Backstreet Boys

The alley behind our building is nothing like the alleys I remember growing up in small town Missouri. Seward Street was our “alley,” a place to park the garbage cans and a way to sneak in the house past curfew.

6 ½, as I call it, features the usual generous array of trash and recycling containers, along with a continually changing and random collection of items people donate to the homeless: furniture, clothing, books and even record albums. (Where is a homeless person going to find a turntable?) They trek up and down these alleys at all hours, pulling their makeshift carts loaded to the hilt with bric-a-brac.

Most of the time I don’t hear them as they pass a mere 50 feet from our door – save the occasional hacking or coughing, which is a dead giveaway – and I’ve never seen one cutting through our breezeway to access Seventh Street.

Dog walkers, nannies and locals also use the alley, which is just wide enough for a car plus a human, so long as you dodge the trashcans. It’s truly the underbelly of the neighborhood, where you see the backside of the apartments, tiny balconies stuffed with the oddest assortments of furniture and household items, and neighbors unloading groceries.      

Since parking is at a premium, people will sometimes pull into the alley, get out and wipe down their cars. The other day, while toting some recycling, I walked past this guy polishing a beautiful European sedan, all dreamy with its dazzling wheels, gleaming finish and plush interior.

I was about to keep walking when he called out, “Is everything good today?”

“It sure is if you own that car,” I replied.

I sensed he was proud to tell me about his ride, a Jaguar, and wanting to take a break on this gorgeous, sun-splashed day, I asked him about it.

He opened the door, urged me to sit in the driver’s seat and take a gander at the instrumentation. I’d never sat in a Jaguar and now realized what I’ve been missing.

“Galpin screwed up the lease so I bought it off lease for 17,000. A steal,” he crowed.

“Put your foot on the brake and press that button,” he said. “No, that button.” Duh. I was like a gawky teenager trying to unhook a girl’s bra. Upon starting the engine, I noticed a circular knob arise from the center console like up, periscope! Then the air vents flipped open, jetting filtered air into the cabin.

Jerry Botham was his name – like Gotham with a B. Not the kind of guy you’d meet in a dark alley.

He was from St. Charles, Illinois – outside Chicago. I thought I detected an accent. Owns a plumbing and heating business. I’d seen his trucks around town.

“You must do a good repair business with all of these rental units around here,” I said.

“Nah, I avoid ‘em for the most part,” he replied. “I do more high-end. You know who’s taken this over?” he said, with a sweep of the hand to indicate the entire area, followed by a furtive glance to either side as if someone were eavesdropping.

“Mexico.”

I cringed inside. So, we’ve got a racist on our hands, I thought. Ok, let’s see where he’s going with this.

“They come in here, do these jobs and screw them up, then I get a call to come fix up their mess.”

He proceeded to tell me he built Madonna’s house. Being a good listener and not gullible, I listened with great earnestness, hoping I was getting the straight scoop from the genuine article. But as I think back on our conversation now, who cares? Regardless of whether he was making things up or not, he was still just as colorful. Maybe more.

“I’ve gotten to the point where I can be selective about my customers,” he boasted. “If I hear attitude on the phone, I say, ‘Sorry, we can’t help you.’”

Jerry was about my height, receding blond hair parted in the middle, slight gut, sporting a t-shirt and jeans. His eyes had a dancing quality – indicating this is someone who’s alive and eager to see what each new day will bring. Had maybe a day or two of beard on him. Would look right at home in a Bears jacket sitting on a stool at Mother’s on Division, I imagined.

He told me he’s 64, and like most guys bearing down on the twilight years, we talked about growing old.

“I’m trying to turn back the clock,” I said. “Living here has been good for my health and my outlook.”

Jerry agreed, having lived here since 1968. His philosophy? Don’t ever buy into the fact that you’re old or you’re gonna get beat by that guy who’s 35. Then, he gave a little demonstration that has stuck with me for days.

“It’s all in the body language,” he said, purposely slumping his shoulders. “You can’t walk around like this," he said as he hung his head and affected a nasal-y twang.

“You gotta come on like this,” planting his feet shoulder width apart, throwing his head back, squaring his shoulders. Then, as part of the act, he exclaimed, as if to a customer, “I’m gonna help you through this.”

It was a simple demonstration – kinda campy, but truly palpable. In that moment I saw the sheer force of a positive, assertive posture and how it can foster success.

So what if the guy was kinda full of himself? He reminded me of something very important in that one, fleeting moment: your attitude shows in the way you carry yourself, and people pick up on that. These are lessons you won’t learn in school or in the boardroom.

Here was a plain-talking guy, a self-made man, just polishing his Jag in the alley on a beautiful day. No big deal.

As the conversation turned to the differences between the Midwest and California I bemoaned the fact that I’m paying to store some of the furniture we brought from Kansas.   

“That Korean girl has some storage space down the alley,” he proffered. “Talk to her.”

Priscilla, our building’s owner, I thought. When I asked our landlady about this alleged storage space, she just laughed.

“In this neighborhood?” said Liz. “Are you kidding?”

Ok, maybe Jerry has a tendency to embellish, but he’s good theater. Not a bad encounter in an alley on a gorgeous Santa Monica day. 

Baked with National Pride

Willie and Shirley Douglas raised five boys near Koreatown. It was a hardscrabble existence – coming to LA from Jamaica by way of Florida and New York. Willie was an industrious guy. Always a self-starter, full of ambition. Got his Master’s in Sociology from Cal State-Dominguez Hills at night while building a property management business by day. Yep, apartments. Buying, fixing up, renting, flipping occasionally for a larger property.

It’s a long way from Ocho Rios, Jamaica to LA. But many have made the journey; there’s a significant Jamaican population here.

