Before I got schooled, I assumed granite arrived from overseas as sheets, and only the fabricating was done here. But no, it’s quarried and shipped as giant blocks. Loaves, to use the industry term. They slice it up on this giant machine right here in the Valley.
The things you learn when doing the kitchen.
After my physical exertions, to anticapte the topping of the cake prized from the earth in such a brute manner gave me pleasure.
Here’s something else you learn.
Sniffing around a granite yard looking for a pattern known as green rose, I was confronted by a lugubrious man with a baroque Mediterranean accent who popped out from between two loaves of granite, like the Lorax.
Man: May I help you sir!
Man: How may I help you?
Me: I’m looking for a green rose pattern.
He marched me into the showroom and pointed to the slab you see here.
Man: Here is green.
I looked around like an idiot, thinking he must be pointing elsewhere.
Me: You’re saying this is green?
Man: Is green.
Man: IS green. Look around the room if you don’t believe me. You tell me which one is green.
I showed him a picture of what I was looking for on my phone.
Man: You’ll never find that, sir. No one has that. What I have is as close to what you’re looking for in the entire city, and I know all the inventory.
And that was the beginning of our quest through the stone yards of the Valley.
…Andrew brings them to MacLeod for photo shoots. Eric B., as unknown as unknown can be, two years ago, wearing the colors on Calvert St. Who would have thought he would go further than any black man in the history of The Bachelorette franchise? On Monday he’s bringing Rachel and a television crew to the hood-side of Baltimore to
conduct an anthropological study meet his family, feeding the idle voyeurism of millions.
But not before turning up in Andrew’s Flickr feed. We way ahead of the curve in The Nuys.
American children are seriously overweight, and the kids in my neighborhood are fatter than most.
In its wisdom the LAUSD has taken the position kids are not getting enough calories, and has summoned them back to school during summer vacation with standing offers of free lunch. No studying. No playtime. Just waddle in and chow down, courtesy of the government. You don’t even have to be a student, only a minor. Anyone will do. It’s free! From the magic bucket of stuff you didn’t ask for and which has no bottom, and no purpose but to grow the payroll downtown.
God help the politician who tries to put an end to this. Para ninos! Nino pequenos hambrientos! Muere, hombre malvado!
Apparently the feeding includes food trucks. This was not my lunch room experience as a kid. Okay, I went there.
I was feeling curmudgeonly about this as I walked into Macleod yesterday and availed myself of the free peanuts. Like a horse I ate, munching contentedly, scattering the shells around my stall. Chomp, chomp. Crack, crack. Glug, glug.
Well, they were free.…once I bought the beer.
It occurred to me, as I gazed upon Roderick’s peanut gallery, it was theoretically possible at this very moment an aspiring Matisse at Vista Middle School was working off her portion of carbs by etching dancing nudes on to the back of a styrofoam clamshell. If Roderick can create portraiture from peanut shells, perhaps the clamshell itself will become a new textural form. Perhaps the food, like the peanut, is beside the point. It’s the shell that matters. The vessel is the gesture.
If you ran into this man at Dodger Stadium would you think for a moment he made his money holding a sign at the 405 off-ramp?
How about when you go to the store? Do you ever think the clerk who helped you pick out a bottle of wine lived in a garage? With a roommate?
People hanging on at the margins of the economy are beginning to occupy the spaces we traditionally understood to be the domain of derelicts. Cratchit-ville and the Favela are merging.
When I park my car on Westgate, I walk past construction sites like these on my way to the store. Every single storey house north of Montana is getting knocked down upon change of ownership. Perpetual construction. Multiple job sites on a single block.
A couple weeks ago I arrived at work to find I had become a reluctant, though inadvertent, villain. Whole Foods was in the process of evicting the Brentwood newsstand, a neighborhood institution for 28 years, and I was compelled to walk past a picket line to enter the store.
Marck Sarfati, the owner, put on a full court press in the media, deploying celebrity petitioners, and a Holocaust survivor father, whose “survival” depended on the stand’s income. About his expensive watch and luxury car, nothing was said.
