That was satisfying.
November 6, 1961: “These are exciting days for the Valley’s Ginger Drysdale, the beautiful 22-year-old wife of the famous Dodger pitcher. Ginger, a photographer’s model who has done many television commercials, recently was summoned to Warner Bros., placed under 90-day option and given a part in ‘Hawaiian Eye.’…Ginger is going to spend this weekend helping Don paint their comfortable, modern three-bedroom home in Van Nuys.”
I’m trying to get my head around a major league athlete moving to Van Nuys at the peak of his career, let alone a Hall of Famer, even if he grew up here as Don Drysdale did. But then I would be forgetting this was before free agency.
Drysdale won 25 games in 1962, for which he earned…$36,000, together with Sandy Koufax half of the dominant pitching duo of the decade.
They were paid at the pleasure of owner Walter O’Malley who thought of contract negotiation thusly: “Baseball is an old-fashioned game with old-fashioned traditions.” Translation: you are bound to me by a reserve clause, while I enjoy a congressional exemption from anti-trust laws.
It was not uncommon for players to take second jobs in the winter. Stars like Drysdale opened businesses. The Dugout, on Oxnard St., lasted until 1982. Today it is the location of La Serenita, a Mexican restaurant.
Koufax owned the Tropicana Motel in West Hollywood, which would prove both lucrative and historic in the 1970s.
America wasn’t winner-take-all then. There was a lower ceiling but a higher floor (for white folks). Teachers and Dodger wives shared driveways and did their own house painting.
Zack Greinke and Clayton Kershaw were paid $62 million this year. There are people on my block who live in converted tool sheds, then commute to work, in keeping with our New Normal.
On the other hand, I have Moroccan tile in my bathroom now, which no one in Van Nuys had in 1962. I also probably eat better than the Drysdales did, and so can pretty much anyone who takes the time to shop creatively in the cornucopia of LA. Most of us don’t. We eat with our hands from a salty greasy bag without portional restraint. Right now I’m eating Japanese buckwheat noodles and bok choy, watching an ad for Progressive insurance and here’s Stephanie Courtney as Flo, TV’s top pitchwoman. I think of the few hundred actors below her who book regular commercial work and below them, the Breughel-like masses, the 100,000 actors who book nothing and try to create mystique on YouTube….and there, in the background, are the picket fences of Orion Street, Van Nuys’ contribution to Americana porn.
All these things are true simultaneously. Los Angeles is nothing if not polarity.
Ron Shelton wrote a wonderful speech for Bull Durham neatly summarizing the distance between those who make it to the major leagues (and enjoy million dollar contracts) and those who languish in the bus leagues until they give up hope:
“Know what the difference between hitting .250 and .300 is? It’s 25 hits. 25 hits in 500 at bats is 50 points, okay? There’s 6 months in a season, that’s about 25 weeks. That means if you get just one extra flare a week – just one – gorp… you get a groundball, you get a groundball with eyes… you get a dying quail, just one more dying quail a week… and you’re in Yankee Stadium.”
In 1969 Ginger filed for divorce and a restraining order against Don, citing 30 separate incidents of assault. Don passed away in 1993, alone in a hotel room.
Drysdale’s second wife sold his memorabilia for over a $1 million in 2016, twice the sum he earned as a player in his entire career, making his memory more lucrative than his performance. Ginger got nothing.
Photos courtesy of Valley Times Collection
Behold the good people of K-town, marching down Wilshire, in protest….
Against climate change? No.
A homeless shelter on Vermont.
This is the point of frustration we have reached in Los Angeles.
Faced with the abnormal being made permanent, the city is in rebellion.
There’s just one catch. With one city councilperson per 300,000 residents, rebellions can be safely ignored. The Koreatown shelter, mightily resisted in May, is quietly being moved downmarket to working-class linguistically divided Macarthur Park.
What are the odds Latinx Armenian Filipino Thai Middle Eastern White Hipster Van Nuys is going to escape a similar fate?
Lets put it this way, we are unable to get the palm weeds pulled in front of the Valley Government Center. The weeds don’t pay anybody. They don’t have a lobby. But in The Nuys they own the sidewalk. One can obtain Bitcoin at an ATM on Oxnard Blvd, then cross the street into a state of nature. Such are the contradictions we enjoy now.
Every time you see one of these guys understand there are people who do not live in your neighborhood making money off them. Your blight is another person’s meal ticket, shuffling about in rags. He has a power structure behind him. You do not.