Willie's son Reginald wants to capitalize on our fascination with and love of things Jamaican. Having inherited his dad’s passion, Reginald crisscrosses the city in his bright blue Honda Civic, peddling a trunk full of wares. Tirelessly hawking his bagels, cream cheese and bagel chips with an uncommon flair and unwavering smile.

But these aren’t bagels, Reginald exclaims.

“They’re Jamagels,” he says, drawing out the word, as in “jahhh-MAYYY-gel.”

Reginald shows his wares from the trunk of his Honda.

Bagels infused with the flavors of Jamaica. Using spices like ginger, nutmeg, vanilla. Or pimento, cloves, allspice, garlic and onions. Or raisins, cinnamon and malt syrup. Six kinds of bagels and five flavors of cream cheese – even one that’s Jerk flavored, with spice extracted from the Scotch bonnet pepper, found only the Caribbean.

This guy has found his calling. For years he was a graphic designer, selling t-shirts to retailers at trade shows. He’ll tell you custom t-shirts should have no more than two colors. Any more than two and they look … well, tacky. (My word. We’ve all owned a few of those.)

But the fashion biz started wearing thin.

“It’s always looking ahead a year and if you don’t have a fresh idea every three months, well …” Reginald says.

So, how did this second-generation Jamaican from central LA become interested in food?

“Because I’m a creative person,” he says. “My mind is constantly working. I went back and forth six or seven months on this idea. Should I do it or not?”

Then, like a true entrepreneur, he just did it. Started cold calling bakeries around town, pitching his idea. Would they be willing to test produce some bagels, mix different spices in them? Reginald got lots of rejection, but what entrepreneur isn’t used to rejection?

Finally, he found a baker willing to give his idea a shot. Brooklyn Bagels in downtown LA agreed to the plan, but it would be expensive. In order to get a reliable sample, they’d have to bake 13 dozen. If the first one wasn’t precisely right, they’d throw out the rest.

Lots of testing and tweaking and months later, Reginald gave birth to the Jamagel. Brooklyn Bakery has been making them for 2 ½ years.

The name Jamagel is trademarked. A combination of Jamaica and bagel, but “Jabagel” didn’t roll off the tongue, says Reginald. However, changing just one letter and he found the lyrical name that conjures images of swaying palm trees and crystal blue shores.

“When you say Jamaica, everyone loves Jamaica. Everyone loves Bob Marley. Even if they’ve never been there. So I said ‘How can I come up with a product that people will eat every single day?’ People eat bagels every single morning.”

True, with food, not much changes because we are creatures of habit. Reginald is hoping to tap into that. But first, you have to encourage trial.

So, like every good marketer, Reginald built a web site and a Facebook page and launched a Twitter account. He spends his day pitching locally-owned grocers and doing in-store demos. I met Reginald at Rainbow Acres in Marina del Rey one evening. Almost walked past him as he called out to me. But there was something about that infectious smile and attitude that brought me back. Reginald pitched, a little breathlessly, and I listened.

You know that feeling, when someone is trying to sell you something on the spot? You think, “what is this guy doing and what am I getting myself into?” That was me. I sampled some cream cheese, made mindless conversation, then said goodnight and walked to my car. Then, I doubled back, asked for his card and said I’d like to talk more about his little enterprise.

About a week later, we met for coffee. He had just come from a meeting that didn’t materialize. His appointment was a no-show. But Reginald doesn’t know disappointment and rejection, so he gladly sat with me, sipped ice water and told his story.

He said he’s the only person in his family with the food fascination.

“Jamaicans all know how to cook and cook for themselves so we usually don’t think of food as a commercial pursuit,” he said.

Reginald is looking for financing because, while several stores have bought his products, he has ambitious growth plans and has to pay that baker and the dairy that produces his cream cheese.

Several months ago I was having breakfast with a former Disney executive – talking about life and global issues and business.

“What’s the first thing you think when you think of California?” he asked me.

“Well, my opinion is, to be honest, I think it’s lost a step,” I said, referring to the sagging economy, unemployment and companies’ unwillingness to locate here because of taxes and regulation.

“Yes. But, California has something you won’t find anywhere else,” he countered.

And then, very eloquently, my friend described the budding creativity and entrepreneurial spirit that courses through the veins of the Golden State. It’s characterized by boldness, desire and an uncompromising belief in one’s ideas. Never giving up, always eager to wake up every morning and see what opportunities lie ahead.

This spirit is everywhere. You can’t deny it. I certainly found it in Reginald Douglas – the Jamagel Man.

As I waved goodbye and walked away, Reginald called to me: “Don’t have a good day. Don’t have a great day. Have a Jahhh-MAYY-gel day! See, I made you smile!”

Maybe, just maybe, this entrepreneur will make it work by winning people’s hearts and taste buds.

Best place to learn more or place an order is www.jamagel.com.

Pack Your Laptop and Get Out!

Awhile back I wrote about the coffee shop in Santa Monica that has no wi-fi by design.

Now I see in this story that some coffee shops are growing weary of the hobos who camp out all day.

Bad news for those of us who are out here on our own. Guess I'll be spending more time at my kitchen table and drinking my own coffee. 

Who's on Third?

Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica is a monument to commercialization that seems to have found a quasi-natural rhythm of its own. For all the retail frenzy that assaults the senses, it has a certain appeal if you just let it come to you.

Don’t set foot in this bodacious bazaar with a bad attitude, however, or you’ll quickly grow annoyed by the fortune tellers and street performers. Not to mention the restaurant hostesses who accost you if you make eye contact. I once had words with a college-age kid who wanted me to sign a petition. I’m offended by their guile; they sidle up to you and initiate a conversation like you’ve known each other for years, calling you “dude” or something. I don’t know you, I thought. You’re being presumptuous if you think I want to discuss saving the children or saving the whales. Am I cold and heartless, I wonder?

