Weston Finfer - Genius Loci

We sprawl

We seek pleasure

We burn money

We overexert our means

We are scared by rain

We find hope around every corner

And we wait for the storm to clear

A study of varying degrees: H2O edition

THIS should be an impossible day. Sand and snow, slopes and saltwater. I love California and I really like Red Bull, especially on days that the Switchboard goes down. A detailed explanation would go: Awakened with a start, the 5:45AM alarm vibrates and squeals more passionately than the bedmate taking off three hours earlier. “Fuck the crack… (pondering the innuendo)…of dawn.” But a looking at the foot of my bed, seeing the snowboard boots stuffed inside my surfboard bag, I laugh. “Wow, life sux (x for xactly my point, sarcasm).” It’s gonna be a good day, so I get out of bed, get into my car and shuttle to UCLA for Aline, Pershing for Sam, and LMU for Stoney. The sun has now risen but my brain is still quite dark. The haze remains all the way to Huntington Beach, where I skate ice-rink sand into polar plunge ocean, the tip of each iceberg coming in 3-5 minute intervals. I don’t care though; I haven’t surfed in over a month. My body is now numb from sheer joy or cold water, pretty positive it’s the water because other joys give me a tingle. Not happening, nothing felt. I greet the dawn patrol with gruff grunts and strokes of beard (the under-40 crowd is looked at with a perverse reversal of curfews as old guys rule the early morning). Some swell in the water today. I take the first set, paddling into position but slightly behind the peak as I fall onto my face roughly 2 seconds after takeoff. Shit, I couldn’t even feel the board. I had stumps for feet while stepping onto an abyss. I wiggle the toes, rotate the ankles. I catch another, pumping the face until closeout. One more and I snap a few turns. This goes on until I ask the time -- 9AM (old-timers…not just an age, a utility). If I had been born without feet and imagined running, the frozen lack of feeling as I sprinted up the beach back to Red Bull HQ solved that fantasy. Wonderful breakfast burritos were served by wonderful beach bunnies. I’m high already and still at sea-level.

Boarding buses to Big Bear proved problematic. If I’m cold now, what will happen in 8,000 feet? I took that trip though, and didn’t sleep once. Largely due to the infinite supply of Red Bull at hand. OK, solely. But Red Bull knows how to throw a party. Nonstop jams all the way to the hill kept the stoke up, while team bonds were solidified in strange lap-sitting ways. Oh yeah! This was all due to the LMU Ski & Snowboard team, my family. With the shared experience of LMU Surf and a handful of other local rippers. But the shared experience I felt was cold. This is spring season and I went from 57-degree water to a damn blizzard in Bear. Horrible time to complain, when I’m being shuttled and paid for to ski and surf, the main reason why I didn’t complain and had possibly the greatest day of my year thus far. But I was cold. And the hill called Bear hardly held a slope capable of propelling a dropped ball (jaded from Mammoth!). I spent much of my slope time in the lodge, shifting the game plan to sloshed time. While Red Bull was more than generous in covering transportation and lift tickets, there is no such thing as a free lunch (as my $19.61 cafeteria charge agrees). I proceeded to make friends as teammates trickled to and from the lodge, each wave winding down in energy level. Yet back on the bus, the party raged. From Bear to Huntington to LA and still going well into the night. What a So Cal celebration.

I encourage everyone within a few hundred mile radius of beach and mountain to try. For us Los Angeles dwellers, spring means the re-ignition of Topanga beach swells, convenitently 66 miles from Mt Baldy (though the season closed last week). Good news though, summer surf and snow will still be possible as Mammoth Mountain is open till July 4th. Hit the slopes early and catch that evening glass-off as you revel in the opportunities of LA.

--Weston Finfer

Photo credit: Weston Finfer

Libertarian or Original American?

THE Tea Party has left a bitter taste in my mouth. Staunchly opposing every possible advancement in the name of tradition is the kind of romantic ideal that leads to war. Or entrenches us further in war.

Maybe it’s my decade or my disposition, but Republicans might as well have been publishing “Voldemort for President” bumper stickers in mass quantity because that is all I perceive. Or it might have been “Palin/Voldemort”. I’ve been thinking Palin/Bieber 2012 would be a popular candidate, maybe drawing some younger votes this time! We could even lower voting age to, let’s say...9. All in the name of fairness and keeping intelligence levels on par.

