You cut me off, pendejo. Now you gonna say something under your breath?
Say it to my face, cono.
You ain’t talking tough now. I don’t hear nothing out of your mouth. You keep pedaling, tough guy. You pedal on your side of the street. I’m biking here.
Never mess with a chica who rides a bike with a cigarillo clamped between her teeth.
When did this happen to us? When did communing with the handheld device take the form of liturgical prayer? How did we come to worship our devices in public with the same fervor we once gripped the wisdom of the Patriarchs, and without embarrassment?
No, that’s not quite right. Embarrassment requires an understanding, or perhaps a mere awareness of those sharing the space around us. Gadgetry has obviated the membrane between the public and private sphere.
Our spines crumple forward in submission to our appetite for escape. Our necks droop like penguins in the zoo, staring down at a created Antarctica balanced on our webbed feet. Time travelers from the 1990′s would be puzzled by the sight of us. They would wonder if all the Vitamin D had been removed from our diet in a diabolical plot.
I’m hardly one to comment. Even perched upon the stern unforgiving yoga stool at which I labor, inevitably my posture sags, shell backed and slack-jawed, as I type. Occasionally I catch flies in my mouth.
There is antidote for this, in Van Nuys, where one can re-establish the plumb line from the back of the head to the heel.
MacLeod Ale. Calvert Street. No screens. No gadgets. Just British Ales, peanuts and conversation. Occasionally music. Remarkable what a little fellowship conducted eye-to-eye, standing upright, glass in hand, can do for your spirit and your love for your fellow man.
Mrs. UpintheValley and I encountered the semi-famous Rabbi the Dog of Instagram on Sunday, off-leash and fancy free. He didn’t stay interested in us for long. Nor unleashed.
Christian Mennonite carolers, Broadway and Sixth St
Meanwhile, not a block away, an angry group of men calling themselves the Black-Hebrew Israelites were milling about in robes, haranguing passerby and holding up signs like this one:
I have no idea what this portends…
They seem to, however. It’s awfully specific.
Maybe he went for a crawl. Maybe he was shoplifted by a passing caravan. Maybe he fell through a hole in the hay. Maybe the serpent happened by. Maybe he’s off smoking a cigar. Maybe he’s communing with St. Francis. Or Marilyn Manson. Maybe he went up in a whisp of smoke. Maybe he was spirited off by the ACLU in an ecstasy of sanctimony. Maybe the ox inadvertently rolled over on him. Maybe juvenile delinquents are defacing him with profanity. Maybe he’s about to be replaced by a pumpkin. Maybe he’s answering an existential question with his absence. Maybe God has a sense of humor about these things. Maybe he’s coming back, in five minutes.
In deeply Catholic/Pentecostal Panorama City, the mystery which surround us all is enfolded in another veil of mystery, all its own.
Meanwhile, we’ll wait.
Van Nuys 1970
Van Nuys Polleria, 2014
Since I posted about Busch Gardens last week, I’ve heard from a few of the elders, longtime Valley residents, who remember most fondly the ‘live bird shows’, including one in which a parrot pedaled across the stage on a tricycle. Also remembered was the unrestrained quaffing of beer in the ‘pavilions’ by the adults, followed inevitably by fender bending mayhem in the parking lot afterward. This was a different time, before Mothers Against Drunk Driving, air bags and shoulder seat belts, among many other institutional cautions of our modern world. Before nut allergies and predator databases. In the 1970′s, prudence meant filters on your Pall Malls. Now prudence requires filters on the mobile phone to prevent XXX-rated content from streaming into the palm of your pre-teen’s hand.
Come see the parrots
Come see the birds killed fresh on site. Rabbits, too.
Our sense of wonder was different then, and so too was our sense of caution. The parameters of risk have shifted. We thought nothing, as kids, of playing outside unattended for hours on end without a drop of sunscreen. Now we slather on the SPF 50 and never let the kids leave the yard. We know more than ever about the requirements of nutrition and exercise, yet are enormously fat. We cling to gadgets only a short time ago were luxuries to the wealthiest among us, and yet are already hypnotically bored by them. We have no understanding of the technological magic behind the screen which makes it all go, but we take it for granted the next version will be better, faster, cheaper.
In the absence of wonder we are drawn to simplicity of the old country. Bring us that bird. I’ll take that one, there. Chop, chop. There’s dinner, kids. Like our grandparents did it.
Ironic mural in the shadow of the Budweiser plant
Unironic hookup just around the corner
Went looking for the elusive but famous Budweiser parrots today. They’ve been thought for years to be nesting along the railroad tracks adjacent to the beer plant, refugees from Busch Gardens of yore. Didn’t see the birds but found nests of urban refugees being rousted from their perch along the 405 by the police. A woman in yellow pants staggered out of a flooded and trash-strewn gully, pushed her way through a gap in a chain-link fence as casually as if she were emerging from a beaded curtain to her kitchen and asked me for a smoke and if my name was James. She seemed unaware of the official rousting going on just above her, in the shadows of the overpass. My civic loyalties a bit divided, I helpfully told her the cops were about. She pinwheeled in a disoriented circle, then continued walking alongside me as we, suddenly a couple, were observed by the LAPD.
Well, this will be interesting. How am I going to explain this?
We walked side by side, sort of, as I contemplated a plausible alibi for my impromptu assignation here in the hidden backside of the Valley. I, conspicuous white man, was just looking for the parrots, officer.
A second man, perhaps whose name was James, emerged from a gap in another fence and she skipped ahead toward him eagerly. Without preamble, they marched with purpose away from the tracks and disappeared into the shrubwork. Her clothes looked slept in but she had a pretty decent weave going. No policemen followed them.
Busch Gardens in its heyday. Seventeen acres of lagoons and exotic birds served by monorail and boat. Lots of wildlife tours for the kids and free beer for the adults at any one of five ‘hospitality houses’, like the Michelob Terrace. Remarkably, this nearly perfectly designed childcare arrangement fell out of fashion in the 70′s and the park closed after a mere fourteen years.