Read L.A: Ruben Martinez's Territories

A COUPLE of weeks ago, Professor Ruben Martinez, who is the Fletcher Jones Chair in Literature and Writing here at Loyola Marymount University (and my longtime colleague), spoke passionately about his time served here in Los Angeles as journalist, poet, performance artist and pundit -- and how at one point all of that seemed to have merged. He also spoke eloquently about race and class; gentrification; about communities and causes that had been marginalized by the media; about how a writer finds his/her voice while attempting to describe life from the inside out, make the invisible visible.

Post session, I asked him to share a few of his favorite/resonant texts that deal with Los Angeles. Pulling from various sources and disciplines, he didn't stick to the page as you'll see.

Top-of-the-head response from a quick email:

ask the dust , john fante
white album, joan didion
chavez ravine (the album, the play, the book of photographs)
& of course city of quartz, mike davis

- L.G.

Read L.A.: What Makes Mike Run?

THIS WEEKEND marks the Los Angeles Times' Book Festival's debut on the campus of the University of Southern California. Already this morning, I've watched busloads of book lovers leave from independent bookstore parking lots from bedroom communities threaded across the Southland. So, in honor of the book fest, I thought I might republish some L.A. book lists from our past guests.

Journalist, teacher and poet, Mike Sonksen, (BKA, Mike the Poet) touched down in class earlier this semester and spun L.A. history via shimmering rhyming couplets. He threw out names of some of his favorite books, authors and hidden places in L.A. Full list to follow but here are a few of the books and/or authors he made mention of both in conversation and verse:



Budd Schulberg: What Makes Sammy Run?





Kamau Daaood, Leimert Park CD



John Fante, Ask the Dust




Charles Bukowski, Hollywood

L.G.

Keeping it Kosher

WHILE working on my final blog project for class, I took a trip down to the old Jewish district of L.A., a place where I visited a lot during my childhood. My orthodox Jewish grandmother, who moved to L.A. from Jerusalem after the death of my grandfather, rarely left the Jewish district, particularly the intersection of Pico and Robertson, so we were often forced to go to her. This gave me kind of a slightly skewed vision of L.A. and grew up thinking that all Angelenos wore black suits and floor length dresses and only ate at kosher delis.

Traveling back to this area for the first time since my childhood brought back a lot of good memories. I walked around the streets looking at all the small boutiques with their menorahs and Seder plates displayed in the window. Instead of the After-Easter Sales you see at so many other stores, storefronts displayed signs declaring “Passover Sales!” There were Jewish barbershops, a Jewish community center, a large temple, and numerous kosher delis.

But what I found the most interesting on the street, wasn’t all of the family owned businesses with their Hebrew signs, but the Subway Restaurant that sat in between them. Out of curiosity and hunger I went in and ordered a sandwich. Only when I went to ask for cheese on my turkey sandwich, they wouldn’t do it! It was a kosher Subway. I should have known. So I left with my cheese-less sandwich feeling slightly like a bad Jew.

But that’s the beauty of L.A., there’s a little bit of everything here. So for those Angelenos who prefer their meats and cheeses in the same meal, there are plenty of Subways ready to provide just that. But for people who prefer to keep it kosher, as Grandma Cohen would say, they can just head down to Pico.

-- Megan McMurtrey

(kosher symbols image via joyofkosher.com)

Always West Of Lincoln

IF you have ever lost a friend to the Los Angeles Westside, you know somebody who has "gone a.w.o.l.” Characterized by phrases such as “Not tonight, Hollywood is just way too far.” Or, “Meet in Beverly HiIls? I would, but do you just want to do a beach day instead?” These phrases are a statment of the amazing places your friend has found just moments from his, or her, front door, not a comment on your friendship per-sey.

From the arts and shopping found on Main St. and Abbot Kinney, to the new Santa Monica Place and the water sports down at the marina, this all inclusive westside phrase "awol" broadens the smaller communities there-in and recognizes that some of us love it all, but simply don't want to drive. Harkening back to "Falling Down" or even our simple discussion of the hazards of traffic, it makes sense.