The aging, overstuffed white men that seemingly bought their way into their political chairs have ruined what could’ve been a good thing, pushing selfish motives ahead of common well being. Vested interests in wars and its driving forces has left the majority of citizens to fend for themselves while attempting to fight for our country, yet the only benefit is found among the richest. Emphasis on ridding the country of illegals--people, drugs--has furthered the inequalities it so naively attacks.

No party is exempt or solely responsible for the mess we’re in; both Democrats and Republicans ascribe to ideals harmful and shortsighted. Therefore I can never pledge allegiance to a party. I look for the person.

I had the opportunity to listen to Gary Johnson speak recently at a friend’s house in the Hills a few weekends ago, a grassroots movement to be certain (buzz word!). It's a wonderful experience to attend events like these so close to home, whether in the setting of a university like nearby UCLA, or in the living room of a well-connected pal. Seeing LA inhabitants care about something outside themselves is always a welcome experience. Especially given the amount of resources hoarded for personal pleasure, hosting events catered for the intellectual ability of the town is refreshing.

Preceding the talk, I had no idea who this man was, until he introduced himself to me and began questioning a number of my stances, from politics to the hands in my pocket (he prefers hands-on-hip, until the talk begins then a roulette of gestures are orhestrated for the audience -- notice the blur in photo). I hear him espouse liberal dirtytalk--pro choice; supports gay marriage; believes in loosening immigration laws; anti-drug war; anti-war. This man believes in me! Or has been listening, or is a real human being prior to legislative jading. I hate to call him naïve, but his devil-may-care attitude might just trip him from the starting gate, or open the floodgates to the majority of liberal and caring citizens unhappy with the current state of affairs.

This man is a Libertarian. And a Republican. Yet my heart didn’t turn to stone in his presence. Maybe something new? A time/man for change?

I like his social policies and his economics add up. As governor of New Mexico he vetoed 750 bills in order to never raise taxes. His path as President would be similar, simplifying tax codes and cutting spending where funding is not absolutely necessary or beneficial. He would “leave the Middle East yesterday”. All positives in a reality where money is not growing on trees, and burning trees hurts the pocketbook but helps the soul.

Buckle up, it’s time for Indecision 2012.

--Weston Finfer

Photo credit: Weston Finfer

Space and stuff

PASSING through the Mojave Desert, one would not intuit a population of space travelers. "I thought we left the space cases back in LA...", one wonders as the hour and some drive from home base quickly closes. The barren landscape is fitting, evoking a Martian colony, complete with the surreal, stunted Joshua Trees that could’ve been an attempt at organic toilet scrubbers. This ground has become a playground for those massive companies in the city who need a bit of space to stretch their wings, as well as a refuge for the engineers more intent on rocket building then beach days and club nights.

Amidst the expansive desert is a group of engineers attempting to conquer the ultimate desert, the entity we call Space. Xcor Aerospace is a company determined on sharing the space experience with non-astronautic civilians, for the bargain of $95,000 (Virgin Galactic, the only competitor, charges double that). The project has been labeled Lynx, a reusable launch vehicle (RLV) powered by rocket engines that will enable suborbital flight (flying roughly 60 km above sea-level, still within the Earth’s gravitational pull). Besides having the vantage of seeing the Earth’s curvature and an unfiltered lens into space, suborbital flights hold the possibility of rapid transportation across our world using the Earth’s natural spin as a speed boost; as in, breakfast in Los Angeles, lunch in Paris, dinner in Tokyo. Superman style.

--Weston Finfer

Voice -- The Great Pier Fire

LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

This picture gives me a glimpse into a world that I never knew but somehow miss. It introduces the Pacific Ocean Park to me while at the same time taking it away. It is common to not understand the importance of something until it is gone, and I believe that to be the case here. One day during the second week of its opening the park’s attendance number was greater than Disneyland’s. Families appreciated having to pay only an admission fee and still get to ride the fun ocean themed rides that were available to all ages. Similar to my experience with this photograph, the experience of this center for fun, entertainment, and a home for sea creatures came and then quickly disappeared.

