In the land of interstates, subdivisions and shopping centers; A romantic-traditionalist such as myself is always hoping to see a return of the American train. Not that passenger rail ever went away completely in the states. There is still the rolling tin can of clickety-clack Amtrack. But what is missed are the great mainline passenger trains that saw their peak sometime between the 1940s and the 60s. And then their retreat began. The equipment fell into disrepair. Vital right-o-ways were pulled up and frequently built on in the quest for short-term profits. The great terminal buildings were demolished, or simply let go to seed. Great depots of iron and stone became unofficial shelters for skid-row dwellers. The stations were often left in the no-man's land of massive demographic shifts in the American scene. Invariably, a small town's Railroad Street would display the pen-ink tattoos of boarded up pharmacies and abandoned bowling alleys, and the blood-crusted bandages of the employment center and the Salvation Army. They are the ruins of mid-century American civilization. I only came around in '69. It was all over by my time.

Every few years they start talking about restoring the great American rail network. We recently passed a ballot initiative in California to begin the study, of the application of a massive bond funding to be applied to some future high-speed train connecting Sacramento, San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego. Everyone's crossing their fingers, but no one's holding their breath. 

In the meantime, rail enthusiasts can catch a ride on restored short-line, such as the Virginia & Truckee RR in Virginia City, NV. Local volunteers and rail buffs, aided by state and federal grants have put "the Queen of the shortlines" back into service for tourist runs. I rode it myself yesterday, from Virginia City three or so miles to Gold Hill. I have to say it's pretty cool. The train I was on was not drawn by one of the V&T's restored steam locomotives, but instead by a 1950s center-cab-diesel purchased from the U.S. Navy. The line passes through two marvelous old tunnels. A volunteer dressed in cowboy gear gives a lighthearted commentary on the history of the comstock lode and then the train is "robbed" by a gang of buffoons. The take is given over to the Shriner's Children's hospital. 

The hope is that the line will grow a little bit more every year. Eventually they may be able to restore service to Reno. A train doesn't have to go 300 mph to turn me on. If it's got steel wheels and an unusual view, and I can rest my head against a window and drift away in the train's steady, certain movement, then it's headed in the right direction.

June 19, 2009

Attorney General Edmund G. Brown

State of California DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE

Dear Mr. Dow,

Thank you for your correspondence to Attorney General Edmund G. Brown Jr.

We have reviewed your correspondence and determined that the following law enforcement agencies are in a much better position to render assistance to you in this matter. If you wish to pursue the matter further, we suggest you contact:

Los Angeles Police Department

150 N. Los Angeles Street

Los Angeles, CA 90012

877/275-5273

California Highway Patrol

2901 West Broadway

Los Angeles, CA 90041

323/259-2000

We hope that our effort to help you identify the correct government office to address your concern will be beneficial to you. 

Again, thank you for contacting the Office of Attorney General Edmund G. Brown Jr.

Sincerely,

C. Hallinan

Public Enquiry Unit For EDMUND G. BROWN JR. Attorney general

************************************************************************************

They say that when you write letters, you get responses. I have to admit that I'm really just figuring out the whole institutional-interaction thing. The above reply from the Attorney General's office is something of a milestone in my process.  I wrote a letter to several government agencies addressing the issue of unlicencsed vehicles on the streets of L.A. The attorney General's office replied and politely informed me that I was barking up the wrong tree. Or in their words...

We hope that our effort to help you identify the correct government office to address your concern will be beneficial to you. 

I had to laugh at that line. I'm like; Okay okay, clearly I don't shit. I write to the Attorney General to complain about psychotic maniacs in Los Angeles who remove their vehicle's liscence plates in order to get away with mischief. And those guys come back to me and say it's police business and I should go bother them. And it makes sense now. You have to work your way up the chain of command. As Attorney General, Edmund "Jerry" Brown is the top-cop in the state. I figured all the police chiefs answered to him, but that ain't the order of things. So I'm learning as I go along.

I'm also learning that there is a language accepted among gentle people, and I need to brush up on mine. The words need to be non-accusing, no matter how pissed off I am about something evil that's going on in my town (and there's a lot). But no matter. You still keep your voice down, address everyone as Mr. or Missus, and be a model of composure. Anything else is counter-productive, not to mention dangerous. Writing official letters is an interesting process. It makes me think of the notes that a solitary researcher or scientist would keep on an ongoing experiment. It's the document. It's in writing. You have to look at what you thought then versus what you think now. You can't hide from yourself. All the false and egotistical stuff will grow bolder, darker, smellier and harder to deny. I love it.

My conclusion is this. The old-fashioned letter is the primary tool for interacting with government. It's quiet and it's slow - almost imperceptible in its advance of progress. But street protests and demonstrations unsettle me. They offer little in the way of reflection or self-examination. Instead, the crowd with its banners and drums elicits a kind of mob catharsis, full of sex and romance and power. Not so good for me. I think it's better I write letters, so at least if I'm wrong I'll have a left a paper-trail from which to embarrass myself down the road. From embarrassment springs the desire for change!

NEXT STEP will be letters to LAPD and California Highway Patrol about the glaring problem (in my opinion) of unliscenced vehicles on the highways and by-ways of Southern California. I'll work on my wording a bit; Try to be less accusing and antagonistic. Maybe I'll learn something new about why the way things are the way they are. But we have to do something in L.A.

8^th June 2009

California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, State Capitol Building, Sacramento, Calif. 95814

California Attorney General Edmund G. Brown, P.O. box 944025, Sacramento 94244-2550

Director of DWV George Valverde, Department of Motor Vehicles, 2415 1^st Avenue mail station F 101 Sacramento, CA 95818

Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, mayor@lacity.org

 

Dear Sirs,

            I’m writing to express concern over what I think is a dangerous situation on the streets of Los Angeles. There is an astonishing number of vehicles being operated without license plates. And by that I mean they have no visible temporary plate or piece of paper in the window. I’ve seen many cars with Oakland Raiders plates, as well as DUB Motorsports plates, and often plates with the name of a car club. At night, driving in Hollywood I’ve witnessed groups of four or five black SUVs, driving fast together, none of which have any visible markings.  

            This reminded me of a story a friend recounted. While he was fueling up his vehicle in Long Beach, a black SUV with tinted glass pulled up next to him, and out jumped two men, one with a semi-automatic handgun and the other with what appeared to be a detective’s badge hanging from a chain around his neck. The two men yelled POLICE! Show me your hands! They shoved him face down against the hood of his car, as he tried to protest that they were making a mistake. The two men removed his wallet from his pocket, ran back into the SUV and drove off. The vehicle had no license plate, so the fellow who got robbed never knew who or what hit him.