If you’re already having a bad day you’ll grow quickly irritated by the self-absorbed who don’t look where they’re walking or think the rest of the world wants to hear their story, told in a voice of self-importance and accompanied by exaggerated gestures and raucous laughter.

Most Santa Monicans will tell you they try to avoid Third Street. It’s for tourists, after all. Amateurs. I was once one of them. But, walking to the gym, it started to grow on me, precisely for the reason I would normally avoid it: the people. I’ve found I become energized in a crowd of strangers. It’s probably my Midwestern upbringing, from years of opening the front door to nothing but the song of birds and crickets.

Even the animal topiaries say "Look at me, look at me!"

Stroll down Wilshire toward the ocean and turn left at the Barnes and Noble, past Banana Republic, Monsoon (Asian fusion cuisine) and Chipotle Grill and prepare to experience a slice of southern California that’s not exactly the traditional Santa Monica.

The first sensory experience that greets me is the big bearded guy in a stocking cap, playing guitar with a portable amp. He seems affable, almost approachable. He’s perched just beyond the imaginary border of the Promenade so he doesn’t have to obtain a performer’s license. This guy seems to live in that grey area between homeless and mainstream. You just can’t tell. He has a plastic cup for tips but I never see him overtly begging. His guitar clashes with the voice of the elderly man sporting an Amish beard singing Tony Bennett karaoke style only a few hundred feet away. Don’t these people have to audition first? 

If it’s spring or summer you see and hear tourists from everywhere – San Antonio or Santa Ana, Birmingham or Burbank. Personal style is paramount; everyone has a look. Swarthy young men in aviators and tight shirts, a couple days’ growth of beard, sipping a glass of wine with their girlfriends in leggings, flipflops and oversized sunglasses. The Latino with gelled hair and an Angels jersey hanging with his hermanos. The mother-daughter pair weighted down with bags from Kitson, Anthropologie and, God forbid, Abercrombie & Fitch, striding purposefully to their car so they can retreat to the leafy havens of Brentwood or Pacific Palisades.

One day I encountered a protest march. It was a Sunday in early June, a good time to play to a large audience. They were shouting about genocide in Turkey, although as a group they didn’t look particularly oppressed. Some people stopped and observed the spectacle, others walked by in a hurry to get to their cars and beat the traffic. I went home, did some research and learned more of the citizen unrest in Turkey and its oppressive government. You can learn something useful here, and I’ll bet you won’t find that claim on the chamber’s web site.

Just the names of the stores are a delight for the imagination: Pink Ice, Hard Tail, All Saints, Journeys, Rip Curl. And then there are the more traditional names: Apple, American Eagle, Kenneth Cole, Tiffany and Tumi. Around the corner on Arizona, attracting anything but misfits is The Misfit –a nightclub that is unabashedly hip with its beguiling, even intimidating dark interior.

My sense of smell is always rewarded and it adds to the experience: That athletic store smell of shoe rubber that greets my nostrils as I approach the Adidas store, the marvelous array of scents from perfume vendors and the more earthy flavors from the kiosks bearing incense and other spiritual products.

What June gloom? The Farmers Market is happenin'.

 

A trio of athletic and gregarious black men attracts an impromptu audience with acrobatics and dance moves, set to a throbbing beat from a rather sophisticated sound system. They’ve plucked two people from the audience for a demonstration – a spry grandmother and an attractive blonde twentysomething, of course. I keep walking because I’ve seen this show before on Venice Beach.

Approaching The Coffee Bean I find myself involuntarily taking deep abdomen breaths in anticipation of the pleasant, rich aroma of coffee. I note the patrons – more leisurely than the crowd on foot – sipping and chatting, fiddling with their iPhones or staring absently into space. That’s the life, I tell myself.

The pizza joint next to the AMC theaters now has gluten-free pizza, and I promise myself I’ll give it a try sometime. You poor fools, I tsk-tsk to myself as I pass Johnny Rocket’s with the patrons shoveling cheeseburgers and downing milkshakes. You’ll regret it later. (I’ve turned into a nutrition snob.) On the southeast corner of Third and Arizona the people who brought you Chipotle are opening their third Shophouse Asian Kitchen here – the only others are in Washington DC. Yeah, it’s trendy like that here.

Tourists from Germany, Japan, Australia throng Third Street. They seem less casual than the Americans – more earnest and observational. Often it’s difficult to tell if someone is from another country or a person of non-US lineage living in Los Angeles, this city has become a kaleidoscope of nationalities. Whatever. The diversity inspires me and feeds my energy.


   

Finding Bliss in the Joy of Others

I took a spin down Lincoln Blvd toward Manhattan Beach to see my friend Catherine - a native Angelean. You see it all – the spotty outskirts of Santa Monica south of The 10 with the auto mechanics and little cafes and Hawaiian barbecue, the dusty storefronts of Venice (could use a power wash and a coat of paint), then the expansive condos of the Marina and the ever-growing sky as the street widens and you approach the rather grand Loyola Marymount campus and soon LAX. I love to drive that section of Lincoln that parallels the north runway; you swear the planes are going to land right on top of your car. I nod at the iconic In-n-Out on Sepulveda, where all the visitors flock for a burger just after landing.
 
And on through El Segundo to Manhattan Beach – a part of Manhattan Beach that most people don’t envision. They picture a little elite fortress of a town, secluded from the rabble and decked out with charming merchants and eateries. And of course the pier and myth about beach volleyball being born here. No, I’m talking about the Manhattan Beach along the PCH, home of yoga studios and UPS stores and Ralph’s and car dealers. Yes, John Elway Toyota is here. Once I stayed at a tired Residence Inn next door to the Elway lot. This is the dealership bearing the name by the All-World QB? Like most things in the middle-class sections of Manhattan Beach (and LA for that matter) it’s quite modest. First, land is precious and lots are small and, second, being exposed to the relentless California sun gives everything kind of a shopworn appearance. (We put up with wood rot and general fade in Santa Monica because, hey, it’s Santa Monica. At the beach, a little of the right kind of shabby is okay.)