In many ways, the (about) seven blocks from Lincoln to the ocean really does marks a territory - it's like the county line with little cities within it's limits. Especially when looking for apartments, I regularly found less expensive units across the divide, but the areas were generally less savory.

I'm not sure the term is "officially" coined, but I've heard enough Angelenos throw the phrase around. It stuck with me and frankly, I was thrilled to hear others felt the same way! No animosity towards the rest of the city (obviously!) but with gas prices so high, and so much to do in this part of town - forget the sprawl for now, this will remain my little neighborhood. Gone fishing? Nope, just gone AWOL.

-- Sarah Kruberg
(photos: s.k.)

Arteries of Memory: Manchester Boulevard -- or -- "Growing Up With Some Weird on the Street"

MANCHESTER BOULEVARD is an exit sign I will never forget. Every time my dad dragged me to LMU reunions for the Student Workers or Tennis team, this was the sign that meant the beginning of the day was about to start. Meaning it was about time to be surrounded by my dad’s friends regurgitating stories of “when I went here...”. Turning left from the freeway, I was immediately greeted by the first of many weird monuments and my dad’s "good old days" stories.

The first spotlights the abnormally huge Randy’s donut that can be seen at least five miles in every direction. Already a 1950’s fixture with the drive-thru aspect, it becomes weirder that there is a huge donut on the roof of the building. As a little girl, the reasoning for such a fixture was beyond my capacity. To make things even more complicated, my dad said that he had been on that roof with friends from his Student Worker program, because it was “a kind of hazing, you know”. I didn’t know. I couldn’t believe that my sometimes quiet and goofy dad was cool enough to do something that crazy!

Well I was in for a treat, because as we move further down the winding street of Manchester Blvd., I soon find out that a donut is not the only weird monument my dad has gotten up close and personal with. This interestingly placed monument is of a traditional Trojan horse that again, happens to rest on another food place, this time an IHOP. Pancakes and horses are now always connected in my mind. Questions of how and why this came to be here and what the story was behind it would race in my mind. To this day, I cannot find out who put it there. Well, either can anyone else and that’s part of the intrigue. As another hazing ritual, my dad was forced, or I’m sure chose, to take a picture riding this concrete creature. How he got up there and did not get in trouble continue to baffle me every time I drive by it now.

The last piece of the Manchester Blvd. memory clip stops at Loyola Blvd. As soon as we saw that sign, with the ancient looking Viva Fresh at the corner, it was time to turn and leave the weird street behind and be greeted by crimson and blue flags that said LMU.

--Jessica Fernandez
(image via wikipedia)

The SUBA House

BEAUTIFUL Saturdays in Venice Beach happen regularly. Painters, skaters, street vendors, mounted patrol and more all converging into one massive hub of colors and sounds accented by different smells, determined by the corner or local salesmen. From worn down apartments to multimillion dollar town houses, homes of all kinds line the boardwalk with interesting architecture- for the most part.

A few weeks ago I was wandering around and came upon this house. Obviously it's been there quite a while, its covered in graffiti and posters, the windows are boarded up and the doors are chained shut. I asked a few people near by if they knew about it - most said no and another began to tell me about his recent bender up in San Francisco. That was when I stopped talking to strangers (Everything you needed to know, you learned in Kindergarden, right?). But I digress.

At home later I Googled and found a few one other blogger generally asking about this house. Maybe I wasn't looking in the right places, but I find it incredibly curious that a place like this exists in such an environment. Right on the boardwalk, boared off, chained up and somehow no developer has come in to work their "magic". Seems fishy Suba...

-- Sarah Kruberg

Vintage L.A.: The Facebook Page

JUST A quick post to turn your attention to the Vintage L.A. Facebook page. It's a treasure trove of long-looks backward at L.A. -- not so much in its innocence, but rather in its fast-foward display of persistent reincarnation. Maintained by another L.A.-booster, the page moderator encourages fans to contribute photos, scans, scrapbook ephemera from their personal collections. Images abound. It's fascinating looking at some of the landmarks that don't change, but the vast recasting of everything around them. (Check out Grauman's Chinese in the background of this picture.)