It’s always been my understanding that any vehicle operating on the streets or highways of California had to have an identifying, clearly visible license plate. And yet I see numerous vehicles operating without plates. It is disturbingly common. Today I was waiting at a traffic light on Riverside and Figueroa. The car next to me in the turn lane had no license plate. I saw a police car in my rearview mirror, and I wondered if the cop would notice the absence of a plate on the car next to me. The officers drove right by. A visitor to Los Angeles from Canada was sitting next to me in the car, and she was completely astonished that a car with no plate would get a pass like that. And she’s seen it everywhere in L.A.

Driving in Los Angeles can be very stressful. I avoid taking my car on the road as much as I can. But this proliferation of unlicensed vehicles gives me the sense that anyone could crash into my car, and just split. Or worst still, hit me when I’m on my bicycle, and just leave the scene rather than face an infraction. And there’s nothing anyone can do. I cannot afford to carry an uninsured driver policy on my insurance. I don’t think this state of affairs should be continued for one day longer. Police should pull over any car that doesn’t have a license plate, and of those vehicles, any one without insurance or registration should be impounded.  If someone’s plate has ostensibly been stolen, then the vehicle owner must report it to police on the day, and acquire a temporary, visible document which identifies the vehicle to others. It’s the same rules we all have to follow. To allow unlicensed vehicles to continue operating in a city like Los Angeles would constitute a complete failure of government to carry out the basic functions of public order and security.

I hope I have expressed my concern in an intelligible way, and the individuals and agencies which deal with vehicle registration and enforcement can work together and get all the undocumented vehicles off the road. We stand to gain from the increase in transit ridership and carpools, as well as from the improvement to air quality and urban congestion.

 

From a concerned Californian,

Ian Vincent Dow                                                                                                          

I learned recently with sadness of the passing of a friend and one-time colleague whom I'd not seen since auld lang syne. Claire Morrisette, the co-founder of Monde a Bicyclette, was a champion of cyclists on the local level. And she carried that message as a sister to the call for global justice and an urgent intervention to save the planetary environment. As far as advancing cyclist's Rights, she taught me everything I know.

I landed a job at Monde a Bicyclette in the summer of 1992, the year I returned from South America. There was scarcely any work in Montreal then (I'm not sure there is now) so I was thrilled to make $200/week for an organization that advocated cycling in the city. This is where I met Bicycle Bob Silverman, the legendary old-school bicycle advocate, and of course Claire who had co-founded the organization with him. The two were more or less permanent members of it.
Le Monde a Bicyclette was a perfect organization in that it welcomed the ideas of everyone who attended the 9 am Monday meetings. All were welcome to come and pitch ideas which may improve the conditions for cyclists in Montreal. Lack of access to commuter rail was hot then, as were dangerous underpasses on which bikes had no space and risked being dragged to hell by an oblivious cube-van driver. The commuter rail agency capitulated to us, after theatrical protests at their stations with our bikes. It was really cute. And what a great cause. I believed in it then and I believe in it now.

Claire and Bob approached their work in Montreal transportation issues with a message of global evangelism. They were the first people I ever heard speak about global-warming. They loved volleyball above all other games becasue it had no star positions. The team rotates and everybody gets to serve. No quaterbacks thank you. They were into Cuba, and the idea of its rebirth as a velo-centric society such as the low countries are. These guys were velo-rutionairies.

There were twelve or so of us working at Monde a Bicyclette that summer. I was 22 at the time, just returned from a year in South America, and full of desire to do something meaningful. Claire taught us how to identify a social ill, or a problem in the municipal system (such as unfair conditions imposed on cyclists) and then it was about working out a way to get the government to do what we wanted. With twelve people working in concert on a particular problem, it was hard not to succeed. And if there was a set-back in one of our projects it would be carried forward to the next week's Monday coordination meeting. The individual who had brought the issue to the group would be carrier of it from week to week, responsible to update the group on progress or solicit new ideas and takes on how to solve the problem. It could be slow as the I.R.S. but just as irresistible. There's no way to stop a truly good idea.

Our cell at Mondo Bicyclette interacted and kept relationships with sister organizations in other towns. There was BIKES NOT BOMBS out of Boston. They were deep into velo-rution, doing bike outreach in Central America and poor communities around Boston. TRANSPORTATION ALTERRNATIVES carried the message in their cool New York City way, and we were down with them. We inter-related in the manner of homegrown resistance groups. So each team had auspcious traits unique to their town. And we were damn proud to be from Montreal. In a world of hot activists, we were as mellow as a ride through Parc Lafontaine in august. That was Claire Morrissette's influence as I see it now. She was a memorably gracious person, having something in her way of being that I see now as characteristically French. Among a lot of cycling activists who don't always have the greatest sense of style, Claire always looked good. She was a stylishly attractive lady. Hers was the manner of a humble virtuosa, detached and yet highly attentive to those around her. I remember clearly now the way in which she received people and heard them. I see now that she thought much more than she spoke.

Returning to Montreal this summer after so many years in the states, I am floored by the degree to which the city has embraced everything that Claire and Bicycle Bob advocated. Beyond bike racks and painted pathways, the government has gone a long way to figuring out the order of priority for ways of getting around the city. Montreal (arguably) is years ahead of New York, Boston and San Francisco, just by the numbers of riders, and the diversity of their ages and stations in life. It's decades ahead of Los Angeles and the cities of the south west. The day I picked up an old Globe And Mail and found Claire's obituary, it set off a kaleidoscopic shift in my seeing and a curing of the cement that is comprehension. We were so right. Claire was so right. Figure out your message and then stay on it, just like the bad guys do. Life is dream in which you're whacking baseballs over the fence.

Claire Morrisette was born on April 6, 1950, in Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue, Que. She died of breast cancer on July 20, 2007. She was 57. She is survived by her partner, Pierre Giasson, and by her siblings, Jean, Andree, Claude and Pierre. She also leaves five nieces. (Globe And Mail).

I wonder if there is a new architecture just waiting for city-dwellers to discover it. In every town I visit it seems the locals feel that they have the best urban environment possible. That could be true in the cottages of the Hollywood Hills, or the tenements of Chinatown, N.Y. Everyone seems to see the world around them as naturally occurring.

Take the example of Montreal. I'm here for the Summer, and I very much enjoy walking the alleys of the city to see the backs of the buildings and all the unregulated stuff people do there. There are motorcycle garages, and illegally renovated back sheds with flower boxes on their second story windows. This is the part of the city which has yet to be completely regulated as far as building appearance goes. Whereas on the building fronts you cannot make a significant alteration without going before a citizens committee which examines the historic relationship of the building to the environment. Or something like that. But they still let you do what you want as far as the alleys go, though the municipal architects and concerned citizens *watchdog* groups I believe are zeroing in on regulating what can be done to a building's caboose. Good, bad or indifferent.