I parked in the snug, cratered parking lot near Two Guns Coffee. Catherine recommended it and I’m always up for something new. The strip mall – if you want to call it that – was chock full of random little stores (how do they stay in business?) and surprisingly, parking was at a premium. If you didn’t know this place was here you’d miss it. Unassuming comes to mind. Inside I found a few tables and a small counter and the aroma of some fine blend of coffee. I’m not that discriminating; I think all coffee smells good. 

Catherine was waiting for me, croissant and cup at hand. Beaming as usual. Even when the chips are down, she has a ready smile.

“How are you?” I called to her from across the room. We hugged. I sat down. She recommended the pastry; I said no thanks I had breakfast. She had just come from working out. A light workout, she said.

“It’s great and you don’t perspire too much.” I’m not familiar with that type of workout.

Catherine was laid off a few months ago and we often commiserate about the job market. We worked at the same company for a time. Her husband was laid off from the same company but has since found work elsewhere. 

Catherine lost a job, but found peace.

“For the first time, I’m really enjoying our south Redondo Beach neighborhood,” she said. “I used to work long hours and didn't get to spend a lot of time at home. My husband and I live across the street from the high school so the softball and football fields are always bustling with kids. I feel a part the community now. There's a comforting ebb and flow to each day that I never felt before." 

Somehow I don’t think Catherine will suffer for lack of a corporate job. She’s had some interviews, but so far nothing. It’s the toughest market ever, in the toughest city in America.
Instead, she’s rekindled a passion for taking pleasure in the joy of others. We all know brides invest a lot of effort in their wedding day and want to preserve the memories, and Catherine has tapped into that sentiment. For several years she’s had a business preserving wedding bouquets so brides can have a lasting keepsake of their special day. 

“I’ve been taking social media classes, learning about search engine optimization and such,” she rattled off, excitedly. “I’m really working at marketing my business.”

And this is what Catherine loves to do. She loves to see the expression on a newlywed’s face when she picks up her arrangement. This being LA and South Bay Floral Preservation being a one-person operation, there’s no earthly way she can deliver. Her customers must drop off and pick up, or they can arrange a FedEx delivery. 

“I market within a 50 mile radius of Redondo Beach, but I’ve had brides from out of state use my services,” she said. “This is the biggest day of their lives, so they’ll go to great lengths to make it special.” 

While Catherine has shared joy, she’s also witnessed grief. She’s been asked to preserve floral arrangements from memorials, and the stories are sobering.

“There was a girl – a teenager – killed in a car accident,” she said a catch in her throat. “It was so sad. I don’t know how people carry on.” A real earnestness in her expression. 

And maybe Catherine’s contribution can assist with the healing – even in some small way.
I’m heartened by the pluck and determination of Angelenos – their capacity for finding a purpose. When her company gave her the boot, Catherine rededicated herself to her business.

Unlike those faded buildings, she’s intent on preserving beauty and following her bliss.

Land of the Self-Absorbed?

This isn’t Mayberry. Of course, what city is these days? It’s difficult to find a town in America where you can walk down the street and feel comfortable speaking to a total stranger. There are degrees. I would say in some places you can still give the knowing nod of the head and get a smile in return.

L.A. will be having none of that. Things move too fast. Everyone is in their own world, enveloped in their own issues, consumed by their problems. Considering the long distances people traverse across the Southland to conduct their business or pursue recreation, there’s no time for the trivial. Let’s face it. We are all self-absorbed. That, of course, doesn’t excuse the person who fails to return a pleasantry for a pleasantry.

One day Mary came home from a long walk with Bella in an exasperated mood.

“That was just weird,” she said. “A woman walking four dogs came toward me, and I said ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full,’ and she said “It’s best if we don’t socialize” and walked on.

Kind of a curious retort.

I can understand that, yes, this woman did have her hands full, but why dismiss someone like that? I admire my wife for so many reasons. One is her forgiveness. When confronted by someone behaving like a jackwagon or tool, she reminds herself of “the baby in the back seat” analogy. Let’s not be hasty to criticize someone because we don’t know, can’t know, what troubles they may be dealing with, like the mother or father who’s driving erratically because there’s a baby choking in the back seat.

I try to keep this in mind when walking the streets of any city. Let people be, unless you see an obvious opening – like when another dog sniffs the arse of your dog, eliciting a chuckle from its owner, which leads to a brief conversation about how friendly and innocent dogs can be. However, let’s refrain from taking a page from our four-legged friends. Let’s not sniff the arses of others we encounter on the sidewalk.

Now, what if the tables are turned? What if someone is quick to speak to me? What if that person is homeless, asking for money? The homeless population of Los Angeles is considerable, owing to the state of the local economy, the unemployment rate and the hospitable climate. This is a vexing problem, a conundrum, something better left to the social scientists. I’m never sure what to do. If it’s an isolated incident – if I were to encounter one homeless person every other week or so – I would probably dig in my pocket, peel my only bill from my money clip and hand it over. In L.A. the homeless are so prevalent that it’s not uncommon to encounter five or six on the short walk to 7-11. I would run out of money after the first or second appeal, so I choose to treat the homeless equally: they’re getting nothing from me. I keep walking. I find it convenient to wear earphones and listen to my music while walking to the gym. Yes, I may still be accosted even if I look absorbed, but I can make the excuse that I can’t hear. This isn’t uncharitable; it’s a mode of survival. I have compassion for the homeless, but I don’t think the homeless problem is going to be solved by modest handouts.