It's easy to get lost in a game of "so, what's there now?" So careful, while it's a great ride on old roads, back in time, it's definitely a time suck.


(photo via vintage l.a.)


L.G.

May Flowers Bring June Gloom

IT'S been said that the earliest bird gets the worm, and in the mean time, their chirping acts as an alarm clock for their human neighbors. Springtime in Los Angeles begins early, with the bright sun shining year round, it’s hard to pin point exactly when it comes. The eighty degree beach days in February, the green grass in March; southern California seems like summer vacation no matter what month it is. The topic of weather comes up in conversations when there seems to be nothing to talk about, but lately, it’s been a subject that seems to be discussed even between the closest of friends.

I had determined my freshman year of college that I would stay in Los Angeles for one summer. I kept my promise to myself and stayed last summer in my house on McConnell Ave. For years I had imagined that I’d work when I had to, but it was the beach that would become my second home. My skin would get burnt to a crisp but my Italian heritage would bless me by turning it to a nice shade of tan. I’d be living with my friends with barely any responsibility, just what college is supposed to be like.

Well, the last part came true. I had an amazing summer with my friends. We sluggishly spent our weeks in LA with no school work tying as down. But it wasn’t the beach that we ventured off to when we had nothing to do. The beach wasn’t ready for us. The June Gloom came but never left. I kept hearing how hot it’d be in July, August I’d be dying. Just as my luck would have it, it was the mildest summer Los Angeles has seen in years.

Because I hadn’t been home in months, I decided to take a trip to Colorado at the end of June. The moment I got off the plane, I couldn’t stop the comments from my friends and family. How was it that the girl who lived in California wasn’t bronzed; rather I was paler than most of them? I disregarded their taunting, especially when they made backhanded comments about how I made the wrong choice to stay in California that summer.

After many days spent watching my talented little sister splash the pool water as she flailed her arms and legs performing the rhythmic butterfly stroke, I had gone from a wintery skin tone to a much deeper Italian glow. The 4th of July would be spent with my friends in San Diego, so I journeyed back to the home of the gloom and to my surprise, the sun began to shine. It didn’t stay for long but it made us take advantage of the days it did come. There were no excuses; we’d make sure to be outside enjoying the weather in whatever way we could.

I will forever remember that summer here in Los Angeles. The adventures I took and the friends I grew close to made it a successful summer in more ways than three months of hot weather could have. As the temperature begins to rise, the chatter also increases. “This will be a sweltering summer,” I hear from the lady who cuts my hair, as confidently as a meteorologist. The spring has made Los Angelenos have some high expectations, and although I am a little disappointed I will not be here to enjoy it, I hope the sun shines for them.

--Jackie DiBiase

Photo Cred: Rachael D'Angelo

The Shops at Fashion District

ALTHOUGH I may hate to admit it, I am a stereotypical girl when it comes to shopping. So when my parents were coming to visit and they told me they wanted to take me shopping, I couldn’t say no. I imagined spending the day with the family at the nearby mall, or even stores like TJMaxx or Khol’s. But when they told me they wanted to go to an area they’ve heard about called, “the Fashion District,” I was a little less than excited.

My mind was now filled with dirty streets and people who followed suit. We’d get pick pocketed or robbed or kidnapped. No one would know where to find us. I tried to persuade them this wasn’t the place to go, but they weren’t budging. They were going to go, with or without me. My closet was begging for new residents and there was no real reason that was holding me back from going. We hopped into the rented SUV and the Griswolds headed downtown.

Our first adventure was finding parking. The streets were packed with cars and our last resort was to pay for a parking lot. As our car climbed up the steep hill to the top of a building, we came to a lot crowded with so many cars they were double parked. Then I got nervous. That means we have to leave the keys to our car, what if they steal it? The sign read “Not responsible for any lost or stolen items,” did that include the vehicle itself? My mind calmed when I looked around to see a Bentley and a few Mercedes parked on the other side of the lot. If they trusted their precious cars at a parking lot like this, then maybe I didn’t have anything to worry about.