Service providers with a stake in the outcome infiltrate public meetings with shills holding signs and nary a peep of contradiction do we hear from the Times. The lobbying by interested parties and the coverage of same by local media has become a feedback loop of assumed agreement.
Among the unexamined assumptions are these:
Is there a right to hop a bus to LA, squat on the sidewalk and declare residency?
Are such people entitled to free housing and health care?
Can Angelenos demand sobriety and labor in return for public assistance?
Housing is cheap and abundant across the U.S. Why is LA the solution?
Mr. UpintheValley votes No, No, Yes and Good Question to the above. My neighbors would as well. Which is why we do not hear the Issue of Issues debated in the city government. We get warnings instead. They will educate us about our misconceptions.
Who among us practices the inclusivity he preaches? Very few. If there is a person in the power structure downtown who has opened his home to a crack addict he has been awfully discreet about it.
Our ability to live Christ’s example is daily impeded by the dark river of social ills policymakers have created. The current is too strong to cast our nets as fishers of men, even in those off moments when we wish to. City Hall is breaking the bonds of fellowship between citizens. It has made us all a little harder, something we’re beginning to recognize in ourselves and resent.
Almost everything about Van Nuys has changed dramatically for the better in the past decade. Except for Shantytown, Inc.
As my friend Wise Andrew put it, we may be looking at the twilight of tolerance.
“‘Our nightmare has ended. It’s the answer to our prayers.’ This was the reaction of a Sherman Oaks mother of seven children when the Valley Times told her Thursday that state engineers have recommended that a guardrail be built along the Ventura Freeway where it faces her home. Mrs. Jack Rush, 4721 Greenbush Ave., had appealed for the guardrail since two cars, a load of lumber, a giant truck tire and a conglomeration of hubcaps and other auto accessories had come flying into her yard and the yards of her neighbors.”
Seven kids. No guard rails. Hubcaps flying into the yard. Hello, 1961. This is sounding so very early Paul Simon.
Please send us freeways, we once said. We threw parties for them. Actually, we still do, only we ask for more lanes and want them to end just short of where we live.
Men in rumpled suits once drew lines on maps with an enthusiasm born of consensus over what constituted Progress.
Jobs over here? Check…
People moving…where? Hand me my ruler.
We’ll put a tunnel under Griffith Park (not a bad idea actually) re-surface in North Hollywood, and then a straight run to Chatsworth. Done!
The Whitnall Freeway (the middle line above) was never realized, owing to community resistance in the eastern half of the Valley, by then nearly built out.
People were beginning to discover elevated freeways were a tad noisy. They had a way of shattering the very orderly calm families left the city to obtain. Yet they serve the same necessity the left anterior descending artery does in the human body. No city functions without them.
This has been the sticking point in California for fifty years: Older neighborhoods don’t want to concede an inch to ease the commute to the exurbs, despite relying on commuter labor. Exurbs want as much distance from the city as possible while drawing a paycheck from same. Nobody wants to ride a train.
So, we build trains, hoping people will
change their minds capitulate when things get bad enough. Young people love living in the snazzy new developments over the train stops and taking Uber to work. Wealthy neighborhoods get high sound walls and a veto on new development and petition against sprawl, the working-class no sound abatement at all and encampments in the shrubbery. As soon as they can swing it, they move further out, toward Bakersfield.
Everyone has a prayer to be answered, but few wish to marry their fortunes to those of a stranger. Each of us feels his righteousness to be well-earned. Which may be for the best. If you believe Saint Theresa of Avila, more tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.
*historic photos courtesy of Valley Times Collection
Last night I learned about Hallway Sex from Byron, a handsome young orphan from the South. It’s when you pass your Other in the hallway of your apartment and she says “F-you” and you say “F-you” back, and that’s the sum of your intimacy for the week.
I picked him up at The Liquid Zoo, five drinks down and two months deep into the Hallway Sex Diet, on his way back to Culver City, where his Other had summoned him with an enraged texting finger.
She left me alone in the house for two days while she did her thing. I mean what did she expect? She knows how tempted I am to be an alcoholic.
When he first came to LA, before he became a model for skateboard wear, when he was still doing scut work, he lived around the corner on Sherman Way, and the Zoo was his hangout. It was the one place in LA he felt comfortable with himself. Three years on, after a bit of success and a move to the West side, the bouncer and bartender in Van Nuys remained his true friends. They remembered his name and didn’t mind if he crept up on them out of the blue. Nobody stood in judgment of him in Van Nuys.