Before it was a Whole Foods, the Brentwood store was once called Mrs. Gooch’s. There were seven of them in Los Angeles when they were bought out by John Mackey in 1993. The parking lot, that most prosaic of LA disputed zones, was shared by the store and the stand, and a perpetual sore point of overlapping demand. Whole Foods had waited years for the lease to expire, and now they were getting the parking spaces back, and there wasn’t nothing Tommy Chong and Dustin Hoffman could do about it.
So there the drama percolated for a few days, before we discovered Whole Foods had just been devoured, plank and nail, by Lex Luthor for $14 billion. The flagship of organic food and upper-middle class virtue-signaling consumption was now a subsidiary of the largest retail entity in the world. Amazon stock increased $18 billion in value on news of the merger, which meant Jeff Bezos had purchased 432 stores and 91,000 employees for the price of lifting a pinkie finger and cooing: because it’s my birthday Smeagol, and I wants it.
Walmart killed Main Street (sort of) and now Amazon is killing Walmart. To avoid being overtaken in ten years by a more nimble start-up yet to rise from a Y Combinator confab, Bezos is buying up the premium real estate of retail.
American wealth is moving, inexorably, like metal shavings in a magnetic force field, toward the coasts. In the coastal areas, it is piling up into the canyons, and closer to the beaches, or to higher floors downtown. A winner take all economy concedes nothing to the middle.
I don’t think Mr. Sarfati is going to be able to keep his newsstand. On the bright side, I have bitchin new Ikea cabinets, and one curious foundling black kitten.
We want you to take the bus. The bus may not be convenient for you, but we want you to take it anyway.
We’re going to
encourage teach you to take the bus by taking away car lanes.
But we can’t really admit that. You might exercise your franchise in the next election.
So we’re gonna call you a killer instead. Yeah you, asshole. What are you thinking, doing 40 on Roscoe? How selfish is that? How many kids are you willing to run over to get home in under ninety minutes? Thats what the bus is for.
So we’re going target certain corridors for
a diet plan improvement. Three lanes will telescope into two, with the predictable back up at the merge. No one will have to be reminded to slow down then. The decision will have been made for us. Pedestrians won’t be getting mushroomed darting across tbe street against the light anymore, they’ll just walk across the hoods of cars like stones in a river. Cause we’ve decided 40 mph is too fast. Its not about you refusing to ride the bus. Its about the kids.
Blogging has been absent the past ten days. I’ve been giving my kitchen the Ikea makeover.
I budgeted two days for sorting out the 1948 wiring, and the highly dubious add-ons from the 1980’s.
That was a tad optimistic.
Trixie found a cubby hole in the bamboo at the very back of the yard, and spends her days there, as far from the crazed man as possible.
I moved my grapefruit tree yesterday. Dug it out by the roots and dragged it across the yard. To create a space, I first needed to chop out the root ball of the elm tree I felled a few months ago. With an axe and a pick. It took three days.
What do you mean, why? Doesn’t everyone do it that way?
When I walked into the kitchen for my victory beer, I felt a tickle on my arm. This little green guy was riding me into the house. I had destroyed his world, and now he was clinging to me like a branch in white water rapids. We bonded over his new circumstances.
I say his, but I have no idea what the gender is here. Female mantises are known to bite the heads off males at the apex of copulation. The death throes of the male provide a more vigorous delivery of sperm. Also, nutrition.
Meanwhile he’s been hanging out in the kitchen, making himself useful chewing through ceiling cobwebs. I say he’s a harbinger of good tidings.
Last week, walking the dogs, I heard cries of distress from under a bush and found a 3-week-old kitten buried in bougainvillea leaves, eyes closed with goop.
I took him home, put him on the couch and Trixie immediately licked him back to life, stimulating poop. Then Trixie gobbled the poo.
The kitty loves the interspecies tongue action and mewls for more. We’re all really comfortable with these new arrangements, this blurring of the natural order.