We left the keys with the attendant and began our four hours of shopping. Contrary to my belief, the streets weren’t as dirty as I’d once imagined. Neither were the people, who we stood out from. There we were, five of us, white, the majority blonde haired, hazel eyed, walking down the sidewalks trying to look like we belonged. It was quite obvious we didn’t, but none of us cared. The first store we went into was loaded with purses, just what I needed. And to my surprise, and to my parents’ pleasure, I was the first one of us to buy something. “See, we told you that you’d like it here.”

They weren’t shy about showing off their amusement as the day went on, and as I continued to purchase two pairs of jeans, a pair of boots and a shirt. Then, my bladder kicked in. I’ve been known to ruin a trip because I am in need of a restroom. My little brother heard me exclaim that I needed to go, which triggered his bladder. A frustrated father walked us into a store where we asked the directions to the closest bathroom. “Upstairs on the roof,” was what we were told. Little did we know that meant climbing five flights of stairs to an unkempt bathroom in which you have to pay fifty cents in order to use. Well, at least I can say I’ve had to pay to pee?

Needless to say, we had an entertaining day. No one stole from us, we bartered our way to better prices, and we left in our rented SUV with our new goodies in hand. And much to my dismay, I have even gone back a time or two, or five, with my friends. If you haven’t been, I suggest you go. It’s a journey you’ll never forget, or regret.

--Jackie DiBiase

(photo credit: Desperate man toilet door sign by Peter Dazeley)

Arteries of Memory: Old Lady Regis, A Poem to Be Spoken

My poetry is almost always meant to be spoken. If you read this, do so out loud.

Arteries of Memory

In the coastal fog-mist, which,

Scratching chest along the ground,

Having rose up above the hill, sits, now stuck and confound

To a gridded square block where within the bounds of

Manchester, Sepulveda and Lincoln I found

Myself, or a piece of what I am.

The sleepy old lady, with wrinkled, shaking hands,

Who smoothed the pavement, such a since-eruption, bumpy land,

Though passing in silence, as mostly I’d do,

Now, Old Lady Regis,

I volley a tribute to you.

When wanting a playground to roam uncontained,

You brought me Cavalier poetry, Johnson, Herrick, Faine,

And when words could not settle my hunger,

You brought me and taught me how life quickly can blunder,

If, I like your houses, would fall quickly in line,

Ignoring the beat-engendered Angels’ pantomime,

Then I too would transform from quartz to lime,

Stoned by my own false sense of incline. Rather,

I should self-style my shutters, spatter my door-handle with ambivalence,

For drawing definition from small points of difference,

Can bring the self out, but shut out others’ sense of self,

Old Lady, Regis, you taught me that integrity does not melt,

That waves of airy froth, and gold-hilted corner stones,

Over time recede, and bend, chip, decay and mold,

Back into themselves, but the self can only grow,

And so after photosynthesizing in your character-nursery I know

Just who I am on the basis of who I am not,

By means of interpretation, interaction, and battles fought,

Regis, Old Lady, though you brought me to my knees,

Blood spattered,

Face tattered,

Ready at once to leave,

The faults were my own,

Your experience real and telling,

Sleepy towns, like you,

My lady,

Afford contemplative places of dwelling.

For what more could I ask?

--Ryan Cavalier

Arteries of Memory: Lincoln Boulevard

THERE is a straight line of pavement that links the first intersection north of LAX to San Vicente, the quite and homey street, lined with softly curving trees looming tenderly down the median. It’s the vessel by which the Westside travels north and south and identifies east and west. This is Lincoln Boulevard, the main artery of the west side, pulsing with life as dictated by the clock, littered with cafes and shops, used car lots and tattoo parlors.

But this street is LA; this street is where I began to understand Los Angles and the first landmarks remain secure in my mind. Like an old friend Lincoln introduced me to new places, frustrated me, made me late and yet remains the marker that triggers an odd sense of relief - that “I’m home” feeling. Whether a day of work or weeks apart, when I drive down the hot pavement, I know I’m back.