When she got pregnant, he gave up on the modeling and the vague gestures toward acting and enrolled in a welding certification program. They were going to get married. He wanted to do right by God, and there was reliable money in it.
And then one day, after consulting with her mother, who has three kids by three different men who don’t support them, she went off and got herself an abortion while I was taking my welding exam and things really fell off.
I’m trying to not have hard feeling about it, but it hurts, man. I won’t lie. It hurts. I’ve been on this earth for 29 years, minus two years in jail, but this is worse. Some days I’m half a Xanax from putting a shotgun in my mouth.
Byron’s unanswered phone vibrated angrily all the way to Culver. He exited the car apologizing for oversharing.
Only Fiction can provide the true conversation which then unfolded in the apartment, but Life can put another passenger in the Uber, heading back to Sherman Oaks.
Donna was five years younger than Byron and by her own admission stupidly happy to be moving in with her boyfriend and out of her parent’s house. But for college, she’d lived her whole life in the Valley. She attended Buckley. All her friends went to Buckley, Curtis or Harvard-Westlake. Her Los Angeles was a small pond. Everyone Donna knew, knew everyone else Donna might know.
We talked about the musical re-make of Valley Girl, which she knew all about it without ever having seen the original or having any familiarity with the soundtrack. She was rather more excited about the re-make of Clueless, which came out the year she was born but which every girl she knew watched during middle school sleepovers. Who couldn’t relate to Cher Horowitz?
She didn’t like that her childhood home was now on a Waze street, thick with cars seeking a shortcut in the morning commute. Nor did she approve of second floors on ranch houses.
But those were trivial matters. Mostly Donna was really, really ready to move in with her boyfriend, who she thought she met at a party, but soon realized wasn’t the case. When they exchanged numbers they discovered they were already in each other’s contact list…from middle school. Every phone either of them had ever owned simply sucked up the old numbers.
It would have been creepy in any other context, but in our case felt like destiny. Like we had been circling each other for twenty years and these, like, electronic cherubs were steering us.
In the movie version, Donna and Byron would have crossed paths and this blog post would have a very different ending. In millennial Los Angeles, orphans remain orphans and children of the upper middle class have their destiny forged by middle school.
Last night Notre Dame High School hosted a funhouse mirror version of the dialogue referred to in churches as call and response.
Councilman Ryu: I’m sure you want to hear what I have to say- Booooo! Recall!
I asked the following organizations for advice- They don’t speak for us!
The Sherman Oaks Neighborhood Council- You don’t live here! Put it in your backyard!
Let me be clear, no actual decisions have been made- Liar! The Council has already given its recommendation!
If I know Sherman Oaks- No, you don’t! Liar! Go back to Koreatown! Liar!
After five minutes of abuse, the Councilman abandoned the microphone. LAPD Officer Pitcher took a turn. The mob was not satiated.
Officer Pitcher: Tonight we have to be respectful- Enforce the law! There are only six patrol cars in Sherman Oaks! How are you going to manage once the shelters are built?
As a prelude to Mayor Garcetti’s run for president, we all have to endure his solutions to the encampments of drug addicts, alcoholics and mentally ill who have flocked to Los Angeles to enjoy its services. The plan: more free stuff. In this case, trailers set up on public property as bridge housing.
Right here, on Sepulveda, between the fire station and the barracks. Those who showed up for the open house to hear the pitch were not having it. No one believes the trailers will be temporary, and cynics have history on their side. Also, Sherman Oaks doesn’t really have a homeless problem. Yet. Van Nuys has a homeless problem. The Sepulveda Basin has extensive encampments. The trailers would pull an undesirable population across the 405 freeway into the neighborhood proper. Over a bridge, literally. Relocating a problem where it doesn’t yet exist.
To his credit, Ryu stuck around for an hour and took the heat. How did a guy from K-town end up representing the Valley, you might wonder.
This is how. Behold the perfidy of the District 4 map. The quadrant in the upper left is Sherman Oaks. Guess where the Bridge trailers are not going? Hancock Park. Silver Lake. The Hollywood Hills. That’s why they draw maps this way. So City Hall can impose its schemes with the toss of a dart. Contiguous districts, fully within the Valley proper, would reflect community consensus.
Which explains, partially, the yelling.
What do you do if you want to have a fancy wedding in Los Angeles on a teacher’s salary?
