled the balkanization of L.A.

By the way — after a week of diligent research — the best damn Bloody Mary in L.A. can be found at the Water Grill.

More to come — “seeing their perspectives”

savannah is taking a break. . .

and reading editorials, articles, magazines..and a great book (christine falls) while the MITM is working on installment 2.
check these out, if you're so inclined:

obama meets barlett courtesy of maureen dowd

the move to otherize obama courtesy of nicholas d. kristof

truthiness courtesy of frank rick

stay tuned

speaking in tongues, guest blog by the MITM

Los Angeles is a city of mythic proportions. This is true in the literal and the figurative sense. Physically it is a great sprawl of housing, industry, islands of high rises comprising separate business centers, shopping centers — a colossal concrete pulsing heart kept alive through a spider’s web of elevated arteries called freeways. As of the last census, it is home to well over 10 million. The freeways feed all manner of men and beast into and through the heart of L.A. 24/7. The blood stream is kept alive by one major component – oil. L.A. has always been a city that devoured oil unlike any other. It is an oil town, masquerading as a never aging ingénue able to morph a Fanny Bryce, into a Shirley Temple, into a Paris Hilton, all the while recreating itself into something yet undefined.

L.A. is a town built on boosterism. A town sold to the rest of the world by oilmen, land barons and religious power brokers. The marketing of L.A. and the myth of L.A. began in the late 1800s, long after the Spanish empire built their rancheros on the bones of the decimated cultures of the Gabrielano and Chumash Indians. It began in earnest when railroads connected the continent and West Coast power invaded the East Coast establishment. For those of you so inclined to know more about the start of L.A. boosterism and the history of L.A. from a small pueblo of Indians, Blacks and Spanish misfits, I suggest you read the updated version of Mike Davis’s City of Quartz:

at amazon or
verso press

The reality of Los Angeles is best observed through the eyes of those who work in its entrails — the people who keep the wheels on the wagon — the descendants of white and black southern working class and craftsman, the Mexican “cholo” families that helped make L.A. a flowering desert, the Japanese living alongside Blacks in the new L.A. ghettos who survived second world war American concentration camps to preserve and build the vibrant Little Tokyo of L.A. in spite of it all, the dust bowl era mid-western migrants that built Mulholland’s dream aqueduct and fueled development, and the myriad of immigrants and transplants that have continued to come to work in L.A.’s big three industries – Agriculture, Military Manufacturing and last but not least – Hollywood. These working classes are the ones who know the real L.A., the L.A. beyond the hype. They know where to get the best food, the best drinks, the best value for your money, and the hidden treasures that L.A. neighborhoods have to offer. They keep alive the real history of Los Angeles through recounted oral history and through tireless efforts to preserve communities. L.A. is not the mutation of the developers and the nouveau riche celebrated in slick Madison Avenue driven magazines like Vogue, Vanity Fair and Los Angeles Magazine. It is the meat of the matter – knowing why El Cholo on Western has the best Green Tamales in season and is home to the best Margarita in L.A., knowing why the words “Pete’s New Orleans Hot Sausage” makes your mouth water, knowing where to get the best fresh seafood in Downtown and why it’s worth the occasional drive to see the Hawaiians in Glendale, knowing when you can hear free Mariachi music or Jazz at venues like Simon Rodia’s Watts Towers, the Water Court Downtown, Leimert Park’s World Stage, and LACMA, knowing that before there was the blue and red of the street gangs known as the Crips and the Bloods there was the black and brown of the Black Panthers and the Brown Berets, knowing the best time of day to be in San Pedro to watch the sunset over the Pacific at Friendship Park, knowing the best way from Lawndale to Glendale without using the freeway, knowing water (Echo Park, Silverlake, L.A. River, Pt. Fermin….), knowing what beaches are the peoples beaches vs the wannabes, knowing the numbers of freeways vs the names (the 110 vs the Harbor Fwy), knowing the best day to get bargains at El Mercado or Grand Central Market, knowing where the original Pinks, Fat Burgers and Tommies are, knowing why Phillipe’s French dip sandwiches are just fucking good, knowing that coyotes walking the streets of downtown L.A. in the wee hours of the morning came down the Arroyo Seco from the Angeles Crest as they have for centuries, knowing that the L.A. Observatory is the best view of L.A. and the best cheap first date location, knowing that Hollywood is an industry as brutal as any other, knowing that Griffith Park is its own ecological system, knowing the deserts, mountains and beaches like you know your own skin, knowing that before the chi-chi Jerry’s Deli chain there was and is Langers and Cantors, knowing that if you really wanted to fuck with old money you’d burn down the California Club and the Jonathan Club in the same day, knowing that there’s more for the Dodgers to dodge in L.A. than there ever was in Brooklyn and as such they will remain at Chavez Ravine, and knowing that your ancestors made and sustained L.A. and will continue to do so for many years to come. These rich and vibrant cultural influences have textured the reality of L.A. for centuries alongside the tableau created by the rich and powerful. They are married at the hip. Diminish one and you diminish L.A.