My friend went to high school at St. Monica’s in Santa Monica, part of a large, well-endowed parish. The rich and famous attend this church and fill its coffers. Yet, she says, it’s a curious irony that just across the street sits Christine Emerson Reed Park, which is frequented by homeless.

“Here you have this incredible wealth on one side and abject poverty on the other,” she remarked. “You wish somehow the church could make an impact.”

No doubt St. Monica’s has significant outreach programs and has been doing good in the community for generations. It’s just one of the many curious juxtapositions you see in southern California.

What would Sheriff Taylor have done about the homeless? To my knowledge, the closest thing Mayberry had to a homeless person was Otis Campbell, the town drunk. Andy occasionally let Otis bed down in the jail. That won’t work in L.A.

What? No Wi-fi?

A quiet counterculture is building in the world of coffee shops. You probably don’t even notice it in your neighborhood. It’s starting very modestly, and I doubt it will supplant the Starbucks model we’ve come to know and, in my case, grudgingly accept.

One afternoon my wife and I set out with our laptops, looking forward to a couple of quiet and productive hours at a nearby, locally-owned coffee purveyor on trendy Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. We had noticed this store on the corner for some time. It looked very attractive from the outside – giant, plate-glass windows that let in an abundance of sunlight, bright interior, a spare, clean look. The kind of place where you can sit quietly, clear your mind and get creative.

Approaching the door, however, we noticed very few places to sit – only benches around the walls and tiny, low, round-topped wooden tables. None of the overstuffed, comfy chairs we’d come to expect in more traditional coffee houses.
 
“It looks like they really don’t want us to come in,” said my wife, and I agreed. Cold and sterile came to mind. 

We peeked inside the Starbucks across the street, but all the seats and chairs were filled. So popular was it was this mid-afternoon that we decided to return to the local place and give it a try. After all, I reasoned, we have each other. Do our surroundings really matter? (You come to recognize what’s enduring and fulfilling versus the fleeting and unsatisfying. Your wife is your best friend and you relish your time together.)

When we walked in, we were greeted by the type of funereal silence that always makes me uncomfortable and self-conscious. I almost turned around and walked out. Music played softly, and the energy level was low or nonexistent. If you speak, you appear foolish. Intimidating sums up the experience so far.

At first I thought maybe this is the kind of place where you get your coffee to go – so paltry was the available seating. But no, there were a few customers, occupying a long table with high stools in the back. 

The clerk was cheerful in a quirky way, although I felt as if she was thinking “these people don’t know or appreciate our sophisticated blends of coffee and tea. Watch the guy order a plain drip coffee.” Which I did, with room for milk. I have no pretension about these things and refuse to order something overly gilded or contrived just to fit in with the crowd. I think my wife ordered an iced chai tea.

My wife noticed the barista, who didn’t crack a smile the entire time. Made several coffees before she poured the iced tea. (I mean, all she had to do was pour the tea. Simple.) I usually don’t let the attitudes of others – especially strangers – affect my mood, but ms. barista’s vibe was palpable. It cast a pall over the place. Sulk much?

My coffee was good, but not worth the four bucks I paid for it. I guess when we overpay for the coffee we are paying for the privilege of sitting in a coffee house for hours, sucking up the wi-fi.

About the wi-fi. We opened our laptops, searched for available networks and found they were all encrypted. I asked the clerk if they have a wi-fi network. “No, we don’t,” she replied, probably sick of answering the question for the 60th time that day, displaying little compassion. No apologies. The whole premise of this coffee format is “unapologetic.”  

As Americans, don’t we have the right to free wi-fi?

“That’s okay,” I said to my wife. “We can do other things.” And she showed me the photos from her writer’s retreat in Whitefish, Montana. 

I’ve since noticed this no computer policy at other coffee houses. There’s a spot on Pico near Fairfax that segregates the laptop users. Polite little placards adorn each table explaining the policy. At least laptop use is somewhat acceptable. And the place is buzzing with energy, unlike the aforementioned tomb near our apartment.

We stayed for about 45 minutes, not sucking up their wi-fi but sucking up the oxygen in the room and taking up space. I guess I got my $4 worth. And don’t bother asking for a cup to go. No paper is consumed here.

This is a classic coffee experience, accentuated by large, white porcelain mugs. 

Maybe this is a new model, I thought. High-concept coffee. The anti-Starbucks. I’m clearly in the minority because most of the Yelp reviews were gushing. Do these people derive some perverse satisfaction from being surrounded by smugness and sterility? 

It led me to revisit a question I’ve always pondered about the attitudes of the help and the clientele. It’s a chicken and egg thing. Does the help turn hostile from dealing with arrogant clients all day, or do clients become arrogant from being waited on by hostile help?

So many questions, which I think I’ll consider as I sip my $1.95 grande at Coffee Bean.

Frankie's Fight

I started going back to the barber. Guess I got tired of cutting my own hair – what there is of it. I could whip out the electric clippers and be done in five minutes. In nice weather I used to do it on our deck. A “hillbilly haircut,” I called it.

I found a barber shop about a four-iron from our apartment, on Wilshire, and walked in one day. I didn’t know what to expect. After all, it had been several years since I’d darkened the door of Sport Clips.

The place had changed hands. The awning says Pacific Barber Shop but the guy told me it’s now Wilshire Barbers or something like that. Got a clean buzz cut for 20 bucks.

On my second visit, I was seen by a black woman with a long dreads, cool energy and big smile. I slid into her chair. Told me her name is Frankie.

The Lakers were on TV and the other barbers were chattering. Frankie was pretty quiet, saving her verbal salvos for just the right moment. Lots of friendly banter and she could hold her own with these guys.

We got to talking about sports – the state of the Lakers and Clippers, the NFL playoffs, why LA doesn’t have a team and when will it get one. A couple of guys were pulling for the Niners and there was the defiant Raiders fan which you’ll find in every crowd. Frankie was pretty quiet during the NFL discussion so I asked her, “What’s your team?”