I was saying to a good friend in the area, how I thought it would be exciting to see a new kind of building style emerge from the Mile-End neighborhood. It would be a form and living design which encouraged and facilitated certain activities, such as creative work or socializing with neighbors. Or it would embody whatever it was people aspired to in life, rather than one which simply dealt with life's problems. Having lived in Los Angeles for four years, I came to realize how much I valued and relied upon my garage. This is a very Californian aspiration, to have a garage - along with a ranch home or bungalow. And that particular style of dwelling I'd say is drawing ever more reproach from the environmentally conscious.
But putting that aside, I wonder if there is something to be taken from the example of California and the wonders that have come out of its garages? Surfboards, skateboards, apple computers, steadi-cams. There is just an amazing amount of really cool things that have come out of the backyard garage/workshop. And I'm not even bringing up bands.

But my Montreal friend was skeptical. We don't want that, she said. We don't want this place to be California. And she went on to explain how the Montreal triplex building, with the outdoor stairs, and the backyard and breezeways; was the best possible use of space to give the most people a certain quality of life. In other words, they have attained perfection. But what about workshop space, I asked. There's no place to rebuild your motorcycle suspension, or paint signs for a political rally. It's obvious to me that every indoor space in this part of Montreal is occupied. Space is critical to developing small, artisan industries, and those are the ones that grow into big, earth shaking companies. And Canada is such a big country. Hello suburbia!

My friend's real point about architecture in the city being unregulated, is that it would quickly fill up with custom homes for wealthy individuals. There would be even fewer people per square foot than now. It would be like L.A. in other words. Big garages for all the pimp cars. Hot tub on the roof. Maybe a Texas Hold-em room! But if the only alternative is Le Corbusier's school of urbanism as a utopian social project, well, I'll be out in the pool.

THE HEAT IS ON

here in the city of HELL ON WHEELS. Los Angeles is going to get hot in the summer of 07. And I can only watch and contemplate. The streets here are wild. Every inch of pavement is occupied by cars going to seemingly every other inch of L.A. Unlicenced vehicles are common and enjoy the anonymity of the balaclava. Cars are toys, weapons, prostheses and hearses.

It's hard to know where to start a discussion about transit in L.A. It is so unmanageable, as to be incorrigible. No one is in charge, or even thinking about the city's direction. The governors and mayors of Southern California cities just dispense budgets and manage relationships. And a massive city of gridlocked, single-occupant, sport utility vehicles burns up it's savings on gas and valet parking.

When it was only a question of 1970s smog affecting the health of Angelenos, they could accept it if they got to keep their cars. But now we know that the consequence of a city that depends of automobiles for even one mile trips to run errands. It's not morally correct. It has terrible consequences for the ecology of the planet. And it has quality of life costs for the people here who have to muddle through it.

The suburbs around greater Los Angeles are vast. From Valencia to Temecula, to Irvine and Anaheim and all the way up to Calabasas - developers are filling in every last canyon and draining the few stream that remain here. In their place are golf courses, strip malls and private communities. Every one drives their cars everywhere. I'm not aware of any check on this sytem of sprawl. But the developers who can offer a two-bedroom house in L.A. county for $400,000 will get water hookups out in the desert for the lawns of these spec-towns, served by Box stores. And all those cars are pouring onto already clogged freeways. California can't afford to build freeways at the rate developers throw up their Cosco mansions.

If someone in the L.A. city government would come out and say, we would like to see people ride bikes, skateboards and scooters. We want to see walkable communities and we will support them by responding to warnings about dangerous intersections for bikes and peds. But there is no response from the city when a pedestrian gets killed in a crosswalk. At most they will post a cop at the spot for a week to hand out tickets and make the city a little money. Until someone else gets smashed to pieces by a car. Then the cop comes back.

If there was the least boost from Mayor Villaraigosa, to talk about the kind of city want to build for the future. But there is nothing in the way of leadership. The L.A. city government *servants* ride around in Ford Expeditions with tinted glass, just like the gangsters who ride around in their domination wagons, looking for some reason to get into it with people, and then run them over or shoot them.

This sad phenomena will probably drag Los Angeles down economically. More and more the only affordable housing is in the counties 40 or 50 miles outside of LA city, and those commuting in will be bled out just paying for gas to run those government subsidized SUVs and trucks. It's the same form of cancer that is killing General Motors and Ford, the United States armed forces and the nation of Iraq. It is the greed of large corporations that have our government in their back pocket.

Wake up L.A. We're building our future in a hot, ungovernable third world city. Every time we fill up the car, we make a billionaire richer so he can buy more influence in Dick Cheney's office.

A.W.O.L. The Unexcused Absence Of America’s Upper-classes From The Military And How It Hurts Our Country
Frank Schaeffer

I heard this author on NPR’s TO THE POINT this afternoon. He makes the case that America’s all-volunteer military has become a warrior-class. Schaeffer likened America’s relationship to the military like that of the Persian Empire, with imperial projects all over the known world.
Those who join the service will be the ones to define its character. The navy may be more liberal than the army, mainly because it is immovably based in coastal areas. San Diego and Seattle are examples of navy towns. And a couple of famous Democrat Presidents came out of navy careers. Kennedy and Carter both had their own ships. The navy is indeed more blue than the other branches of the service. The navy guys have probably been into tattoos longer.
The air force on the other hand is in Colorado Springs. I think that’s about as far as you can get from the oceans in America. I’m not sure if there’s a worthwhile comparison between the forces. I saw a TV special about the growing Evangelical presence among Air Force officers. The implication was that this was splintering the officer corps, and affecting commands and promotions. That gave me a small chill. Those guys are missile command.
What this got me thinking was that the military is reflecting more and more the views of the hardcore red-states. I’ve discussed this with friends and we ask the question over and over: How is it that the Republicans have the exclusive on defining patriotism? It’s like they’ve wired it so that when someone questions the war, or questions the President himself, it hurts the feelings of the people serving in the armed forces. I’ve been around some active duty marines recently and it’s my opinion that you can’t speak against the war in the presence of the uniform. It’s just not cool. I suppose the people who wanted this war understood that when they embarked on the project. The harder you try to pull back, the tighter it ratchets down. Operation fishhook.
The author concludes that we need a draft to restore the All American-ness of the armed forces. Very interesting...

I tried an unknown narcotic herb yesterday. At least it was unknown to me. I had only just walked into a friend's livingroom and sat down, when he and two other guys I barely know began to tell me about this stuff they'd all just tried. Salvia Darluria I think it was called. Noah, the kid from Canada pronounced it proudly and knowledgably. Like a lifelong herbalist tells some party-goers about his most interesting field discovery. Nodding his head very slowly and smiling inwardly.

