Have You Read the Book of Mormon?

Sister Pincock, from North Carolina. Sister Madsen, from New Mexico.  Proselytizing on Rayen St.

They were so nice and so far from home it was all I could do not to invite them over for dinner. I had to tell at least two white lies to make my escape.

Lying to Mormon girls! Behold the perfidy of Mr. UpintheValley.

The Narrow Margin

If it’s unclaimed ground, no matter how slight or uninviting, the protean Favela will put it to use, as surely as the sun rises in the East.

This feral world and the farmhouse behind it are separated by a mere chain link fence. A silent agreement. They pee on their pavement and not on our hydrangeas and we ignore their degradation. Who thinks twice about these arrangements any more? Mr. UpintheValley wonders how firm the civilizational lines are. Should the wet ass hour descend suddenly, without warning, if say the LAPD withdrew, how soon before we retreated to the armed safety of castle doctrine?

What would the wet ass hour consist of? What would precipitate it? Most Angelenos, myself included, operate so far removed from the maxims of prudence which have historically governed human relations on planet earth, the return to the Hobbesian default would come as a shock, then an affront, then self-chastizing horror as we retreated to safety. How could we have ignored the obvious?

Theft under $950 has been de facto legalized in Los Angeles.  As far as the city government is concerned, there are no borders. We issue free phones, debit cards, and health care to the indigent.  What is well-watered will grow.

What Is It About White Maids?

Because maids always work with their eyebrows done and their lips pursed, sipping through an invisible straw, approaching the dirt layers as through drawing Cupid’s bow. They work in form-fitting tops and look like a younger Sela Ward.

Nobody who cleans in Los Angeles is dark, squat, menopausal, Spanish-speaking or stooped with years of carpal tunnel-eroding labor.  Nobody rides the bus.  Nobody has another life on hold while white people are serviced.

For marketing purposes, maids are forever Anglo and look like yoga instructors.  That’s what cleaning is, right? Just a series of poses that makes the ick go away.

A Google image search for “Maids, Los Angeles” turns up the cast of Devious Maids, the Castillian nose telenovela twist on the sexy white maid template… also sexy Halloween costumes, anime links, and…

…Mildred Baena, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s former housekeeper turned comfort woman baby mama.

I suspect Maria Shriver felt on safe ground with Mildred, who checked all the boxes on the non-threatening-female-under-my-roof matrix, but one: fertility.    Mildred, a name rich with cinematic foreshadowing, might have been another missed clue.

Trumpland, Thirty Years After

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Who would live in Koreatown thirty years ago, but Korean peasants, fresh off the boat, hot racking it in the back room over a corner store, putting in 12-hour days, eager to one day become Korean merchants?  Certainly not middle class white people.

To put it differently, who wouldn’t rather live in a crime-free Valley with a lawn and a breezeway and a carport for the boat, and pay for it with one income?

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Today, if you want to eat, you go to Koreatown. You want to buy a pair of shoes, you want to bowl, you want to have a craft cocktail, you want to see pretty people, or to aspire to prettiness yourself, you want to dance, you want to walk down crime-free immaculately manicured streets, if you want to practice your golf swing….

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…you come here. You stand on a platform five storeys over Wilshire, surrounded by construction cranes, and a machine lifts the ball out of a hole in the floor, and tees it up for you. Perfectly, over and over again. Ten cents a ball.

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You stand over the rooftops like a god, for $18. When it’s over you get in a time machine and crawl over the pass, to the lost world of Fast Times at Ridgemont High.  You are home, yet somehow your heart is elsewhere.

How Dreck Is Made

Does this look plumb to you?
Does this wall look plumb to you?
Lets take a closer look...
Lets take a closer look…hmmm
How is the poured concrete attached to the blocks?
Let us connect concrete walls using the cake batter technique

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Construction has stopped on the new USA Fitness gym in Panorama for reasons not aesthetic.  Like an abandoned ark, this hodgepodge of listing, peeling concrete forms and blocks has loomed for months, half-completed, over Van Nuys Blvd.  Shut down by the Building Department, presumably.

The trouble would appear to have originated in the failed mating of two distinct structural techniques, poured concrete and reinforced blocks.  The blocks went up first. They must have thought they could use the exoskeleton as an anchor for setting forms for the pour, but they gave way.   Those who skimp on aesthetics will skimp on engineering. They will do the minimum.  Cheap on cheap equals cheap.

T’wasn’t always so. Los Angeles is thick with sublime and timeless commercial structures, built by craftsmen, forgotten or hidden over the years behind quick paint jobs and dreadful get it done by Wednesday facades.

Even in Panorama.

Panorama, 1964
Ohrbach’s, 1964
Valley Swap Meet, 2017
Valley Swap Meet, 2017

The Vertical Valley

Out: The Abandoned Church In: The Multi-Unit Apartment Complex
Out: The Abandoned Church
In: The Multi-Storey Apartment Whatever
Out: Hot Sheets Motel In: Mega-Apartments, with ground floor retail
Out: The Hot Sheets Motel
In: The Lifestyle Complex, and ground floor retail
Out: The Mini-Mall In: The Mixed Use Tower
Out: The Mini-Mall
In: The Glass Box 
Out: Abandoned Office Building In: Live-work spaces
Out: The long-abandoned Panorama Tower
In: “Live-work spaces”
Out: Green Arrow nurseries, after 50 years
Out: Green Arrow nurseries, after 50 years
In: Developer Renderings
In: Developer Renderings

God ain’t making any more of it. We got nowhere to go but up.

The post-war, asphalt parking lot, low density Valley prototype we’ve always known, beloved and dreckish, is going the way of the VW beetle.  It won’t be K-town exactly, but in five years Sepulveda Blvd is going to look a whole lot different.

Jesus, R.I.P.

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Jesus was driving on Willis Avenue Sunday night, when he was cut off by another car. At the stoplight on Roscoe Blvd., he exited his vehicle and approached the offending driver, intending to confront him.    In response, five shots were fired through the window, and the car sped away. Jesus died in the street. His family watched the craziness unfold from inside their car.

A father of two, reduced to a sidewalk shrine of novena candles in 30 seconds.

No words were exchanged.

Rage, rooted in the French Latin: rabies.

We speak of rage as something we fall into, or are thrown into,  like a pit. Perhaps it is somewhat different. Perhaps it is the moment the Holy Spirit leaves our body.  A wrinkle not only in time but an interruption in the flow of consciousness.  On any given day we might be triggered in some way, expend our rage in a Reichian moment, then come back to ourselves.  But on this day Jesus Alejandro Benitez Jaimez encountered someone more rage-filled and intemperate than himself, putting his soul at hazard. He threw caution into the void and from the void the Devil extracted his due.

There are those who disagree with a spiritual interpretation. Rage is purely chemical, they feel.  A chain reaction out of the hypothalamus. As random as weather.

Imagine a blue fin tuna swimming off the coast of Japan, ending up on a sushi plate.  Why that particular fish, out of all the fish in the world?  How did it wind up in that particular net, hoisted into a certain boat, sold at auction X, to distributor Y,  and put on a pallet to Long Beach, and not to Singapore? Was it destined for my belly, and no other?

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We may feel, and indeed be, very small on a planetary scale. But we retain moral agency over the forces of light and darkness within us. When a garden variety traffic annoyance triggers a fight-or-flight response, something else is going on. I submit the Spirit has been abandoned.