“Mine is Kansas City,” she replied.

 “Really? Me, too,” I said. “Are you from there?”

“Yep,” she answered. And then, “I need to get back home soon and see my dad.” Her voice modulated ever so slightly, like that catch you get in your throat when something pierces the heart.

About that time I noticed the boom box, pumping out Motown and soul.

“That song always reminds me of my dad,” she said, referring to a number by Teddy Pendergrass. “We talk all the time, like when I hear a song that he always liked I’ll give him a call and we’ll talk about it.”

I liked her description of this precious father-daughter relationship.

My haircut complete, I dismounted the chair and Frankie opened her arms wide and said “Come here, we gotta stick together. We’re cousins.” And so, we hugged out the troubles of the world – two Kansas City Chiefs fans in a foreign land, in a city without a team. Something about the Chiefs rotten season lent a poignancy to that moment. The team that broke records for incompetence. The team with the player who killed his girlfriend, then turned a gun on himself in front of his head coach and general manager. A season to forget.

A couple of weeks later on my next visit, I asked Frankie if she’d had any time off lately. Just making small talk.

“I was off last week,” she announced, almost proudly.

“Vacation? You take a trip?” I asked.

“No. Chemo.”

“Really?” I replied. “Oh.” I was taken aback. Didn’t know exactly how to respond to this woman I don’t know very well who just told me she has cancer.

“Are you … ok? How you doing?” I asked, with some trepidation. I didn’t exactly want to open up a sensitive subject, especially if the prognosis wasn’t good.

“I’m doing great!” she chirped. “The chemo went fine. I went every day for a week.”

“That’s terrific,” I said.

When you haven’t had cancer, it’s tougher to relate. This is a serious thing, I thought, and here I am – the worst thing I had is the mumps as a kid. I was feeling humbled in the face of this very resolute person.

“Where do you go for chemo?” I asked, just trying to keep the conversation going, partly trying to avoid awkward silence as she deftly guided the clippers over my head.

“Kaiser, in Woodland Hills.”

“Ah. Is that far for you? Where do you live?”

“I live in Carson. Just moved there. It’s not a bad drive. I’ve traveled farther for less.”

Carson to Woodland Hills is a trek. It could be 45 minutes in good traffic, two hours or more in bad. But Frankie preferred to think of it as a breeze. Probably is – compared to battling cancer.

I usually walk by Wilshire Barbers on my way home from the gym. Today, it was Friday afterhours, the golden light glinting off the ocean and painting the palm-graced streetscape. People were rushing to the 720 bus, gathering on the 3^rd Street Promenade for drinks or a little shopping. I glanced in the window of the barber shop and saw Frankie at her post. The shop was bustling, patrons wanting to look their best for the weekend.

I walked on, several steps past the front door, then suddenly planted my feet and did an about-face. I went back and looked in again. Yep, that’s what I thought I saw. There was Frankie, wearing a cap over her bald head!

A bald head is a shock to those of us who don’t have cancer. We don’t expect to see it. I associate it with the ravages of the chemo and try to imagine the pain, fear and discomfort. Still, I was happy to see Frankie working, living her life.

I walked into the barber shop, pulled off my headphones and gave Frankie a thumbs up.

“How ya doin’?” I called out over the sound of the clippers and the TV.

“Great. Good to see you,” Frankie answered with her beaming smile.

“What happened here?” I asked, pointing to her head. “Who cut your hair?” I have a tendency to ask two-part questions.

“They did it,” she said, pointing to her fellow barbers.

“Bet they had a good time,” I said, with a chuckle. “Where is it?”

“I put it in a box, at home.”

And then it hit me. Cancer patients cut off their hair because they refuse to suffer the indignity of having it come out in bunches during chemo. Frankie was beating chemo to the punch.

What’s a little hair lost when you’re fighting the battle of your life? Maybe I’ll ask Frankie to shave my head next time in a display of solidarity.

 

 

 

Main Street Mashup

My friend Vince’s sister-in-law Amelia runs a coffee shop in Santa Monica with her husband and son. Amelia hails from New England – Haverhill, Massachusetts – not far from Newburyport, where some of my wife’s family is from. I’m always quick to play the Newburyport card because I know New Englanders are a tight-knit bunch and it usually ignites the conversation.

One of the Yelp reviews of Amelia’s reads “Service is excellent and Amelia is a doll.” I showed it to her, eliciting a nervous smile; don’t know if she wasn’t moved by it or just being modest. Vince is married to Amelia’s sister Rosmarie, and Saturday mornings you’ll find most of the clan sitting on the patio outside Amelia’s Coffee & Paninis under an umbrella sipping strong coffee from big white cups and chatting about everything but southern California. I feel like I’ve hit the mother lode of authenticity.

Anyway, chatter is the universal currency here; if you have the gift of gab you’ll fit right in. But it’s not intimidating; there’s an easy, unassuming flow to the conversation.

“You just missed Michael Keaton,” says Vince. “Sat right over there. Comes here often.”

Joining Vince this morning is Jon Peretti. I picture them as “running buddies” – meaning they “run” together in a very figurative sense, not literal. The “I got your back, you got mine” kind of thing. Jon is a wiry guy, balding, sporting a day’s stubble and piercing blue eyes.

We talk about Italian surnames. I tell them my family is from northern Italy and Jon is familiar with the town. His people are from Naples. We discuss complexion – Vince having light complexion like me even though he’s also Italian.

“My father was black. Just black,” says Jon.

“Yeah, my dad had a pretty dark complexion,” I say. “He would tan at the drop of a hat. Me, I burn first.”

Jon is writing a book and currently wrestling with his new Apple laptop.

“Every time I do spell check, Word crashes,” he says. “And don’t get me started on the white palace.”