I need to say now that I don't often take new, unknown drugs at the spur of the moment, such as at dinnertime on President's day. But Noah the weed-grower always had a handle on this stuff. He read High Times, he was hip to all kinds of strains of indoor cannabis from Vancouver and Oaksterdam. Noah said that this was a simple, herbal narcotic availible in tobacco shops. It comes in a little bag and looks like dark, shredded chewing tobacco leaves. When I agreed to try it, Noah made me a bong load of the strange stuff (salvia!), mixed with a bit of weed to give it body. I will remmeber for a long time how those black leaves turned orange as I sucked the oxygen and flames through them.

The bong gurgled GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK GLUNK.

With a lungful of mystery, I put the bong down on the table, and returned the stare the three chaps were giving me. It seemed they could barley conceal laughter. Noah handed me an electric lap steel guitar, and I put in on my lap. He put a jar in my left-hand. Play that thing man, he said. I still wasn't feeling the full onset of the buzz. What the hell could this be I thought. It's over-the-counter, sage based extract. I thought it couldn't possibly be stronger than RUSH. Headshops always have herbal replacemenst for sale. Bullshit I've always thought.

But my eyes felt like they were swelling. There was heat and outward pressure on my eyes. It wasn't unpleasant yet, I thought. But at the steady rate it's increasing, it's not going to be nice in a moment. imagined I must have looked like someone who got a hundred wasps stings on the eyes. Or maybe bad movie makeup, like Rocky V. But I could no longer see. I laughed nonetheless. Hey, I can't see man!

I was out for a while they tell me. I only remember coming back slowly to the present moment in time. This was the part I'll never ever forget.

These three guys are still sitting
across from me in the 1970s panelled livingroom,
but there is a hot white electric neon frame
around my view,
and the guys are arranged like
figures on a playing card.
And they're fucking all laughing at me.
They guy on my right is really big
he has thick red hair,
He looks like John Goodman,
and he's laughing exactly like Fred Flintstone.
He didn't fit in the scene.

And then I was pulled backwards. There was something tethered to the bottom of my brain, and it pulled me backwards in the chair like a spinning car on the carnival Zipper ride. In a rush of vertigo I was spun upside down, and another version of myself, and the whole setting of the room that looked like a court card flipped into its place. I was down below and there was another me sitting up there. A wave of panic came over me.

I don't like this.

And then I felt that heavy gravititional pull on my cortex, and the Zipper ride flipped the room around again. I was back on top, and the ersatz moment of reality was down below. Or was it? Which one of these is the one I belong in. Someone is fucking with me. I'm going to lose my place in the universe. Someone was lughing and I hated it.

We were shuffling through frames of time, so slowly that I could see the edge of the frame, like an optcial printer slowing down film footage and and pulling out to show the sprocket holes. I hated it. I wanted to get off the ride, but the ride operator didn't know that I was up at the top of the Zipper, and I was spinning round, from moment to moment, and I didn't know which one was the past and which was the presnt. I could see both at once and they were pretty much the same.

I could also say that the passing of moments resembled the plastic number leaves that flip downwards on analog clock radios. I came back really slow. I hated that pulling on the back of my head. Sean the red-haired guy was still laughing at nme, or so it seemed. I felt embarassed and fuming angry, like a kid who is embarassed to be woken up from a nap with everyone watching and laughing. WHO ARE YOU? I shouted at Sean.

IGOTTA GO I said, and I got up to go outside. My clothes were so hot. I went for the door, even though I no longer believed that it was the same old world outside. Everything was a clockradio that could change with a click, and the dropping of a leaf. The guys stopped me from leaving. Noah came and said, you don't want to do that. He stood in front of the door. I was not at all insistent. I had little will. Plenty of dementia.

When I recovred myself half an hour later and was laughing with guys about the strange experinece, they all agreed that I had a difficult comeback from it. I had taken a massive hit, mixed with pot. But it was worth it. I don't think I'll do it again though. From when I checked out with the swollen eyes, until that eskimo roll on the alarm clock of time space continuum, I was powerless to understand what was happening around me. And it took a long time to get everything reset again.

What the HELL was that? Two days ago President Bush makes an unexpected visit to the floor of the NYSE.

And he gets a hero's welcome. Those guys clapped for ten minutes straight. They clapped and cheered the Texas simpleton like he was F.D.R.

Do they know something we don't know?

The NYSE is to our American culture what the Oracle at Delphi must have been for the Athenians. Those guys in suits applauding Bush are the priests of our civilization. The tickers and trading boards are chicken guts which these charlatans read. The market is their voice of God.

And the market seems to like Bush. The market likes war. The market likes go-getters. Those stock traders applauded Bush like they understood his manuevers better than any of us ever will.

Democracy is pretty much finished. There is just the oracle at Wall Street. The temple of American wealth.

How about a pay-raise for American fighting forces in Iraq? If the Iraqi oil act is going to yield the kinds of profits that oil companies are planning on, then American enlisted troops should be getting one million dollars each per year. What are we paying them now? To walk on point and start firefights with committed insurgents who have NOTHING to lose? What do they get - $50,000/year? You could make more as a P.A. here in Hollywood. Let's give them a piece of the action.

Cause I mean what are they fighting for? For American security? NOT.

Are they fighting for Iraqi democracy and mid-east peace? O God no! Anybody who thinks that, at this stage, is a sorry fool.

The city looks better when I feel better. It's good to socialize you know. Stick out a hand to the guy who's alone. Hey man, what's up? This is especially true when you're with a big rollicking group. That's the best time to include other people in it. By other people I mean passers-by. It becomes a show. I see the tension in people everyday. It's right there locked in struggle with the part that wants to go beyond - everything that's ever been done before.

It's all about making an entrance. You have to come busting in. Once I heard it described as the center-stage moment. (tap the micrphone - hey, hey is this thing on?)

My friend has got this car. It's probably the most badass car in all of Los Angeles. A primer-black 1948 Buick. No door handles. No hood. Just the frightful looking old time radiator, a five foot long, painted-red valve cover on the engine. This black rockabilly sled has two shiny rebuilt *Stromberg 97s* carbuerators. The engine layout is so weird and old-fashioned he has to use a 6 volt forklift battery. Just walking up to the engine smells like a barn in Mississippi. The windshield wipers are gone and the stems are capped with chromed bullets.

The most striking detail is the wheels. Big, perfectly *whitepride* whitewalls, on red wheels with silver dogdish hubcaps. Those red, white and silver shoes look like spats on a clown. A clown who has a Tommy-gun and a cigar. Johnny, the owner of the beast, told me how he burned the springs with a blowtorch, settling them so the frame almost rests on the ground. When he drives it across a deep L.A. street wash, the rusty steel structure slams into the asphalt, scarring it. Just imagine the sound of a 1949 Buick banging off the pavement. It's an artful soundscape. Everybody laughs when they see it. Little boys with Davey Crockett hats shout hey ma, Ma! Look at that guy's car!