I put myself on the Santa Monica beach where this picture was taken and I can imagine how my five senses would be burning along with the fire. My eyes damp with tears at the sight of the only tangible evidence for so many memories being destroyed. My ears hear the mixture of waves lapping calmly while the sirens frantically roar their way closer and closer. I can smell the wood burned smoke and it smells so good but makes me so sad at the same time. I can taste salt on my tongue from the ocean and its useless freshness; the water surrounds the scene yet does nothing. I feel the wind coldly blowing on my face and I can’t decide whether I have stared long enough and it is time to go, or if I need more time to process my nostalgic thoughts and release them to burn with the flames.

I’m sad that what was once a place of happiness for so many can be forgotten so quickly and there’s nothing to be done about it. The truth is that this fire brought closure to a park already lost. Despite it closing down a few years before, it was no longer serving its intended purpose. A big junkyard playground for the neighborhood kids to graffiti and litter on is what it had become. Fire can physically destroy but not mentally erase, and the memory of this park will forever hold its own importance to those who knew about it.
-- J, Garcia

A PARK IN FLAMES

The park was ablaze.

From miles away, the children, teenagers, and adults who once looked forward to spending their free time at the Pacific Ocean Park now watched their leisure melt like the popsicles sold on the boardwalk on a scorching California day. What caused the fire? Park operators are still unsure and rumors consuming the surrounding neighborhoods, those residents who capture views of the park every day, bounce back and forth between gang related debauchery and a simple mechanical error sparking a small flame that went unnoticed until consuming the majority of the pier.

The park looks beyond repair, as the flames last evening engulfed not only the amusement rides but also the vendor booths, games, and food stands leaving nothing but charred boardwalk, unsafe for anyone to even wander upon. Pacific Ocean Park had long been suffering from cases of bankruptcy. Families who visited the pier left shaking their heads as more and more amusement rides hosted “Closed Until Further Notice” signs. Perhaps the fire came from angry creditors, infuriated with the park’s attendance drop. Assembling and rioting that the “POP” executives were swindling them of their money and rushing the park after hours with matches in their hands and fury in their eyes. Did they not stop to think of the kids who still depended on that park for after school fun? For only 90 cents, kids treated themselves to a day at the park instead of a day on the streets.

Now, the streets are all they have, for Disneyland lies many bus rides away and suddenly rocks and sharp objects have caught their attention rather than mazes and roller coasters. The fire has not only demolished part of California’s history but it has also shattered many young Angelenos past and future memories of the pier.

-- Katie Mollica

PACIFIC OCEAN PARK FIRE

Tonight the lights from Pacific Ocean Park are void of joy and void of excitement; they bring with them a sense terror as we gaze at the jarring site. Sounds of carnival games are replaced by a cracking of wood. There are no couples huddled together for warmth as they watch the faint stars twinkle over the water. There is no laughter and no excitement. From here, the roof of the carousel is little more than a dark silhouette against the flames. The end of the pier is still visible, but the flames look as though the water is fueling them upward as the win pushes inland.



On the beach, officers prevent us from venturing closer, so we dig our into the cold sand - staring. Sirens blare, signaling the arrival of firemen. Thick smoke crawls up my nose the way ants pour out of an ant hill, but I can’t tear my eyes away. An elderly woman near by coughs, muttering about the incompetence of the park owners. She seems certain that teenagers “were up to no good”. I thought that was a nice way to put it; if that’s the case.



Fires seem to ravage nearby land constantly, but not on the Westside. Here, the concern of natural disasters holds little weight. With the exception of a few new high rises, any threats of fires or earthquakes seem distant. Living beside the beach, a stone throw from carnival rides and cinnamon covered churros, threats concern only neighbors and the vagrants passing through. The park burned once before, but not like this. The flames and smoke make any visuals of the rides impossible and even the carousel is gone. With an eerie image of the fire and the water burned into my mind, I walk home, tossing unredeemed tokens in the trash.


-- Sarah Kruberg

SNAP CRACKLE BURN

Help. I’m burning in my own contradiction. I thought technology, our own stuff, would be sufficient to enhance the grasp over nature. The juxtaposition is fitting. My fire, your water. Yin yang we are all dust. Let me burn, let me burn, this world mandates my demise. Construct on the face of adversity and prepare for the downfall. How many times must a toothpick splinter under nature’s footprint? Fall into disrepair to be attempted anew? Are you wholesome enough to withstand the test of ages? Try me.
I burn for the immigrants. Those people seen but not heard. Is there a noise beneath the surface? Would you notice my struggle if it didn’t light the sky with an ashy haze? Or would your saline womb lull you to passivity. I think you thrive on an image heard but not seen. Everyone tells you what to wear, how to act—but that’s not you. You aren’t a sideshow attraction to garner interest in outside lands and novel characters. You are the outside. Stop looking in for a minute and appreciate your position on the verge.