He’s referring to the Apple store, where he’s had an underwhelming if not frustrating customer experience.

“I just want to talk to someone, so I say ‘I’d like to talk to someone about my drive’ and the guy tells me I have to make an appointment,” he laments. “I can see a guy about ten feet away, so why can’t I just walk up to him and ask him? ‘You wouldn’t just walk into a dentist’s office and ask to see the dentist’, the guy says to me. ‘Let’s check the calendar and see when there’s an opening.’”

Clearly, you don’t want to cross Jon Peretti when he’s having computer trouble.

“Were they condescending?” I ask, referring to the associates at the Genius Bar.

“No, not condescending exactly,” says Jon. “It’s like the first time I worked in Utah. You speak to someone and they’re smiling and nodding at what you say but I can wave my hand in front of their face and their expression doesn’t change.”

For the next few minutes, Vince tries to troubleshoot Jon’s Mac as Jon continues to complain. I interject that I’m no devotee of Apple and have heard the new iPhone isn’t all that.

It takes me awhile to figure out Jon is originally from New York and has a pad of some sort in Kyoto, Japan. I picture an efficient little apartment, given how land there is at a premium. Soon Jon’s wife, Anya, and one of their two-year-old twins show up. The little girl’s name is Yakura. The boy is asleep in the car. Anya’s mother is also with them. Anya grew up in Lithuania, yet she talks like she’s from Long Island. Dropped r’s and stuff like that. So fricking charming.

“Anya, she makes up words half the time,” Jon says, playfully. “She’ll be going along, talking, then out comes something and I’ll say ‘what did you just say?’”

Anya, probably 15 years younger than her husband, takes it all in stride, immune to the good-natured ribbing.

They’re all precious, and I allow myself to imagine we’re sitting at a sidewalk café in Tribeca or SoHo – not Santa Monica. While Yakura munches a croissant and wanders over into the grass, Vince announces that I’m originally from Missouri. This gets Jon’s attention because his youth weightlifting team will be competing in a national tournament in Missouri the following summer. Exactly where, he’s not sure.

“Bet it will be hot in July,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have memories of my daughter playing AAU basketball tournaments in places like Springfield, Missouri and Kingsport, Tennessee in the middle of summer. At least you’re in an air conditioned gym.”

Being from the Midwest brings curiosity. People I’ve encountered just don’t spend much time thinking about anything beyond the California state line. Think about it. California has 38 million residents. It has ocean, mountains, desert, cities large and small and every climate imaginable. A nation unto itself. Why would you need anyplace or anything else in your life? I share this carefully considered opinion with Jon and Vince and they can see the wisdom. On the other hand, I assert, Midwesterners are fascinated with the world around them. Probably because we’re in middle of the country and we look to the East or West with a kind of wide-eyed awe, partly for pleasure, partly out of a sense of wanderlust.

“You can look in all directions from there,” says Jon, in between sips.

He’s right, and it speaks to the fascination I’ve always had with southern California. It’s not the Midwest. It’s something different, almost mystical. Now, I find myself embracing it.  Assimilation will help me study the natives more effectively. I took great pride in affixing California plates to my car and getting my driver’s license in the mail. Now, if I accidentally cut someone off in traffic or find myself awkwardly trying to extricate my car from a dead-end street bearing California plates, it’s somehow not as egregious or embarrassing as with out-of-state plates.

“Hmm, must be from over the mountain, doesn’t know the neighborhood,” they’ll say to themselves. You get more slack being from West Covina than being from West Plains.

By now Vince has phoned a colleague at work to ask for Apple advice. Vince would go to the end of the earth to help you with a problem. Soon, he’s commandeered Jon’s laptop and starts fiddling with it. At this point, I zone out on their diagnostics and turn my attention to Anya.

“Does he let you read what he’s writing?” I ask.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “He reads aloud to me sometimes.”

I leave it at that. While I’m sort of curious what the book is about, my Midwestern restraint prevents me from going “all in” and asking more probing questions. After all, it could be a memoir about something very personal and private. Don’t let the weightlifting thing fool you, I tell myself. This guy could be deep.

With the exception of Vince, these people are about as California as I am. Vince has lived in Los Angeles since he was 10, his Italian family having emigrated to the U.S. from Cuba. He has a slight accent that you’d peg as “something Mediterranean,” almost Hispanic sounding at times. What’s beautiful about Vince is he is his own guy. Doesn’t follow others or adhere to fads. He’s as unique as his accent. Broad-shouldered, greying mustache, an ever-present twinkle in his eye. I took to Vince immediately while on a consulting gig at a local defense contractor. No matter the stress level around him, Vince can easily summon a smile and reassuring word. He’s worked for the same company for 30+ years and will retire with a good pension. For Vince, retirement is just two years away, and I can tell he’s relishing it. With two kids in school and one just graduated, Vince swells with pride over the job he and his wife have done as parents.

“My oldest just graduated, put her resume together and is applying for jobs. I don’t want to tell her how to go about it right away, so I’m giving her six months then I may insert myself.” he says with a wry, knowing smile.

He continues: “I did tell her ‘you just gotta get a job, any job. Just get started. You can’t be too picky.’”

Vince’s kids attend Catholic schools and I ask him about Loyola High, because I’ve seen lots of license plate frames that read LOYOLA HIGH, GO CUBS. A neighbor’s son goes there. Where is it? I ask. A back-and-forth ensues between Vince and Jon until they realize I’m referring to the high school, not Loyola Marymount University.

“Loyola High – the boys’ school – is in downtown. A tough part of town,” says Vince. “But it’s a good school. A lot of the boys from our parish go there.”

I had seen highlights of the Loyola football team the previous Friday night on KTLA, but I can’t remember if they won or lost. The one thing I do remember is a tweet from an overzealous fan that was accidentally posted to the TV screen: JAMES SPANIER SUKS BALLS. GO ATA. Posted it to Facebook. Got tons of Likes.