Inside the interior saloon of the sled, rust has sleeplessly eaten the entire floor. There are shiny steel plates tack-welded to the few steel points left on the fire wall. I can sort of see light down there, on the pavement. The emerald-green glimmer of broken glass. The three-on-the-tree column shift has an eight-ball on the end - of course. This car tops out speed-wise at 50mph. It sounds like a tugboat. When Johnny parks the car in Beverly Hills, in front of Doctor Phil's house, he flips down the visor on my side so that the licence plate shows. I ask why he has it set up like this.
"You can't have a reflective licence plate on the front of a car like this. It looks gay. The back is bad enough."

Just riding in the Buick with Johnny over to Doctor Phil's place showed me that I must have a 40s car. I'll keep my '71 so that I have something newish for when that need arises.

Sens. McCain and Lieberman were on C-SPAN last night, talking to the press over their impressions (or were they conclusions?) on the war in Iraq. I wondered how much of the expressions they bore were reflecting deep anxiety about the Iraq project. Both senators verbally expressed confidence in a victory over the enemy, and more so they spoke emotionally of the bravery and sacroifice and honor of our troops serving over there.
I had to ask myself what the real purpose of the two senator's bi-partisan trip to Iraq had been. They reported meeting with top brass over there. They said that they'd got the lay of the land. Their conclusion was that more American troops were needed to secure Baghdad and Al Anbar Province. They believed that Iraq was still winnable, but that winning was contingent on sending more GIs over.

I thought to myself what a bummer 2007 must be appearing for those people. For the marines and soldiers. But according to Sens. Lieberman and McCain, and to use McCain's exact words, folowing the status quo and not committing greater forces to Iraq, will surely end in defeat. In other words we're losing. There's some scary honesty.
And in the unlikely event that the whole enterprise in Iraq ends in defeat, either by failure to committ more troops, or if it was never winnable in the first plac, McCain resssures us that it will not be the end of civilization as we know it. It will be bad, but I think he's trying to say it won't result in nuclear annihilation. We're not quite at the book of revelations yet.

If the U.S. gets thrown out of Iraq, as we were in Vietnam, it is likely we will see the middle east redrawn on Sunni-Shiite lines. The borders drawn up at the end of WWI will be redefined. The moderates won't have a chance. Maybe Iran will come out as a nuclear super-power. But then Israel would be unlikely to allow that. And Israel has buttons and levers it can manipulate to get the states to do anything. The American people will never know who was behind the curtain. They'll say that the world is safer without Saddam Hussein. What's done is done, now it's about supporting the troops. Supporting the troops. That means don't question the administrtion. Don't ask why we got into this in the first place.

Yesterday I went to the alternative car expo at Santa Monica airport. It was well worth the trip out there. I rode the motorcycle because I know that on a sunday in L.A. seven million people may be trying to drive from one side of town to the other. That's simply not a net I wish to be caught in. The bike can always be manuevered out of the worst traffic. Nevertheless I've long felt that the transportation activism crowd is down on motorcycles. Perhaps because bikes are often loud and ostentatious. You could add to that: too fast and foul-smelling, too macho. Too guido. Bad boy.

It may be worth noting that the electric car expo had no alternatively-powered motorcycles on disply. There were scooters and electric bikes, but no motorcycles. Forvere eternal combustion, VARROOOOMM.

Electric cars are great. I find that in the present time they make the most sense as little city fleet trucks. I got that imprsession from the vehicles which were on display. There were one or two companies which had cool little trucks. There was a stakebed rancher model, and a utility body with diamond -plated boxes built on the bed for plumber tools or such. Great vehicle for an anarhcist collective. But don't go too far out of town!

After walking around the airplane hangar for 15 minutes or so, I finally get to a table occupied by rapid transit advocates. Four guys sitting there had lietrature promoting the completion of LA 's subway line to the beach; The Exposition Line. (I decided to try my kung fu on them). I've had ideas brewing on LA rail for awhile. I mean a long while. I had a feeling it would be easy to get the guys lit up, so I was as self deprecating as could be. But I started criticizing the proposed line they support. It's too many stops I say. It will take forever. LA needs a system like the RER in Paris. An expanded metro which can attain relatively high speeds out to the far-flung banlieus and prefectures. And like the RER in Paris it can run inderneath existing subway lines, or on aerial structures, or surface tracks. In the case of rail lines criss-crossing Los Angeles, the stops should not be LESS than three or four miles apart. And then communities can develop smaller neigborhood rail systems. Such as the Griffith Park an Silverlake Railroad which I'm proposing for my neighborhood.

The guys at the LA transit advocacy table were not hearing a word of what i was saying. What was I to expect. they've already got their consensus. A little tincan fucking subway clickety-clacking making a million stops on the milk run. It would get you ou to Venice and Snata Monica eventually. After all the good times were gone. Enjoyed by the car drivers.

All the ideas I put out on mass transit and trains seem far-fetched, but California should be able to do this stuff. Or at least put money aside for it. Every ten years another little subway line is built. But they are not part of any larger scheme from what I can tell.

"SIR, THERE ARE NO DOGS ALLOWED IN THE SCHOOL"

"I know." I yelled back at the young teacher. "It's kind of an emergency."
She looked irritated as she began to walk down the hallway towards me.
"What is your emergency?" She asked me again, walking towards me, but still a good 75 feet away. I sighed.
"I don't want to yell it down the hall." I called out to her. She finally got to right in front of me. She was cute too. A Latina. I was struck suddenly by the smell of oil paint, and the late afternoon light glowing the ceiling of Micheltorena School. How familiar it seemed to my own schooldays.
The young teacher stood before me. She looked skeptical. Her eyebrows arched with the question.
"There's a kid in the schoolyard with a gun." I told her finally.
"Really?" She asked me. Her eyes had widened.
"Really." I said. "I saw them with it, over there in the corner of the yard when I walked by with my dog on Sunset."

It's one of those funny things. Was it a real gun? They didn't get to the kid in time to snatch it from him. He handed it off to another kid when the coach was yelling across the schoolyard at him. HEY YOU, YEAH YOU the coach was saying. They braced him, and he even admnitted that he brought a toy gun to school that day, but gave it to one of his friends to take home.

Beautiful excuse. It's simple. It's old school. It can't be proved or disproved. The teachers and the coach seemd pretty doubtful about it, when they reported back to me after confronting the kid I'd fingered. But it wasn't a toy gun. I saw it with my own eyes. I know toy guns and I know real guns. I know what a real gun sounds like when you pull the slide or move the action. And this wasn't a toy gun. I wondered if they'd tell the kids parents that a citizen saw him with a pistol in the schoolyard. Would the parents even believe it? Or care?

Whatever. I was on my way out of there. Fucking L.A. sucks. It's so ghetto it just makes me mad. I'm looking for my own way out of here. Someone else can try to solve the problems here. I hate gangster kids so much. I think they should be sent to camps in the desert or something.

