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.


   

Got My Soul Vaccination

Just off the 101 in Agoura Hills, on one of those streets Midwesterners call a frontage road, sits a modest strip mall from the 1950s. Instead of big box stores or name brands, you’ll find purveyors of sewing supplies, organic pet food, a blind and drapery store and a place called The Canyon Club. The façade is more rugged than L.A. chic – stucco and brick, dark wooden beams, coach lights. Inside is a cavernous two-story hall flanked by bars with an elevated seating area in the rear. Giant multi-pointed, luminescent stars hang from the ceiling, adding a whimsical element. This is a well-known venue for live music and comedy. Artists on their way up or down play here, and the calendar is always packed. A sampling of upcoming acts: B.B. King, Kenny Loggins, Merle Haggard, Rick Springfield, Sinbad. You get the picture.

This legendary venue – worn but serviceable – was the perfect place to see the timeless soul/funk band Tower of Power. A West Coast original, T.O.P. was founded in Oakland in the late 60s by a bunch of guys who were inspired by the rhythmic sounds emanating from Detroit, Philly and their own backyard. In fact, the East Bay has always been a fertile incubator for a diverse array of original music, and T.O.P. has that sound that conjures up visions of the gritty underbelly of the Bay Area, inhabited by streetwise guys with a sentimental side.

I’ve been a fan since high school. I acquired the Back to Oakland album in ’74; I think it was a promotional copy from the college radio station where my older brother worked. While everyone else was listening to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd, the band geeks were drawn to any group with horns – Woody Herman, Maynard Ferguson, Thad Jones and Mel Lewis and of course the rockers Chicago and Blood, Sweat and Tears. Over the years I’ve caught Tower of Power’s shows in some unlikely places – at a little gem of a performing arts center in Brampton, Ontario in the dead of winter and on the courthouse square in Paola, Kansas on a warm summer’s evening. I knew they would soon make their annual appearance at The Canyon Club, so I bought two tickets and invited my high school buddy Robb, a trumpet player and music educator who lives in Anaheim. A savvy southern Californian, Robb was smart enough to avoid the two-hour drive (one way) and I didn’t blame him. Our 20-year-old daughter was my next choice. She’s a musician herself and inherited our appreciation for musicianship regardless of genre.

So, off we went. Arriving early because I’d read dicey reviews about the way Canyon Club accommodates general admission ticket holders, we fell in line at the door behind a guy carrying a trombone case. That’s interesting, I thought. Does this guy think he’s going to sit in with the band? No sooner had I begun pondering this than we were hustled inside, sporting our plastic wristbands.

It took a minute or so to adjust to the darkness – except for the blazing oranges and blues illuminating the performers on stage. The opening band was a group of guys who looked to be in their 20s, a wailing guitar solo, nice chord progressions, I thought, yet their style was difficult to pinpoint. Kind of bluesy, a bit reminiscent of Jeff Beck, only with whiny vocals. (Hannah later informed me their lyrics were sophomoric.)

The people watching is as good as the music. When the crowd responds positively and everyone is grooving, well, that’s magic. On this night, the clientele was made up of 50-something women with big hair and exaggerated heels drinking white wine, balding white guys showing their age and expansive weight, a few hipsters with facial hair and rakish hats, and a large  contingent of folks in my demographic – nondescript, middle aged. At one time these people were the youth of the nation, dancing on tables and shimmying to the sounds of a much younger Tower of Power. They are the inoculated fans (hence the song Soul Vaccination) who own all the records, maybe even the DVD of that live performance on German television. They’ve seen the band at Tahoe, in Dallas, Detroit and Boston. And Tower of Power has aged with us. Four of the band’s ten members are original founders – well into their 60s and still going strong.

It didn’t take long to notice a weird dynamic in the room. The Canyon Club figures it can make more money by seating a couple hundred people before the show and serving an overpriced, underwhelming dinner. Dozens of tables were arrayed in the front of the room closest to the stage. Waiters with huge trays were pushing their way through the GA crowd, security (if you want to call it that) kept admonishing us to stand back and make room. It started to spoil the anticipation and became almost suffocating. Did I pay good money for this?

Shortly after 9:00, a voice offstage intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the one and only, the original Tower of Power!” The room erupted into a combination of applause, shouting and whistling.

