Love Letter to Los Angeles
Humanity's hive mind morale is low, but there is still beauty and humanity to be found
I’m newly returned from a trip to Los Angeles that was all pleasure, no business. I bask in the aftermath back home in Seattle with a corny little smile on my face, digesting my wee LA experience like a good meal. You don’t need me to tell you that morale is low in humanity’s hive mind and has been for a proper stretch of time. Our iconic West Coast cities are going through it with increased crime, violence, homelessness, overdoses, dysfunctional politics, cost of living affordability, shuttered small businesses, and on and on and on.
In fact, right in the middle of writing this here opening, one of my neighbors texted me a warning about an active shooter (below). There were two separate shootings and we are in between them. Choppers overhead, suspects at large. After scouting the premises like a shy raccoon raiding a dumpster, I pour another Rainer, play The Lord of the Rings lo-fi beats, and keep typing.
As a Seattleite, I confirm that it really is as bad—if not worse—than “they” say. Right now, we’re just three homicides away from setting a new annual record. Regardless as to what happens tomorrow or the larger political conversations, what I’ve experienced with my own eyes the last few years has left a scar on my soul that I think will always remain. What lessons I’m to learn, behaviors to adopt, opinions to form, bizarre personal quirks to develop, BS to internalize, and the like will unfold in the years to come. I reckon it’ll be a bit like Great Depression surviving Iowa grandma hoarding bacon grease in old cans or mending socks with needle and thread until they literally unravel, just with 2020s America-specific details.
“Don’t walk too close behind old man Norris,” the kids may say. “He gets cagey.”
“Want to see something crazy? Send old man Norris an activism hashtag. He’ll run out the door and hide in his boat screaming ‘Half of you sheeple are about to go feral!’” Or something like that.
BUT, this is not a doom piece. Far from it. I’m going to take you on a walk through LA that starts with dressing a mannequin in a leotard and ends with a successful search for life in the universe.
To Assemble a Mannequin - The Last Bookstore and Highland Park
The very first thing I did upon landing was rendezvous at the iconic The Last Bookstore in downtown LA where my author buddy Daniel Finkel was conducting a dress rehearsal for his audiobook launch party. I walked in from the rideshare to behold him, a troupe of pantomime actors, a very talented and passionate narrator, and designated sound, visual graphics, and other production experts. My role included couch moving, box lifting, positive vibe sending, pizza eating, and mannequin assembly with leotard dressing.
Earnest conversations about blocking and props. Furrowed brows on the audio mixer and careful lighting adjustments. There are few places in the world that have so much latent talent in the air that a self-published indie title’s audiobook gets this level of professional treatment. The show the following night was a smashing success with the animated audience getting into it. The conversations afterward I had were with indie movie directors with their gorgeous European wives, Oregon-based professor/musicians, and opinionated book dealers. As an experience, it was an in-house original cocktail one only finds in LA.
The afterparty was a laidback affair in an apartment complex, a historic building from the oil field days of old LA, in which we were only partly welcome by other residents. There was talk of an Italian movie watching club and mycology. I accepted chocolates mixed with something magical and stood awe of a towering cactus in the front lawn to the point of near tears—it was so beautiful and perfect under the smog tinted stars.
The Fink also toured me about Highland Park. After randomly walking by Jason Segel a few times, we dropped by The POP-HOP Book Store where The Fink chatted with the owner as friends. His book sold out and they needed more.
Of Ground Sloths, Treachery, and a Beer with a Disillusioned Man
I stayed with family in Mid City for the remainder of my time. While my person was busy during the day putting bread on the table and chasing dreams, I wandered out and about solo with only vague ideas as itineraries.
A fun fact about me, the La Brea Tar Pits are one of my favorite places in the world. These sticky naturally occurring tar seeps have been trapping animals and plants of all kinds deep into the Ice Ages of the past. Perfectly preserved giant ground sloths, mammoths, saber toothed cats, dire wolves, and more are still being found right in the middle of the city.
Last time I was here was in middle school and I chose visiting the tar pits over Disneyland, I love it so. After doing the normal walkthrough, I found myself doubling back a few times not for educational reasons but to ponder. The tar pits are such a strange little quirk of the Earth, the fate of the animals trapped within so macabre. Are the tar pits like the dark aspect of LA, the force that pulls in inquisitive living things of all kinds and traps them forever in toxic sludge to be preserved and admired as exhibits? No one thought or epiphany emerged from my tar pit pondering and blank stares into the ooze, but my mind was whirring all day. It whirs still.