I've noticed that some things have begun to change here in Los Angeles. With respect to the immigration reform movement. If you want to call it that. I would say that here in Los is where the immigration rights movement is strongest. And this is where the debate runs hottest.

I think I can say that I live right in the heart of the movement. I mean - SoCal right? L.A. county. The east side of Hollywood. I live right smack in it. And then the fault lines run right across my property. Or really the tectonic plates abutt my prpoperty line. Three feet from my head when I lay down to sleep.

Sometimes I think the lines really do run right through my head. Here in my neigborhood I speak Castillian almost as much as I do English. I get along really well with mexcians. And everyone knows I like to jive in Spanish. I can easily say that Mexicans are one of the things I like best about L.A. But then as a yank I got my differences with them too. But everyone experiences that in L.A. This city is an awesome example of racial harmony. But then again there are too many people to all be gotten along with in L.A. You're going to get a certain amount of mean, racist talk from everybody. About everybody.

I began by saying I'd noticed something changing around here. This whole debate about immigrant's rights and the future of the undocumented/illegals (mojados as the Mexicans call them). I would say that people notice now that something is going on. The day to day interactions I experience with L.A.'s poblacion imigrante suddenly seem self-conscious. I would not say there's any showing of hostility between peoples. L.A. is its cool self. But they know now - the Mexicans know - that this thing is going to go down. And I think I can feel the hurt coming on.
As the saying goes: America is a land of laws. And now they are starting to engage. Like gear wheels and teeth.

I thought that the protests and immigrant strikes where impressive. But at the same time I saw for the first time that I do not relate to demonstrations and large groups meeting in order to advance whatever aims. It's just something I never really felt comfortable with. In the past when walked in marches and protests, I always wondered if I shouldn't be doing more. I felt like I needed to be more physical - more expressive. I would always hope no one took my picture. I just didn't feel convinced enough of anything.

Marching in a mass in such a mannner, I believe now, runs counter to the North American way of interacting. It's simply too expressive - marching in a group and chanting slogans. It's not cool. It's hot.
Of course there have been exceptions to this. The 60s and the old school labor battles in Chicago and San Francsico. I don't think that public protest is wrong. It just feels too hot. I think it must be a Mediterranean Roman Catholic trait. This taking it to the streets with banners, or manning the barricades. It's all about a big showing. I don't believe that public marching is intrinsic to this part of the world. Maybe because were afraid that while we protest in the street someone else is taking our gig. Moving in on the the litte numbers racket we getting over on. Show me the money dude.

America is very masculine in character. It's got this whole put your money where your mouth is - red state, materialist alienation. Let's just say they don't like goddamn fancy-pants city slickers trying to get over on 'em. On the othe hand Mexico is a senorita. She loves to be flirted with. Anyone will tell you that Mexicans love a storytellor. Or any kind of impresario. Down there you can pull stunts that would get your ass kicked in, here in the states. Mexico is very sociable. Like a woman. The American archetype is more like a strapping, salt and pepper, crewcut hardnose. He's a guy with a flat stomach and a white T-shirt tucked in. Doing situps with his feet jammed under the bed.
Mexico is romantic and sexual. The essence of her is the smell of the sea and perfume. Mexico's richness is intangible compared to the states. She's a hot chick with an empty pocket book

And the senorita comes to the stoic, ex-marine every night. No one ever mentions it, but everyone knows about it. They should just get married. But instead it appears they are headed for a break up.

Now it's hot.

I'm smokeless. Hanging out in mid-air. Grinning and then vibrating at turns. It's hard to believe I finally got through one night without walking down to Lee's Liquors and saying Gimme a Goddman pack of Winston Lights! To my friends at the store this is how I am. They know me and they know what fiend I am.

Cigarettes made me cool. It was like I'd rewired myself and bypassed everyone goddamn else. As a smoker you can easily blow everyone off. I'd just be off in a puff of smoke. Like an octopus and to fuck with you! And then not smoking is just so completely other. Now I'm red hot. Everything is hot. I'm hot when I sleep. I'm hot when I wake up. I'm hot to trot. I could burn through a sheet of plywood just by yelling at it. And life won't leave me alone when I'm like this. It's something to do with the eyes. I just stare and ogle at everything. I take it all in. I engage people with my eyes. The way I've always done, and historically gotten into so much trouble for.

And of course I'm full of desire.

This damn cabin’s cold.
It’s four drafty walls.
It’s home for a miner
Who’s panning for gold

A few sticks and planks,
is all it consists,
but from cold it protects me
‘gainst bears it resists.

There are mountains around.
Cause I like being alone.
The sun goes down early,
As the critters surround.

Would you mine these streams,
If you didn’t like that?
At night all you see,
Is the gal in your dreams.

Not much to read around here.
At night the earth spins all upside down.
And hell has its gears stuck in reverse,

Dogs don’t remember how to walk or lie down.
The bears are all mad from sunstroke.
They’ll come round the cabin too.

We’re going to see everyone this winter.
You’ll like the yellow color of the light.
As it bounces off the glaciers.

As you bounce off of the glaciers

I didn't manage to wake up on time. I lay for a long time in the warmth undercovers. I was listening to the radio. Watching the time I'd set aside for the morning go away. I show such an undeniable aversion to beginning my day. I must have known something. I was the flower that did not open today. I never managed to be me. I didn't know what to do.

I didn't have enough time. It was like I needed to think everything through. I didn't know what I was going to do about breakfast. I wondered if I had enough time. There was nowhere to go except the McDonals drive-thru. I kept thinkingf about how the intercom service system never detects a motorcycle.

I didn't have any idea what the hell I wanted. I thought about buying cigarettes. I wished I wouldn't.

I have many times thought that the chatter in my head was the very best of my ideas spilling out a hole in me.

Tonight I took a laborer's bath. Sat up and dripped water over me with my fingers. I didn't mind the way it ran down my face. It was a soft tickling. And I liked the way the water looked like my tears in a stream.

I thought about the girl's I've ever loved, but for whom I was not able to summon the courage. Those for whom I was absent upon the day they encountered me. There's not enough water.

And I let my head hang real low in my shoulders. There it was finally. I kept breathing evenly and low. I didn't look at anything but the water. And my legs. My feet hurt so much I drew them under me and rubbed at them. I crossed my arms so my hands grasped their opposite feet. And it was like I'd closed a circuit on myself.