Tower of Power is hip-shakin’, bone-rattlin’ music, characterized by a rock-solid funk beat, scritchy rhythm guitar and bumpy bass punctuated by exuberant horn blasts. Yet very few of those at the tables stood up for the performance, which was unfortunate, because the beat is infectious. Maybe this is an illustration of how old we’ve become, I mused. Seeing the seated guests in front, leader and alto saxophonist Emilio Castillo greeted us with “How you doin’, LA? Aha. Laid back, as usual.”

These guys prove you’re never too old to groove. With a solid complement of youthful members, Tower of Power never fails to bring the energy. The first blast pins you against the wall, sets your spirit soaring and before you know it your muscles are involuntarily reacting to the beat, maybe you’re nodding your head or tapping your foot. One guy behind me – looking like he could be a banker or an insurance salesman – had fallen into a reverie, eyes half-closed, head swaying like a bobble head doll. Others mimicked little dance steps, a few stabbed the air with their fists in synch with the beat.

One of the fiftysomething matrons ambled toward us, drink in hand, and slid in front of my daughter as if invited. She uttered a few words to no one in particular and I couldn’t figure out if she was with someone or just moving about the room on her own. A West Hills housewife, maybe, or a divorcee from Tarzana? She had probably grooved to these same songs 40 years ago, maybe caught T.O.P. at the Fillmore in San Francisco. The thing about T.O.P. fans is we never tire of hearing the same songs year after year, tour after tour, concert after concert. It’s nice to know there are some constants in life. Oh, sure, T.O.P. continues to crank out new stuff, but it’s all rooted in the same soul tradition.

“The great thing about playing in Los Angeles,” said Emilio Castillo, “is all the musicians come out. Please welcome to the stage our good friend, trombonist Nick Lane.”

I’d never heard of Nick, nor had most of the patrons, but in the spirit of the evening we gave him a raucous welcome. Anyone who’s a friend of T.O.P. is a friend of ours. And out trotted the guy we’d seen carrying the trombone case! He really was sitting in! Trombonists toil in relative obscurity; it’s not part of T.O.P.’s normal instrumentation. But, it complements the other horns and packs additional punch. I quickly looked up Nick Lane on my phone. I learned he’s an L.A. studio musician, having collaborated with Aaron Neville, Bonnie Raitt, Eric Burdon, Neil Diamond, No Doubt, Rod Stewart – an eclectic bunch. A native of Marshalltown, Iowa. Small town boy makes the big time. You could tell the guy was holding his own and having a blast, and we were like proud parents, urging him on.

This is the music of California, I thought. Of course it’s universal – loved by fans around the world. But whenever I hear T.O.P. I can’t help but think about those early days when this band of soul mates from Oakland was bending ears and turning heads, their early fame racing down the coast and delighting the masses in southern California as well.

After the encore, we hit the exits; it was past bedtime for us old funkers! Out into the crisp night air, the music of a bygone era still ringing in our heads yet facing the realization that this is 2013 and there’s a big city out there and millions who’ve never heard of Tower of Power. It was a surreal reentry, but I suppose every fan has that moment when they leave a concert, experiencing that euphoria and just knowing they can hit the Play button in their brain at any time and keep the spirit alive.

Like Father, Like Son (kinda)

Local TV and radio personalities were once part of every city’s identity. Chicago had Bill Kurtis and Walter Jacobsen on WBBM-TV and the quintessential Top 40 disc jockeys like Larry Lujack of WLS radio. New York had Cousin Brucie on WABC and Don Imus on WNBC, Ernie Anastos and Roseanne Scamardella on Eyewitness News. Even the smaller cities proudly laid claim to their own crown jewels – KMOX in St. Louis, KOA in Denver and WWL in New Orleans.

At one time, L.A. boasted a bevy of AM radio stations with considerable reach and influence: KFI, KHJ, KRLA, KMPC and KFWB. L.A. radio gave us Gary Owens (who became the announcer on TV’s Laugh-In), the morning team of Lohmann and Barkley, The Real Don Steele, Charlie Van Dyke and Shadoe Stevens. From Valencia to Venice, San Dimas to Santa Monica, every listener had their favorite radio companion, and everyone was tuned in. There wasn’t a kitchen counter without a transistor radio and car radios were an essential traveling companion.

