Independence Day greetings from the Bird Streets in the Hollywood Hills. Sorry for the blurry photo but I was in a moving car.
Normally, the variable message sign up in the canyons is a Bailiwick of Karen: Slow Down! No Park Access! No Parking! Last night, in honor of our nation’s founding document it was a holiday whiskey shooter of contempt.
The bonus exclamation points are for Joy, Epiphany, and Piety. Also because it feels so good.
The least expensive house for sale in this neighborhood is $2.5 million. The median would appear to be around $10M. Let’s take a look around Zillow Heaven to see how they’re making do:
A small army of people, most of them brown, commutes from the Valley daily to tend to these homes and their white occupants. Looking at this tableau I think of the scene in Cabaret when the kitchen women are listening to Hitler on the radio while making dinner and Sally, Brian, and Maximillian are too caught up in their own drama to understand the implications. We are living through something like that today, but with the polarities reversed: the elites are revolting against the little people. We continue as though the old rules were still operative while a handful of billionaires control the public square. Statements in the public square claiming AmeriKKKa does a few things other than Suck will be forwarded to the Human Resources department for your cancellation, and not in an ironic way.
But first, clean these countertops.
If you’re going to mock America, do it right. Observe the masters:
*real estate porn courtesy of MLS
In a moment of kitschy pathos we encountered the defiled star of Lillian Gish on Vine Street Sunday afternoon, at the CicLAvia in honor of the LA Philharmonic centennial.
Fitting perhaps for an actress known for her doll-like, waifish fragility. Her oeuvre was one of purity in danger, seduction and abandonment, flight from lecherous hands, and being set adrift on ice floes.
In her most famous screen appearance she threw herself off a cliff rather than submit to an amorous white actor in black face.
I was in a Ride of the Valkyries frame of mind as we pedaled downtown. An afternoon of bike as king cranked dormant gears in my head, the ones which say why not?
Why can’t we always bike? Forget arriving to work in a timely manner. Think of the journey! Forget the supply chain, and the power grid. Practicalities are for sissies. This is how it should be! Yes yes! New rules! Clear the roadways! We all pedaling now. Everyone must pedal! We should ride by torchlight! Make way. A new age now begins! Here in LA, where so many utopias were discarded and dystopias foretold.
Why must the essentials for a deliciously stylish life require a four level parking garage? Rethink it!
Every mile or so someone would hold up a foam finger and pull a piece of yellow tape across the road, and just like that, hundreds of people would submissively cooperate. We were digital people in a digital age again, agreeable and rules oriented. My fever dream was bite-sized. My Lillian is sadly never in need of rescue.
With no blood and soil urgency at hand, I filed it away in a drawer in my head called Ironic Historical Feedback Loops. I kept the Wagner, but eliminated the KKK in my chain of association. See how easy that was? The mind is good at lying about what the heart knows to be true.