Burn. The wildfire wakeup. Impels my dream state. To burn. Under ancient stars. Around new stars. We are stars. And so we burn.

My smoke distorts what is real. You see wood (from Big Sur) under metal structures (from mines to mind) twisted in shapes of a reality less lived.

My ash covers what is not.

-- Weston Finfer


(photo via wikipedia commons)

Silver Sunset

THIS is all a fashion show. A place to see and be seen, no doubt. I wasn’t aware the line outside the Echoplex on Tuesday, March 29 was this year’s Dior Spring 2011 runway, but lucky me I had a ticket. The show was headlined by Salem, creators of the bass-extending genre Witchhouse, though the hit of the night was the preceding group Light Asylum, a set equally tripping in laser light visuals and subsequent mesmerization by vocalist, keyboardist, and percussionist Shannon Funchess.

The vibe was cool and the girls were hot, but nobody was dancing. How could you to a bass slowed 200x a normal frequency? A freeze-frame pantomime I suppose, but here goes the epic head nodding. As the event was located in Silverlake, a detachment from the neighboring Hollywood scene surged as witty banter and eclectic personalities ruled the streets.This side of town remains an enigma to me, though I feel more at home with each visit amongst the ever-present 20-somethings dancing to their own offbeat drums.

A surreal dreamstate sustained the entire show; the fog and schizophrenic bouts of fluorescent lights gave a Vesuvian effect as the tracks blended under the hum of haunting vocals from Red Wing jerseyed Heather and shawl wearing Jack, the culminating buzz coming through hat and hair in mumbled raps by John. The show ended as it existed--as if played from the backstage manager’s IPod--while the group vanished behind the smokescreen as the beat droned on. This is the sought-after aesthetic, the don’t-give-a-fuck drugged out candor akin to The Velvet Underground. You can’t leave the show without having questions, concerns, and opinions about what exactly just happened--something between a mindgasm and total body meltdown. You also couldn’t have left the show without spotting horror-core rap phenom Tyler, the Creator of OFWGKTA ordering hot dogs, extra ketchup as he cruised out in a murdered out Benz.

La Migra

GROWING UP, Los Angeles was the older brother I never had. LA seemed cooler, rawer, more exciting, slightly dangerous, and above all, different. Visions of grandeur suffocated my mind as I imagined living the A-life: cruising Sunset with the next big thing wrapped around my arm, jaunting to the hills for 360° parties, lazy beachside living on some private Malibu stretch. This seemed just a taste of the good life I hungered for. The longer this notion ate at my stomach, the more the pangs turned to nausea.

My quiet perch in San Diego left me yearning for a new outlet. I constantly ridiculed my father’s exodus from LA thirty years prior, unable to fathom any motives for leaving a seeming paradise. I felt I was riding the bench while these Angelenos were stealing all the showtime. But my perspective was lost in the haze to the heart of LA.

As a child, LA only really began when I drove past the Holiday Inn (now Hotel Angeleno). Visits to Grandpas’ house firmly rooted the LA of yesteryear in my mind; living in a virtually unchanged Paul William’s home from the early 30’s kept the lonestar this-world-is-my-own feeling so fervently espoused by current Westerners (the same Range Roving patrons now set in their ivory towers). I want this return to simplicity.

My feelings are mixed. I hated this town my first full year in residence. I felt trapped, insignificant, someone else’s doormat. The overwhelming allure of the town hooked another baitfish, but I soon found my outlets of escape.

The 405 is clearly in cahoots with Satan. Though this devilish path hampers my daily travels and often is the number one scheduling factor, it is also the introduction to my sanctuary. More mixed feelings. Until I arrive at Highway 395, then the bliss takes the wheel and doesn’t stop for all the weeks spent on top of the world in my Mammoth heaven.

Los Angeles cannot be defined, much in the same way I cannot define my experience living here. It's a launching pad to the rest of the world, where a day's travel inside or out of the city leaves nothing to the imagination. I do know there is an exorbitant amount of bullshit to wade through, but I also know the reward of finding the perfect niche in this Renaissance land.

