It ‘Ain’t Always Pretty, but it’s Home, Part I
From August 2007:
Los Angeles is…
… a set of idiosyncrasies and sometimes charming characteristics that lend themselves, like any other city, to enthusiastic metaphors.
It is a city of corners (and we shall not cut them) facing each other across long divides that have felt neither cobblestones nor the feet of Romans but have experienced the steady stream and plodding determination of traffic.
On a given day, such corners could easily find a pupusa vendor standing shoulder to shoulder with Candice Bergen, an overdressed Chihuahua, and a Finnish doctor.
There are those who call Los Angeles a soulless vacuum and a cultural wasteland. They deem it an apologist for the laid back and lazy. After all, I could think of no other city where driving everywhere and wearing flip flops are not only optional but de rigueur. But L.A. encourages neither lethargy nor a foaming at the mouth. Its very size and disposition force only the most committed, interested, willing, and curious to look for, find, and gain access to, “culture” (of the finest, I assure you) because it does not tolerate the giving of gifts on silver platters. It operates on a strict and unforgiving “it’s yours for the taking, but I ‘ain’t giving” policy. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
It is a city of pockets. But the pockets belong to the overcoat of a well-fed and often cantankerous, young giant. But if you ask me, I’d rather be a cursed ugly, ill-humored, grimy-faced troll of a giant living by the sea than the loveliest of pixies landlocked without hope.
C’mon, let’s be honest. You know you’re in L.A. when it’s the guy who orders a salad on the first date.
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Photo by Deborah Stokol. Rooftop Parking, L.A. afternoon. Westside Pavilion, 2007.