The next stop was the neighboring LA County Museum of Art (LACMA). Naturally there is a massive, varied collection from all over the world. Surprisingly, I did fall upon a single work as my favorite, The Orator by Magnus Zeller. The painting was part of a collection on display of pre-WWII German expressionists—many of whom were censored as “degenerate” when the Nazis rose to power as part of their cultural purge. Here is LACMA’s summary: “… [Zeller] was among the second generation of German Expressionist artists who came of age at the end of World War I. As Germany’s defeat in the war and the subsequent downfall of the monarchy brought on a nationwide revolution, those eager for dramatic political change were optimistic. Artists believed they would play an important role in building a better society and joined together in groups such as the Working Council for Art. Idealism gave way to disillusionment as the revolution grew violent and the new republican government failed to realize its lofty ambitions. In The Orator, Zeller portrays the religious dimension of modern politics, which incites ecstatic devotion in its followers. The charismatic speaker, more preacher than politician, may have been inspired by the Communist leader Karl Liebknecht, who Zeller saw in Berlin before Liebknecht’s murder by right-wing forces in 1919.”
I think this is an amazing painting in every way, from the play of light and dark to the intensely emotive subjects. What makes this piece truly brilliant to me is one particular person in the crowd who breaks the fourth wall to stare right at us.
This pair of eyes and its intense, perhaps enraged, gaze right at us completely transfixed me. I wonder if it is this onlooker who is the center of the piece, not the orator upon whom the light and attention shines. Is this character coming to get me, or trying to warn me? The context of Zeller’s time and place makes one wonder. I also think of artists of today who are censored by our militant ideologues. Honestly, the more art I look at the more we humans seem more or less the same as ever for better and for ill.
A notable masterpiece that I did not expect to see was the René Magritte’s iconic work The Treachery of Images, a la the “this is not a pipe” surrealist, modern art landmark.
Not only did I geek out a bit when surprised by the painting, but it was a perfect reminder for these times. The painting is not a pipe, rather we are consuming a symbolic representation of a pipe. We are deceived in a way, for we see the painting as a literal pipe yet it is not. Perhaps we’d all do well to consume media, marketing, and the digital world with René Magritte’s lesson in mind.
I left LACMA with German expressionist paintings and giant ground sloths on the brain whereupon I stumbled into the Original Farmer’s Market adjacent to The Grove shopping mall. I had no idea this charming cluster of outdoor vendors existed and I wandered the plaza for a while snacking and soaking up the atmosphere. I ended up at a bar and became privy to one of the great joys of adulthood—sharing beers with a disillusioned stranger.
The man was tall and irate on his cell phone when I first sat at the bar. I didn’t expect an interaction with him and scribbled in my journal when he turned to me.
“Cool shirt,” he said, pointing to my black short sleeve button up with bright blue marlins on it. I saw in his eyes and tone of voice he meant it, so we got to talking. He was approaching his fortieth birthday and was abruptly quitting law school after one year into his program as we spoke. He came from a creative background and approached law as a way to integrate his interests, but it was all for naught.
We got into it, culminating in a story of his that stuck with me. Earlier in the week he was vacationing with his girlfriend in San Diego, and the two of them started to talk about the green flash—the rare natural phenomenon when the sun and sky turn bright green when setting. Overcome with an eerie confidence, our protagonist (a few drinks down) rallied his lady for a sunset viewing.
“I just kept saying, babe, the green flash. It’s going to happen right now,” he told me, buying me a round. “She thought I was so full of it. And I am a drunk idiot, so I get it.” But as the two of them stood watching the sun go down, first the sun then the whole sky turned bright green. Odds be dammed, they were witnessing a green flash.
“I kept asking her, are you seeing this? Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” the man told me. Yes, she confirmed the green flash with incredulity. Our hero, the self described drunk idiot who was quitting law school and turning forty, made an impossible, magical prediction.
“What does it mean?” he agonized in the depths of his existential crisis, turning to me for answers. Strangely enough, a story came to mind.
“Are you familiar with Carl Jung?” I asked. He nodded. I’m no Jungian scholar, but a story of his I once heard seemed fitting. According to the story I heard, Jung—a psychologist—was working with a client whose dreams were heavy with Egyptian symbols, namely the scarab beetle. Jung was thinking about this patient for the bulk of the day, fixating on his sessions with the client and the meaning of the scarab beetle. He, living in Switzerland, ultimately went to close the bedroom window when it came time to go to bed. Out of the darkness flew an Egyptian scarab beetle of all things and it landed in his hand.
While Jung tried many times and failed to empirically prove the existence of a higher power, aka God, he did note many times of the supernatural phenomenon of serendipity. According to Merriam-Webster, “the meaning of SERENDIPITY is the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.”
Our man chewed on that before his cell phone rang again and he was off, negotiating some law school exit or loved one spat. After ten minutes I left him a note of thanks and was on my way. Good luck, my friend.