--Weston Finfer

caption: the erstwhile holiday inn @ the 405
credit: chase stone

Got Boosties?

CURIOUS how the mode of transport that laid the tracks for LA’s arrival became almost instanly eradicated from the city’s conscious. The Southern Pacific and Santa Fe railways of the late 19^th century brought the masses to the Holy Land, and all for the low price of $1. I like that, the idea of walking to the rail station with 4 quarters, maybe seeing a McDonald’s, pondering on whether to order a dollar burger or small fries and ultimately deciding on a trip to California. Obviously inflation plays a role in this dream, but c’mon, a buck is a buck. Adhering to the mirage quality that birthed and raised Los Angeles to its fantasy factory status, the railways planted a seed and quickly withered from the expanding streets run ragged by automobiles.

It’s a golden land, the Golden State, holy according to some latitudes, green by longitude. Opportunity exploded in the fertile basin, the ready-made canvas landscape beckoning a pilgrimage to paradise from notables in all vocations. An expatriate town if there ever was, LA has and continues to attract misfits, hopefuls, has-beens, will-becomes, never-had-a-chance’s, and the terminally-chillers. Writing about a town constantly evolving brought a creationist aspect to the author’s role in promoting the myth and aura of an oasis lifestyle. Drawing on memories of homesteads prior along with visions of grandeur allowed the collective imagination to know no limits, flowing into the architecture, art, and aesthetic of the land.

Maybe this is the apocalyptic land of lore. We run into the ocean, pants down, as hillsides quake into pieces and canyonscapes blaze in glory, all the while denying our existence in the face of losing another day to Death and begrudging another wrinkle to Gravity. Gladly, I submit to the femme fatale nature as the ongoing boosters hark a miracle that may or may not exist.

--Weston Finfer
photo: beverly hills hotel
credit: chase stone

haze

LOS ANGELES’ head is a bit fuzzy. It affects us all. From the lungs spew the smoke. And the addiction has passed to me, secondhand. I drink the sulfur and breathe the filter. Because it revitalizes me. I question why I do it. Every drag in makes the out that much harder. But it’s the questioning that moves me.

As I watch the sky shade from blue, to orange—the atomic descent—to pink, to purple, and the wonderful in-betweens that linger longer than the primary impression, night falls upon California’s chameleon city. First noticeable is the expanse of midrange building—cookie cutters from Hells Kitchen—that trick the eye into the monotonous maze of Sin’s suburb. This sprawl goes on for as long as the eye can see—correction, for as long as the eye is allowed to see. The margins become lost in the mist. This mist—or fog, smoke, haze—is untouchable, yet a part of us. It has permeated the city’s conscious, instilling the reality of a surface life. Looks to the horizon find a limited perspective, a 10 mile radius at best to asses the depth of this land. We fear what we can’t see. We fear the world outside our bubble. So we restrict depth perception. We view people for whether they model clothes or simply wear them; whether they get from point A to B or arrive in style; if their cash rolls or bounces; if their skin screams appeal, or just the first peel. The surface is a beautiful thing, for awhile. Then we become acclimated. From there, one can settle, or one digs deeper. I see you, shrouded, outlined, and willing to be defined. Your Otherness I shall conquer.

The initial ascent provides the means for uncovering what was always available yet constantly obscured. Hike the nearest mountain—you see the clouded seismograph stretching the margin—and observe the wishing well perspective that suspension grants. Look, the ants at my feet are you. Miles above sea-level these ants mimic your city life, and I really see no difference. What happens in the space between? Is that where the excess lies? Our pollutants crowd the air we cannot occupy, warping what was there with what we wish and wait for. Not east of Eden, or south or north, but above and below. The personal Eden is where we shall dwell. I would feel trapped by these barrenous mountains if I didn’t know how to climb them. But in actuality, it is us who have done the trapping. A civil detonation, pushing Nature’s limits back into nothing. The devolution of the natural evolves the artificial. It’s a yin-yang. Nothing is infinite until you realize it is everything. Back to the ants, which are no smaller than we, as we are dust on this planet, that is a rock in orbit, of which neighbors everything, trapped in nothing.

--Weston Finfer
photo credit, weston finfer