Ah but the figurative myth of L.A. is yet another beast. This is the seductress that lures the outside world — the tourist, the get rich quick implant, the movie and music business next big thing — a myth that has its own life, its own canvas. It confronts the senses in Beverly Hills. It makes the everyman feel that he has been invited to the party when he strolls down Santa Monica’s 3rd Street Promenade. It calls to the new arrival from high atop the ubiquitous Hollywood Sign — you too can have the good life, you can be discovered, you can be celebrated. It’s been fostered in literature, on the silver screen, and in the media, packaged and sold to the world. It is as true and tragic as it is false and meretricious. In short, L.A. as a character, is a living dichotomy, a creature impervious to Manichean logic and outside the constructs of post-modernist’s deconstruction because like yeast — it ain’t done yet. This is at the core of its devilishness. Since the myth of the opulent carefree, tolerant, multi-ethnic, super liberal, artistic L.A. is driven by the media and the movies, it’s appropriate here to examine some well know movie and literary quotes (as all true Angelenos are want to do in punctuating their discourses):

Kevin Spacey as Verbal in the Usual Suspects:

“The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. “

From the diaries of Bishop Amat who won the remains of the “virgin saint” in a Papal lottery to be the cornerstone of the first grand Catholic cathedral in L.A.:

“On the slab which enclosed the crypt in which the body of Vibiana was found were these Latin words: Animas innocenti atque pudicae Vibiana in pace depositae pridie Kalendas Septembris; the translation of which is, ‘‘To the innocent and chaste soul of Vibiana, whose remains were deposited in peace on the day before the Calends of September.’’ This is the virgin blood needed for the city of Los Angeles.”

John Huston as Noah Cross in Chinatown:

“Course I'm respectable. I'm old. Politicians, public buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough.”

From the pen of the journalist and pundit Dorothy Parker:

“Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city.”

A comment by the great architect Frank Lloyd Wright inscribed on the wall of one of his most famous L.A. structures, Hollyhock House:

“Tip the world on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.”

Comment of Russell Crowe, New Zealand born Australian actor:

“I'd move to Los Angeles if New Zealand and Australia were swallowed up by a tidal wave, if there was a bubonic plague in England and if the continent of Africa disappeared from some Martian attack.”

To be sure, unlike any city in the United States, Los Angeles has had its supporters and detractors — opposing philosophical camps so to speak. It is, without doubt, one of the most segregated cities in the country. It is a segregation imposed by economic disparity, ethnic and religious biases, geographic boundaries, people on the make, dreams achieved and deferred. But like the coyote trickster of American Indian mythology or the Orisha Legba of the Yoruban myths, L.A. remains a trickster and a changeling — a city that has continually redefined itself. As a native of Los Angeles, child of Creole New Orleans transplants, I have never really left the city. I have travelled far and wide, lived in various locations on the planet (currently hiding out in Savannah, Georgia), but my core resides in L.A. It’s that kind of place. You can leave it for years, return for a short time and a deep muscle memory kicks into place. You drive as if it were just yesterday when you left. You ignore the ugly new and rejoice in the staid, even though the staid is something installed since the early 1900’s. An establishment surviving over 50 years in L.A. is an icon. Rejoice, some of your childhood is still familiar — the big donut is still there on Manchester, El Cholo is open, the Bradbury Building is still standing….. And you marvel at the new tableaus that have arisen since your last sojourn — The Disney Concert Hall, the new L.A. cathedral (described by my son as "The Jesus H. Christ Detention Center), the super expensive public arts school under construction (described by my daughter, an excellent teacher struggling at a public school that is underfunded, as WTF!#%#!!!), and the newest ugly theme malls. From the corner of your eye, as you drive miles on surface streets from one end of the city to the next, you catch the urban graffiti hieroglyphics that mark the changes in communities, noting to yourself, this used to be Black now it’s Hispanic, this used to Hispanic now it’s Korean, this used to be rich whites now it’s middle class Blacks. It’s as if you’re a flea on the skin of Bradbury’s Illustrated Man watching the tattoos morph and sidestepping landmines. You have to know where you are in L.A., what to say or not say, what color to watch for, what glance to return or not return. This is as true in Watts, East L.A. and the Crenshaw District as it is in Hollywood, Westwood, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades and the Valley.

It is with these thoughts tucked away in my subconscious that SavannahMarshMama and the MITM landed in a jet plane recently at LAX to visit our offspring — L.A. people forever. We arrived from the low country of Savannah, leaving the Spanish moss, alligators and the “littleness” of our current town in several transit airports through the south. We arrived at LAX, got a set of wheels and checked into the Biltmore Hotel Downtown L.A. – an old grand dame of a hotel smack dab in the middle of one of L.A.’s urban power zones. We arrived on a Sunday to be greeted by a much changed hotel services wise. Footnote – It was an elegant hotel in our youth — I took SavannahMarshMama to her annual formal dance there (The Belles and Beaus) when we were in high school. It was inaugurated in 1922 and made famous by the first Oscars and the Hollywood power brokers of the day. It was also home to gangsters and politicians (Is there a difference?).

Our first night was met with a great cacophony of sound — a large Hindu wedding was in tow with all the music, costumes, music and food. We knew we were in L.A. and that the next week would bring back some wanted and unwanted emotions.

More to come……