THE GRIFFITH PARK AND SILVERLAKE RAILROAD

I got the idea to write an opinion for the local resident’s association newsletter. I’d thought about doing something like this before. I figured I could contact the editor of the little two page community mailbox stuffer. I’d tell him I wanted to write a story about the old guy who lives next door. I saw a story that would tell something about all the years he’s lived in the area. I could mention his military service in World war II. But that idea just passed by. I remember getting as far as taking pictures of him one morning when we went to the swap meet together.
This time I think my idea is more interesting. I want to propose the creation of an inner-urbain rail/tram system for Silverlake and Los Feliz. I’ve got it all planned out. I was lying in the bathtub, massaging my hand that I tore open in the garage the other day. I was in such a relaxed state that I could imagine amazing possibilities. I decided I was going to build a little train system around the neigbourhood.
I see this railroad as a loop. The next thing I have to do is take a drive in my car, and set the odometer at the beginning of my proposed route. And then I just take a drive. Starting from the terminus I envision at the Vermont/Sunset redline stop, I motor leisurely around silverlake via fountain, Hyperion, Rowena, Glendale and Sunset boulevards. And then back to the redline station. This is an important first step. I will need to know the trackage, if I am to give reliable estimates of construction costs to the people of LA. Not to get ahead of myself. There are many other steps to take before we actually break ground. But I think the point I make about trackage is quite clear. If I’m going to get my day in front of the big men. And if I’m going to get to make my pitch, for my little railroad, then I’d better have accurate numbers on track-miles.
The drive around the area will assist me in planning this undertaking on many levels. I can start to take into account the possible impact on traffic flow my railroad would create around the area. And I’m seeing already that some automobiles are going to have to be displaced. For this railroad to work I will need raised trackways to ensure a clear right-of-way. If the trams just sit in traffic, then they won’t be any improvement over vehicle the congestion we suffer now. And no one is going to want to ride it.
So there will certainly be some engineering issues. There will have to be a tunnel which gets my trains to make the same platform stop as the Redline subway. I think the connection would only work if passengers could step off the redline trains, and get right onto the Silverlake and Griffith Park trams on the other side of the platform.
And along the route there will also have to be cuts, embankments, aerial caternary wiring from which the tram’s electric motors can draw current. There will be a need for pedestrian islands on which passengers can step safely onto and off of the cars. But that can all be worked out. I’m going to take serious notes when I drive the route. I can also look for spots to build a barn for the cars to be housed as well as a shop to service electric motors. I have some very interesting ideas for the construction of these utilitarian structures. I plan to submit photos I’ve taken of abandoned railroad buildings around California. I think those simple wooden dwellings would look smashing. But I’m open to others ideas! The mission style is also very nice, and appropriate to the area’s Spanish heritage.
The trams themselves I see being designed and built by area artists. We will have semi-open cars. The trams will have an open gallery on the stern, such as found on Parisian busses before the war. The mechanical stuff such as motors and wheels could be supplied from somewhere like China or Russia, where they still make relatively simple electric trams. We would just take delivery of the rolling chassis and build the coaches to suit. I think open-air Hollywood convertible cars would bring people from far and wide, just to take in the area from our breezy open trams.

The Border.

There was a goddamn disturbance out the back window a few nights ago. It sure made me mad. Yes it sure as hell did. A dog was barking forever. Tirelessly. And I needed sleep so badly. Like it was going to save my life. And I should say here that it wasn't really that late. Only about 9:30 in the evening. When does the so-called right to quiet begin?

I had tried to crash an hour before. I just simply needed to reset. In that way. Because I had decided not to smoke. That was the third day. Just like that. I won't say more about quitting smoking. Because that does not come close to describing my relationship to tobacco. To just say quitting smoking does nothing to relate to my deep nicotine addiction. I'm even addicted to the removal of nicotine. Iactually get off on the feeling of quitting. But unfortunately, more so than that, I like the feeling of relapse on Nicky Teeny (the bopper). I love picking up the phone and calling her. I can't even go into right now, because I have to say something about this goddamn dog that was barking in the neigbour's patio. The other night.

Fuck. I woke up after only half an hour. I felt like shit. I was naked and white and cold. Hunched over. I didn't feel much like being alive at that moment, in my cold house. So I'd simply tried to go to sleep. But that goddamn dog. He'd woken me up. Had he been in my dream? What the hell. A barking dog echoing around these hills is like a screen door slamming shut in a shanty in Chicago. There are always dogs barking here.

Earlier he'd gone one like that for a short while. Just as I was undressing and lying down. I heard him out there. I chose not to let it register. And he'd stopped long enough for me to finally doze off. I had relaxed and was even forgetting the day. But now he was going at it. At what? Fucking stupid dogs. There are so many dogs in LA that bark for nothing. Every yard, if you're walking has an uber-territorial mutt. And barking. Dogs like that should be made into shoes and gloves I feel sometimes.

I was wide-awake and rivetted. Like I'd just received an injection in my spine. I muscled myself out of bed stiffly, against the cold. It was rough. In the instant it took for me to quit that warm spot under the sheets and make to the window. I realized I did not recognize the bark of that dog. I thought I knew all the dogs around the back of my pad. I'd never heard this dog before. I made him for at least 45 lbs. Just by the sound.

My bedroom has the worst window looking out on the most forgotten, never examined or maintained 10 foot by 2 foot alley of the whole property. It's the very back of the lot: Just a dirt strip enclosed on one side by a five foot high peeling wooden fence, and on the other side by my bedroom wall. I have rusty old bars across the bedroom window, keeping anyone or anything from even thinking about getting in. And that's the one good thing I can say about that window.

It pained me to be awake, naked, and searching through the louvers for the source of a maddening dog's bark. It's so damn dirty back there. It's barren and desolate. There's just my hot water heater enclosed in a steel cabinet. It's a gas-fired tank and always hisses in the middle of the night. Racoons and cats sometimes rumble back there. It's a place I never go . Because there's been trouble with my neigbour on that, my western border.

Years back. When I was first living here in the hacienda. A friend of ours named Munzi was living here in 1321 . He was originally from New Jersey and had come out to be an actor. But he ended up being a grip. Still he was something of a charming Italian tough guy. He had one night gone off on the neigbour-to-the-rear's dog. Same exact scenario I was suddenly going through. He was trying to get some shut-eye. A big dog was barking only five feet from his head. Man and dog are separated only by a cheesy little stucco wall and a jalousie window which doesn't close properly becasue the house has sunk too much. In outrageous desperation Munzi finally yells something at the neigbhour. Tells him to shut up his fucking dog.

Only this neigbhour is a hardnose mexican dude. He wears a rodeo belt buckle and aviator shades. He's very ranchero in an edgy way. Like a coyote gangster out of a movie. And he didn't like Munzi yelling at him and his dog. Hostilities were declared when El Bruto cemented a 4" drain pipe, which historically had drained the rear of this property during the winter flash rains. It had been an easement of sorts. Obviously taken totally for granted by all parties. The same week all that shit went down, a truck backed into our front driveway on Sanborn. Took out five feet of the ugly white painted steel fence. And took out Raf's motorcycle too. A hit and run accident against our house.

There was nothing anybody could say about anything. And it was just the beginning. The guy sue then-owner Lisette Bustelo for property infringement. He accused her of having built illegal dwellings in her backyard and that they infringed on his real property. A bunch of bullshit. But it turns out she had to hire a surveyor to prove him wrong. Which he was, and it was obvious. But he was just playing a game. The guy was a real viper. Not the type you want to step on.