Koreatown and The Search for Life
The next day was a proper trek as I resolved to hike from Mid City through Koreatown and end up at the Griffith Observatory. My nine or so mile hike would take me mostly up Western Ave, a stretch of main traffic through what most people would consider drive-through territory. Bodegas and laundromats. Nail salons and upholstery shops. Mini malls with six or so tenants, maybe a yoga studio or garden supply store tucked in there. The weather was hot and smoggy, tinting the Spanish-style architecture an extra shade of saffron.
Just about anything could be around every block. I passed a Buddhist temple with three orange-robe wearing monks piling into a minivan. Stretches of the walk went through rows of tents and unconscious, half naked human beings laying in garbage. A kindly old lady asked me in broken English about a bus stop and I pointed her in the direction of one I passed.
I took a detour through Koreatown, stopping by the infamous 5th and Western intersection of “Rooftop Korean” fame. To the unfamiliar, Koreatown was left to its own defense during the 1992 LA riots following the Rodney King trial, a contentious ruling over the death of a black man by the police. Sound familiar? Koreatown businesses were targeted by looters and the police were largely unresponsive. It was up to the community, many of them veterans of the Korean War, to defend themselves. Many an old Daewoo K1A1 Carbine was dusted off as the men took tactical positions on rooftops. I went inside to check out the market and it’s a lot like Uwajimaya of the Pacific Northwest.
Koreatown, unlike most neighborhoods named for an immigrant population I’ve been around, is not nostalgic. I live in Ballard which was once known for its Norwegians, but as the last century ticked by the demographic trends left us their fully American descendants without Nordic replacements. I think of local Captain Erling of the commercial crabbing/tender vessel North American who passed away earlier this year. Koreans actually live in Koreatown and I was the standout in the crowd as I hung out in MaDong Courtyard with a blue butterfly pea jelly boba tea. I was waiting to see the movie Road to Boston in the CGV Cinemas Movie Theatre that plays Korean movies.
I walked into the Road to Boston completely ignorant and knew nothing of the film nor the real world history. The story follows the true life of famous marathon racers Sohn Kee-chung, Nam Seung-ryong, and Suh Yun-bok. Sohn and Nam won first and third in the 1936 Berlin Olympics for marathon, but they had to race under Japan’s flag as Korea was conquered at the time. Flash forward to after WWII and liberation, Korea is under the US Military government and the two racers are in their mid thirties. They aim to get Korea back into the Olympics, but Koreans will have to qualify in an international event due to the country’s quasi-independent status. Enter the 1947 Boston marathon and Suh, a young runner talent who needs mentorship to become one of the greats.
I won’t spoil the thing, but man! I can’t recommend this movie highly enough. I feel like when I was growing up in the 90s and 00s, America was full of wholesome, true story standalone movies that inspired you to chase your dreams and brought out the best kind of patriotism. These days one needs to look to foreign films for a dose of this soul food. Road to Boston literally ends with the characters singing the Korean national anthem, their chests swelling with pride after the well earned victories of their hard running heros. An unbidden tear ran down my cheek—a tear! The theater was mostly older folks for the weekday matinee showing, and they cheered on Suh during the race and wept audibly at the narrative beats. Seriously, I think the last time I got the same feeling was the 2010 movie Secretariat. Keep on rocking with that proud, uplifting vibe, Korean movies!
I kept up the walk, leaving Koreatown behind me and diving back into the theme-less, saffron tinted LA fever dream. I passed Sunset and Hollywood boulevards and up the hills into welcome greenery. I felt refreshed even as I sweated up the Firebreak Trail, a dusty upward jaunt I did not expect. Once at the summit, I was blasted with the best view in town. Half of LA’s most wholesome couples were up there holding hands and making out. I wolfed down a Mexican mango and cream popsicle before reclining into the soothing embrace of the rotunda-style planetarium for the show The Search for Life.
Worked out from the day, I took it all in. The live narrator who introduced himself as Frank Simmons guided us through an intergalactic quest for life, from the misty jets of Enceladus to the methane seas of Titan and the Large Magellanic Cloud galaxy. I left the planetarium to a bright red sunset under a crescent moon, realizing that the show was just getting started. The lights of LA was its own galaxy below me. The Last Bookstore and my buddy’s pad in Highland Park. The tar pits and German expressionist paintings of LACMA. Koreatown and the disillusioned man and those sleeping in garbage. As per Frank Simmons in the planetarium, there may be life among the stars, but there is certainly life right here in the city of angels. The pipe is not a pipe, serendipity is real, and the search for life is eternally rewarding. Shine on, LA.