On place: the naming of John Fante Square

I’m reminded of what might have been had I stayed: more space to write about, to shoot, to draw, to drive.  It’s that last one gets me every time.  Back when the Dart was an extension of me, when I didn’t over-think the commute and got up early enough to make a stop (a Cuban coffee in my neighborhood or La Brea Bakery closer to work), life was fine as the smog and weather and traffic allowed. 

But I didn’t, because I couldn’t, so I moved north with the intention of changing everything I couldn’t trust about fickle Los Angeles.  Intention being what it is, it took far longer to change things than I could ever imagine.   But once the wet air of the Bay gets into your bones, it’s harder to shake than anything (if you’re me).

In the meantime, my Los Angeles died.  When I left Echo Park somewhere in the late 20th Century, much near downtown was still affordably tatty and unfashionably comfortable.  My last walk around proved that there’s more live music (good) and beer is nearly as expensive as in NYC (bad).  My operatives tell me that Hollywood still seems to manage that impossible dichotomy of trashy but expensive, which is what I’d expect—this much is true, and gives the place its bad reputation for surface.  However, Boardner’s is unrecognizable.  If something remains long enough, it apparently gets turned into a museum.  

Knowing full well that there’s a “Hey you kids get offa my lawn” quality to my voice at times like this, it pains me that I care about the potential loss of history as much as I do.  But for Los Angeles, the sentiment’s not misplaced: so many of its inhabitants are intent on creating their own histories.   Forgetting is easy, it begins with not looking back.  

At risk of constantly tripping over my own feet, I like a place that reminds me of its history daily.  Los Angeles, you were a lovely bit of work.