The report about illegal and sub-standard dwellings put us on L.A. Dept. of Building and Safety's radar. They sent an inspector around, who managed to weasle his way into our court, on the pretext of needing to see a gas meter or something. Next thing we know I am locked out of my great little $300/month hacienda. And the structure itself is possibly condemned. All kinds more shit is going down. There are 27 violations on the property, from illegal buildings to unsafe rooves. Lisette, the previous owner; a Cuban broad who was marired to a cop. She just folded her tents and sold the place. To me. She didn't want anything to do with the place anymore. Bad memories?

Fast forward now. I'm living in the little back house. Same bedroom Munzi had when he was driven to the brink by a barking dog. And I've just been woken up by some no-good hound. Barking without any reason.

It wasn't the same neigbour. It was one house over. It was a yard I never even consider. So far back there. And such a troublesome area too. I stand there at the window. I'm naked and freezing. My heart is beating like mad. The windows in my bedroom are all three on one wall. They are jalousie windows. The louvered kind. Very Desi Arnez in South Beach Miami style. Inappropriate as hell to a desert during winter. And these windows are filthy too. I've never seen them cleaned the whole time I've lived here.

Outside the dog kept barking on and on at this weird irregular rate. Breaking the otherwise perfect quiet of the hills around me. I cussed in frustration, under my breath. it had something of a whimper in it. My breaths were short and clipped. The quick rise and fall breath of defeat. Of powerlessness. The dog stopped barking for a moment, as if he'd heard me. He was listening to me just as I was to him. And then he started barking harder and more rapidly.

I screamed louder than I've ever screamed in my life. The words I screamed were in Spanish. As loud and mean as I could make them.

CALLETE PERRO!!!!!!!!

I bellowed it from the very bottom of my lungs.

Shut up dog was what I had screamed. Goddamn it felt good. I said it so fast, and so hot and hard. It was one part hiss, like a steam locomotive blasting off from a safety valve. But as a sound it was a brown, meat eating crunch . Like a large carnivorous animal driven mad from rotting teeth. It was partly the bluish black and violet sound of a madman screaming from the darkest most terrifyng basement cell of a psychiatric ward. In 1911 New Jesersey. The scream was all of that. And yet it still managed to be kind of spoken word.

Shut up dog. And no comebacks.

I watched a scene tonight on the street which goddamned pissed me off. Closing time at this bar. Shitty-British themed pub in Santa Monica. Yes bad. But anyway. I was outside, having a puff on a Bali-Shag, and I see this kid come out the bar, stretch his arms up high. There's something about him which separates the boy, from the scene around him. A soccer shirt. An adidas jacket. Skinny. Big eyes. Intelligent, angry face.
He's Irish. Of course. So that registered, and then more life happened. A couple more hours went by. I found myself back outside. Puffing again. Thinking. Our whole gang was leaving the stupid theme bar. Amidst themed conversations. Coming from the people around us. Stupid hugs and yelling. Jock, sports bar shit. I'm just taking it in. I can do that. Cause I'm old-schooling. I have my good gentleman clothes on. I'm like your grandfather. I can just float through everything like that.

So everyone is spilling out onto the sidewalk of Wilshire blvd. The Irish dude is with his crew. One or two more young guys. I noticed them too. I see that shit. Single guys. Soccer gear. Hmm. I just watch. One of his friends is chunky monkey. Diesel built up strong with mno neck like a rugby player. I know it's crazy, but I see this shit. I watch guys like that. Cause you never know. Going out can be hazardous to your health.

The skinny, long curly-haired Irish kid is exchanging mindless banter with a group of L.A. looking metro sexual guys. One of the well-dressed group is a Latino, with a nice shirt and Armani glasses. And the blond kid walks a ways down the sidewalk and throws a bag back at Latino guy. A plastic bag, which has it turns out, a pie in it. He hits the Armani guy right in the head. Like a slap. And the dude went right at the kid. I saw it all too. I felt like his cornerman. Are we gonna do this thing dude. I related to this guy. He was being dragged down, but he'd been whacked in the head, apparently for nothing. I love this shit when it happens in the street. As long as it's not happening to me. But to see honor questioned in front of a bar in Santa Monica, well who's not going to stop and watch? I was bored.

The Latin guy went right up and got in front of the kid's face. They were close. I was surprised they held that long without a shove or something, lighting up all hell and who knows what else. The Irish kid was such a yob. He had pulled out a dollar bill and licked it, pasting it to his forehead. I'll throw whatever the fuck I like and what have you. He was so balls-out and young. Seriously violent version of manhood. I was just like - please level this guy. For everyone. But the Armani glasses had strayed far from his friends. I was watching him. I stayed nearish. But he was basically alone. And the other Irish kid had got in it too. He looked really tough. Not tall, but stout. He was wearing shorts and a baseball cap backwards. The kind of guy who'd break your thumb backwards. As quick as he'd give you a thumbs up. There were words, but not more. I felt so hot watching it. It's dumb to engage with street stuff. But I don't give a fuck. I wished he'd shot that kid through his eye. Mean eh? You get mean.

They were talking too. Minutes before. Stupid intimacies in a bar at closing time. See ya in hell mate! In a pub at closing time. I was wathcing them like digital cable. The stealth. I hate all these wild bushmen.

Some time, someone's got to speak up for this place. The people I know from L.A. and California in general are very mellow. But a lot of people come out here to run wild. I've heard guys say. Some father or uncle back in Boston, Florida... Said to them, if you're going to get in any shit, go do it out in California. Cali cali caliente. Killafornia. They're all a bunch of freaks and nuts anyway.

Back home some day, those guys will brag how they punked some phony L.A. guy, and how he didn't even throw a punch. The guy should have. From what I saw. It would cost him his nice shirt. And his Armani glasses. And his self-esteem in the short term. Cause he would have rolled against the chunky monkey. Maybe even got hurt on a little bit. Fought and possibly lost. That's why. But he should have just nailed the skinny kid right off the bat. He was the one who threw the bag at him in the first place. I mean. If you're going to stride up the sidewalk like a matador, you may as well finish the job. Words mean shit. In that instance. Armani had the time, before the other hooligan made his way back. He could have hit the kid hard and walked away. It doesn't have to be clockwork orange. It's just a question of knocking the individual to the pavement. Or else don't react at all when some kid throws a bag of pie across the bar and it hit you in the chops. But to take that shitty affront to your countenance, and then end up in a standoff, scared and trying to rationalize with the guy?

Just work on one single devastating move. You walk up all nice like. O hey man, I didn't mean any disrespe... POW. BAM. WHACK. Danny Boy, the pipes are calling...

What else would a gentleman do?