Bacon-Wrapped Links

26. January 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Downtown, History, Mass Transit · Tags: , , , , , , ,

Much like the awkward pictures my mother took of me in peak chunkdom in my Speedo in the foyer on the first day of swim practice, there are two interesting links this morning to give you a sense of perspective.  “Now, Honey, we’re going to take another picture in six months and you’re going to see the difference.”  Perspective is everything.  You need to know where you’re coming from and where you’re going.  Such a sentiment couldn’t be more applicable to the schizophrenic history of Los Angeles, whose piecemeal growth was often preceded by a barrage of bulldozers and followed by a haphazard memory implant of our affinity for the automobile.

The first link is a charming photomontage that surfaced in the UK’s Daily Mail, revisiting the grandeur of our city, now mostly demolished.  In it, our self-image is challenged, as we see not only that people used to avidly bike and take cable cars around, but also the shocking reality becomes clear that palm trees were never native and that Mexicans were always here!

The second link is a clip from KQED’s “Train Wars”, which focuses on the ongoing battle over the proposed high-speed train, now successfully under the knife thanks to airline and oil lobbyists.   Despite the fact that there is insurmountable evidence for the demand and success of such a line, as well as the fact that it is still cheaper than increasing freeway and airport capacities, as well as the fact that the United States easily ponied up more dough in one year for the Iraq War alone, the masses are still left to squabble over the train’s merit.

For the train’s naysayers, of for those ruthlessly adamant that Los Angeles will never have a sufficient mass transit system, I bid you compare the two links above: a glimpse of the past and the future.  It is simply unbelievable how much change is possible in just 100 years and what we’re capable of tearing down and convincing ourselves of.  What might seem like a political boondoggle today is purely the tumultuous precipice to a necessary tomorrow.  We have no right to assume the future, no matter how tight and uncomfortable that Speedo might be digging into our thighs for the time being.

Quick! How Do We Make Bacon-Wrappeds Non-Utilitarian?!

13. January 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: MacArthur Park, Street Life, Venice · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

LosAngelyne, Gurl, you a downtrodden ho in denial.  But that’s why we love you.  You’re like the awkward developed tween girl from Calabasas named McKenna who sports a bit too much gold jewelry, makes out with all the boys and talks about how she’s too good for any of them.

In total denial of its impoverished masses, Los Angeles has taken bold steps to wage its war on illegal street vendors.  When not sending out scores of douchebag cops to confiscate the propane tanks and greased cookie sheets of little harmless abuelitas, the City is busy installing a barrage of signs in English pointing out that the street sale of goods is illegal.  A recent New York Times article revisits Ground Zero of our city’s noble crusade against the poor in two very different neighborhoods.  In Venice last month, the fight over vendor stalls along Ocean Front Walk prompted the passage of an ordinance that is set to exclude the sale of all non-utilitarian goods.  ’Non-utilitarian’, you ask?  That would roughly encompass all household wares, clothing and food, like your favorite Rastafarian key chains and precious bacon-wrapped hot dogs.  But don’t worry!  You’ll still be able to purchase all the painted Dia de los Muertos skulls you can’t get enough of, because frankly, they’re useless.

Police have taken a breather in MacArthur Park since the controversial fatal shooting of a Guatemalan street vendor in 2009 that resulted in riots.  There is now a stepped-up effort to legitimize many of the street vendors with a city-licensed weekend market, although that’s been a tough sell thus far to a community that commonly shares a one-bedroom apartment with six to eight other people.  With that said, most vendors would rather take the chance of receiving a $1,000 fine or possible jail time, as they really don’t have many other options.

Brokeback Montaña

13. January 2012 · Write a comment · Categories: Bars, Clubs, Hollywood · Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’m a traditional boy.  I like my snakeskin boots.  I like my beer in buckets.  I like the formality of being asked to dance.  I also have OCD, so I don’t sneer at the perfumed waxed chest of a showered mustachioed farmhand pressing up against me.  Good hygiene and some waxed boots go a long way.

Club Tempo was originally chosen as the climax point for a three-part birthday barhop on the subway a few years back.  The discomfort in walking over a freeway always seems to add a perceived extra five minutes to any jaunt, so I decided to break up the monotony with a stop-off at the Black Lite, a now defunct tranny bar that played host to the occasional sassy fatal purse stabbing.  In reality, you can still scurry to the venue in under 15 minutes from the Hollywood/Western metro station, but be advised that there is such a plethora of furniture littering the route that you’ll be able to call off your trip to Out of the Closet the next day.  I’m always a fan of killing two birds with one stone.

The venue may be buried in the back corner of a strip mall, flanked on either side by an erect stucco wing of your typical aseguranza stores and dentista offices, but it is easily identifiable with the only disco ball I’ve ever seen cantilevered off of a strip mall façade.  A swathe of barstools topped by 10-gallon-hatted rancheritos populates a few roped off parking spaces just beneath the ball, serving as the perfect welcome beacon for a tired pedestrian in dancing shoes.

There is always a cover ranging from seven to 10 dollars, easily up for haggling if in a group of 25 as we were.  I’m not usually one to even entertain the idea of a cover, but it is well worth it as you would easily pay more for cocktails alone in several neighborhoods in DF.  As you wrap your way around the corner inside, you may find it difficult to assimilate quickly to the mise-en-scène, mainly because it consists of a sea of cowboy hats bobbing up and down in front of a cumbia band swinging back and forth on stage.  You might get a few blank stares, but rest assured alternating between shots of tequila and Tecate 40’s with salt and limón are a good way to dive in.  You can even flaunt your wares with a farmhand’s bucket of Coronitas for just a few bucks.  The most fascinating moment comes, however, with the end of each song, which signals the immediate retreat of vaqueros to either side of the dance floor.  As though you were whisked away to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, in these parts prevail more traditional and rigid mores; namely, one cowboy has to ask the other to dance.

Before you get too taken in by the adorable display of Brokeback Montaña, run upstairs for the ultimate cultural juxtaposition: a circuit party.  It’s as though you just arrived in the South Side of Puerto Vallarta off of a chicken bus from Durango.  Shirtless twinks take turns leaping onto blocks while an expensive lighting system scours their bodies for rogue hairs.  The crowd tends to be younger with lesbionic contingencies buoying about as downstairs is really more of a man’s world.  On Sundays with its two-for-one happy hour, when the club’s at a capacity of Shanghainese proportion, each clubgoer is given a number that allows entry upstairs only when summoned on a monitor.  In other words, the place can be a shit show and you should get your drink on while you wait downstairs.

And what Latin gay club is complete without a drag show and a taqueria?  Chantal y sus estrellas perform at least twice a night on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, usually signaling a $4.50 beer pitcher special.  Just like in your standard telenovela, expect to see a lot of springy lightened hair and running mascara.  The air is so thick with melodrama, you just might feel like estrella after estrella is breaking up with your mentiroso ass.  In such circumstances, I would recommend following your nose to the occasional waft of charred meat funneling into the dance floor from outside, and popping on out to the patio for some tacos de lengua.  This place is an absolute gem.