They say the Golden Age of Radio was the 30s and 40s, but the 60s and 70s were the Golden Age of local radio, and each market had its own unique sound. After all, listeners in Boston are not the same as listeners in Miami. Lifestyles, climate and customs vary, and so did the programming nuances of the radio stations catering to those audiences. While the playlists were often the same, local tastes dictated the flavor of local radio, manipulated by high-energy disc jockeys who mixed a multitude of audio sources like fine chefs. When you heard a personality didn’t make it in a particular market, it was often because he didn’t understand his audience or couldn’t deliver that elusive X factor cherished by the audience.

Today’s radio landscape in Los Angeles is different. Sure, you’ll still find a few drive-time personalities that manage to distinguish themselves from the pack: Ryan Seacrest, Shotgun Tom Kelly and two guys named Kevin and Bean. But, short of Seacrest, few if any jocks are household names and listeners have more options than radio, thanks to the viral and instantaneous nature of social media and the indispensability of mobile devices.

There is, however, one LA radio personality who upholds some of the old traditions.

Tim Conway, Jr. would probably be the first to admit he’s swimming against the current and that there’s no fighting the inevitability of social media. Conway hosts a weeknight show on KFI (640 on your AM dial) that beams clear across the Western United States from studios in Burbank. It’s unapologetic in its mainstream appeal and hearkens back to the traditional talk radio format. Not like today’s talk radio, fueled by political agendas. Nope, it’s a look at the stories of the day through an irreverent lens. And, oh, does he have a treasure trove from which to choose: Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend, Lance Armstrong’s much ballyhooed confessional and a constant stream of developments involving law officers trying to keep the peace in this sprawling, densely-populated metropolis.

Conway can be garrulous, funny, sarcastic, self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing all at once. It’s hard to believe this guy is the son of the soft-spoken, unassumingly hilarious Tim Conway from the Carol Burnett Show. Sure, you remember him if you’re of a certain age. The diminutive, balding guy with the understated antics.

The younger Conway carries on like a house afire, a runaway freight train. His wingman – newscaster Aron Bender – has a Conway-esque voice so you often can’t tell them apart. Bender will sometimes challenge Conway’s shoot-from-the-hip hectoring, but his primary role is serving up current events for Conway’s commentary. Bender is the front-man for a still formidable news operation – a point of pride for the station in an era when radio news seems to be marginalized.

The show’s greatest value is its ability to produce gratuitous laughter. Conway’s wit is above average, while his father was the real comedic genius. Quipped the elder Conway once to his son: "Comedy is in your blood. Too bad it's not on your show." (So, comedy is in the eye of the beholder.) Instead, Conway and his crew take a more surgical approach to generating laughs, using one of the oldest tricks in the radio book: taking liberties with recorded statements of newsmakers.

A weekly feature is What the Hell Did Jesse Jackson Say, billed as Southern California’s longest-running radio game show. Conway’s producer combs Jesse Jackson speeches, looking for phrases that are virtually unintelligible. Conway will then play the soundbite over and over until a listener can interpret it correctly. The winner receives a prize; I can’t remember what it is, but that’s immaterial. There’s something funny – in a very juvenile sense – about repeatedly hearing bursts of the Jesse Jackson patois. (No offense to Rev. Jackson. I was honored when he put his hand on my wife’s belly when she was pregnant with our daughter.)

Examples: “Bowel weela fod” is “battle we fought.” “Be arrever gee” is “be a refugee.” “Come ow wig” is “come our way.”

In a similar vein, Conway and Bender poked fun at famed foodie Paula Deen. When it was revealed that Deen suffered from diabetes, Saturday Night Live’s Kristen Wiig did a spot-on impression. The following Monday, Conway had a field day with Wiig’s impersonation, playing drop-ins such as “booter and awwrl.” (butter and oil). It had me belly laughing so hard I was getting a good core workout.

The world according to Tim Conway is a middle-class place, curmudgeonly at times but mostly well-intentioned and good-natured. His key demographic must be middle-aged white guys – the same people who remember watching his pop on Carol Burnett as youngsters. The only time he rankles me is when he rants about the decline of downtown L.A. As a recent arrival to this city, I want to believe things are looking up.

If you tune in to Conway’s show without knowing where it originates, you probably wouldn’t guess Los Angeles. The show’s mainstream personality speaks to the fact that southern California – for all of its diversity and an otherworldly ethos – has a very mainstream element. Think of the seemingly endless suburbs in the San Fernando Valley or the once-dynamic defense and aerospace industry which fueled the dizzying growth of the South Bay. There’s an all-American substance behind the veneer of style in the Southland – if you want proof just examine the body of work of two guys named Tim Conway. Not flashy, just funny.

 

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.