When I first took the wheel, Lincoln was the front sidewalk where I gathered enough courage to venture further. First it was to the Third Street promenade. “Just say on Lincoln and look out for signs after Pico,” they told me. And I did; and there were. On the way back I saw a scandalous sex store, a pet shop and a blockbuster. On my first Halloween here that scandalous store served my friends and I well; when I got my first pet goldfish, it was this little pet store and on my first trip to Blockbuster this was were I came. Of course, the trip was memorable because, being a good 20 minutes out of the way, I should have looked closer.

These days, small cafes and even the Whole Foods holds special meaning to me. I’ve taken most small veins that trickle west and a few that help me hightail it east. Always though, when I arrive back on Lincoln after trip to Hollywood or even Westwood, a sense of calm takes over as I see the swinging street sign and make out the lettering: “Lincoln”. I’m almost home.

Perhaps the greatest excitement of being back comes after weeks or months away and returning to the LAX airport. From above I look for the In & Out. Maneuvering through lanes out of the airport the glowing pillars tell me I’m home in LA. But my stomach starts squirming with the excitement of truly returning as I drive down the small slope and past LMU and past Figi Way.

It’s not a glamorous road; in fact it’s downright dirty. I will rarely announce my love for the road. It’s littered, crowded with cars and I’ve narrowly missed a few homeless men and shopping carts at night. It’s the railroad track that separates the east west side from the true west; it shows. But I don’t care. Like I said, this is that familiar face who gets on every last nerves but, at the end of the day, remains constant.

When under construction for two years I found the new stoplights between Jefferson and LMU offensive. The light put in place where the road to the 90 carefully jumps over Lincoln disturbed me as well. “Why on earth do they need that?” I wondered. I was slightly reproachful about the new traffic causing bulbs and the changing landscape of the road. Often I considered that the change shouldn’t bother me so much. After all the wide-open space I once knew was now a massive new community. When the trucks disappeared and the smooth road opened up, I found the installations easier to appreciate. I can accept those changes now, but they will always remain just that, “changes”. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that in a town where the landscape is regularly reinvented, but this street, this thirteen miles of urban highway needs to remain - I can't imagine the Westside without such a "landmark".

Arroz y Frijoles - A Reflection

EVERY Angeleno has eaten rice and beans. Individually, or combined, the food-pair sustains a huge part of the world - Asia, South/Central America, North America (by means of burrito), etc. Rice and Beans are BIG into sustaining the globe and its ever-expansive population. When I sit here, in my Westchester home, in all my privilege, reduced to rice and beans by way of frivolity, I feel, at my base, the old Los Angeles, The Olvera Street, the little Mexico - come to me. Maybe I'm over-receptive to the notion that you are what you eat, but sincerely, I feel on par with much of Los Angeles, and the world as a whole, as a result of eating a meager brunch. Imagine what'll happen when I step outside!

--Ryan Cavalier

Photo Credit: "El Paseo De Los Angeles" c. 1841

Zilf's Flikr Photostream

Iconic L.A. at Hidden L.A.

LYNN Garrett meant to mention that she had been running a contest over at Hidden L.A. -- the Facebook Page -- that focused on Iconic Los Angeles. You can can navigate over here for a look.

"Iconic" is a tricky word as it does mean many things to many people -- and run it through L.A.'s meat grinder and well, you get, a "creative" spin on the word. Lots of people did try to pick places (or people) who float in our consciousness as L.A. brick and mortar.

I'm one who tends to gravitate toward "sense of place" because,  even with L.A.'s crazy rate of "modernization" and gentrification, the iconic place has a better chance of outliving the "iconic" "celebutant"of the moment.

One place that made Garrett's finalist list was this: the pocket park slipped in a hidden nook in downtown Los Angeles, its close-up, if you recall, was  featured in the film 500 Days of Summer.

-- L.G.

Andi Edgett -- Genius Loci: My LA: Where Contradictions are Comfortable

storm trooper credit to Chris Hutchison