I tell them my son graduated from another Loyola – the University in Chicago. Those Jesuits stick together, you know. Again, a reference to the Midwest (Chicago) and I never know how it will play in front of an L.A. crowd. Am I too sensitive or apologetic? After all, when meeting folks here, about the only reaction I’ve received so far regarding the Midwest is about the heat and humidity.

Still, I wouldn’t trade this cultural mashup for anything. It was time well spent.

 

 

It's the People

This blog is about human interactions and impressions. It isn’t a travel blog - an attempt to describe locations and landmarks in florid hyperbole. It's about one person’s encounter with a city that is expansive, often breathtaking and sometimes exasperating.

Of course, the risk of using such adjectives is they encourage hasty judgments and the drawing of shallow conclusions. While outsiders may characterize Los Angeles as shallow, I see it differently. Without a doubt, life can be hurried in Los Angeles, but beneath the veneer of brisk efficiency lies a complex city that warrants an unhurried and reflective examination. There are a multitude of layers here, and casual or cursory observations tend to perpetuate stereotypes and fail to do justice to the rich patina of personalities and places.

Some years ago I read Stephen Brook’s L.A. Days, L.A. Nights and couldn’t stop talking about it. Over lunch, at parties and sitting on the deck with my wife I would talk about how this book that I’d stumbled upon resonated with me. It was transformative and transcendental. Lying in bed at night and reading Brook’s work, I could picture the neighborhoods, hear the street sounds and smell the aroma of pork belly and chicken gizzards wafting from the Korean eatery just off Wilshire. This was my siren song, yet I had scant opportunity to succumb to the temptations of the City of Angels. The heart of this native Midwesterner longed to spend a lazy afternoon nursing a cup of coffee from Daily Grind while watching the world go by on Santa Monica’s colorful Main Street. But life’s events didn’t bring me to Los Angeles; I had few excuses to make the trip. Work and vacations always took me elsewhere – to some wonderful places, for sure – but the chance to truly experience LA? That remained a pipe dream for years.

By experiencing LA I mean living as a native or resident would live; not spending a weekend, sleeping in a hotel and visiting the only the locales inhabited by tourists. And just what or who is an LA native? Using the residents of our apartment building as an example, a standard definition upon which everyone can agree is elusive.

Here you have a reality TV producer originally from Rochester, New York, a roller derby queen, a trainer of service dogs, a comparative literature professor, a personal trainer to the stars (or so I’m told – never seen a celeb), several retired couples whose dossiers I have yet to fix, a young finance executive at a pharmaceutical firm and an extroverted landlady who hails from Glenview, Illinois. Some are native Californians, many are not. Each, I’m sure, would say they have had a rich experience living here. No two experiences are alike. The whole thing defies definition, if you ask me.

So, this is why I won’t attempt to capture the full spectrum of life of this entire metropolitan area. I won’t presume to represent this city in an exhaustive form. I write what I see with my eyes and know in my heart.

Each day within the boundaries of what many call The Southland has yielded experiences and encounters that could fill pages. It is a rich existence, for which I’m grateful. I’m not terribly extroverted (like my landlady) so I can only imagine what my days would be like were I chatting up everyone I meet. Yet, I’ve always savored the art of inquiry; that’s the journalist in me.

Example: The sofa we brought with us was too large for our cozy apartment, so we sold it on Craigslist to a charming young couple returning to the area after a stint in Portland. One day while walking to the hardware store I came upon an antique furniture store on Lincoln Blvd. called Courtney’s. My intuition, which usually doesn’t fail me, led me to picture a confident, attractive woman named Courtney buzzing around the store, bouncing from one customer to another with an air of superiority. I stepped inside, saw the place was barely half full of merchandise and eerily quiet. 

Approaching the back room I found a rather short, unassuming middle-aged man and another man fussing with an overstuffed armchair for a photo shoot. The middle-aged guy was Courtney. Mike Courtney, owner of Courtney’s. I told him I was looking for a sofa, attempted to describe our requirements and somehow found myself engaged in a fascinating conversation about the history of the store and Mike’s business prospects. Turns out Mike was being compensated to vacate his property to make way for the construction of luxury apartments – this being Santa Monica’s trendy downtown and a magnet for young, hip urbanites. For the time being, Mike planned to conduct his business online – selling to the “trade”, as he says: movie and TV set designers. In time he would look for a new property that would hopefully be more affordable.

I can’t remember how we abandoned the discussion of my sofa and got on the subject of Mike’s great uncle. Mike’s uncle was a cardinal, buried, in fact, at Notre Dame University. You a Notre Dame fan, he asked. No, I said. (In fact, I used to despise Notre Dame as a child – for no good reason – and bet against them every year in the family bowl game pool.)

“My uncle was a real character,” said Mike. “You’ll never guess who he was best friends with.”

I couldn’t begin to imagine, although for the sake of playing along I probably said something like “Bing Crosby.”

“Nope. And I’m kind of embarrassed to say. J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Wowww, no kidding?”

“I’m a gay man, and you know what they said about Hoover,” he said, with a wink. “So I’m wondering. Did he and my uncle have some kind of …” the voice trailing off but I knew where he was going.

The last couple of minutes of this conversational thread dealt with something about Hoover sending the FBI trainees through Notre Dame and how Mike’s great uncle was an operative in all of this.

This was not what I expected to find inside Courtney’s. I’ll probably never see Mike Courtney again, but that chance encounter made a memory. I could have had that encounter in Chicago or Philadelphia or Albany instead of a mile from the Pacific Ocean. When you think of LA, Mike Courtney doesn’t immediately spring to mind.

Guess there's no such thing as a typical Angeleno.