You book an outdoor venue in Temecula on a Sunday in August and ask your friends to drive out and sit under umbrellas in triple-digit heat, which we were only too happy to do! All of us! No bother at all!
Ironically, Mr. and Mrs. UpintheValley had their first tiff at a gas station in Rancho Cucamonga on the way home from Vegas. Since then the world East of Pasadena has remained terra incognita for us, even after two decades as Angelenos. We’re not snobs. Except for bickering, we just never had reason to get out of the car.
There is a saying in L.A.: the car is king. This is not correct. In L.A. the car is the preferred mode of transportation. The street grid overlays a network of former trolley lines which in turn mimic earlier horse trails which, by necessity, hewed to canyons and watersheds. The underlying topography and the transportation backbone correspond to the historical evolution of the city. The freeways were only cut in later.
Here in the outer, outer ring of suburbs, the freeway is its own world entire.
Massive three-level interchanges, which make the 405/101 cloverleaf in Sherman Oaks look like a piker, sprout from a tree-less scrubland, mocking the topography. One is lifted a hundred feet in the air then sluiced into a fresh arterial without any understanding of where one is, or why this great sorting of vehicles is taking place at this particular location since wherever you are there is no here. You’re flying over a waterless arroyo and the bleached bones of luckless prospectors.
The towns, off-ramps to subdivisions really, adhere to the freeway for life support. They all contain the following: a business park/distribution hub called The Pointe (with an E), an auto mall, an entertainment complex called The Crossroads, or The Shops At….
…and above all, gated communities with fanciful names like…Terramor.
Terramor evokes something reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, a place very green, very watery, clannish, historical, and very far from Corona.
Should the three-hour commute from the city fail to dissuade the rampaging, machete-wielding hordes, there will be gates to repel them. Gates! You can lay on your cool, air-conditioned pillow and bank on it.
Somehow one gets the feeling the hordes, when they emerge, will form ranks right here. Take away the A/C, and I can visualize the Inland Empire going full Rod Serling in about a week. The survivors will be headed in our direction, back to the city and its Mediterranean climate, looking for the Olive Garden.
Define fragility: two million people living off one pipe and one wire. Disrupt either for any amount of time and the outer suburbs are not merely unpleasant, they are uninhabitable. Maslow’s Hierarchy will prevail. Forget lost cell service. Imagine a population of luckless prospectors the size of Houston poking through dry creek beds looking for a brackish puddle in which to insert a straw. There is a reason no civilization prospered here for centuries.
Then it’s back to the city, all two million of them. Not unlike the Monday commute we experienced on the way home. Not unlike the commute people already make twice a day, five days a week, until the mortgage is burned.
Will five-bedroom outer commute California survive a Black Swan event? I don’t know. It may have no choice but to make the fragility work, but at a price point reflecting risk.
You don’t know who you really are until you get there.
Paul and Stephanie, joined in consecrated union.
Henceforth, all ranch houses in Los Angeles shall be vertical. That’s gonna entail a lot more dusting and mopping. What to do? Who will we find? Americans are lazy as f**k.
Look, someone left a card. There’s an App for everything.
Deep. Detailed. Delightful, like a really good massage. No tipping required. Now we’re talking.
They’ll even send a pair of blondes who look like yoga instructors.
Okay, maybe they won’t be blonde. Maybe not fit, either. But certified. As a bonus willing to labor tip-free, tidying up all the awkward social contract implications.
I wonder where they live, these non-blonde, non-yoga instructing floor scrubbers? Two to a room in a dingbat apartment in Van Nuys, probably.
Whatever happened to the old Van Nuys people? You know, those dingbat apartment dwellers? Maybe they moved to the Ozarks. They should have obtained an education if they wanted to stick around. They shouldn’t have gotten high. They shouldn’t have gotten old. How they gonna clean floors now?
There’s a lot of this housing going up all over Los Angeles. Boxy, modular, poured concrete or stucco with some kind of horizontal wood feature set against a tiled entranceway.
This looked sharp and fresh half a dozen years ago but is entirely predictable now. I’m not saying it doesn’t look good. I’m wondering how it will look 30 years hence. Will we look upon this housing stock the way we look at 70’s kitsch today? As an eyesore?
Or will it fall into some oddball historical cul-de-sac like the once-modernist work of Richard Neutra, admired by preservationists, but neglected by owners?
Is Craftsman and Mission style architecture the only native California form which will stand the scrutiny of the ages? Which will be both loved and lived in?