Impressions of the City of Los Angeles by Constantine Gochis

 My late father only moved to Los Angeles because of me. I had moved here in September 1981 to seek my adult life. I was mesmerized by the place. It was cleaner than New York. The people were friendly. The drivers were civil and respectful of the pedestrian and of each other vis a vis the rules of the road. The weather was perfect. It was a comparative paradise to the streets of the Bronx, even the nicest streets. And it was the source of the Dream Factory, Hollywood.

My father, like most of our immediate family on both sides of the tree, would have lived and died in the Bronx, and been content. He had enough of travel during World War II and liked his immediate environs. But I was an only child and and slow to individuate, so he came out to live here in an apartment I found for him near Fairfax Avenue, only about 8 months after I came here.

By the time he wrote what follows, probably about 10 years or more after our respective moves, and now over twenty years ago, he had come to positively hate the place he had never liked in the first place Although it could be unbearably hot in New York, and add the humidity, he found the ninety eight here, far more intolerable. The traffic on the FDR drive was at least as impossible and unpleasant, but the traffic here he found incomparable. The buses and trains in New York were graffitti filled, even more than here, where it had not quite caught up. Still, Los Angeles wasn't when he wrote this what I had found when I arrived years before. Even I was beginning to see the damage that the policies of our blue state (before we really used the word with such fervor) leaders were causing in a form of destructive pseudo charity, but I was still able to see the beauty in the place. And I had an otherwise satisfactory life here. 

Here was his take:

The City is an illusion.  It is a sign, high upon a hill. "Hollywood" proclaims the legendary sign. Tall tufted palm trees, stretching ever upward in search of life giving sustenance, turning ever brown in the face of the merciless sun. Los Angeles is a desert. It is an area not intended for the habitation of civilized man. It is a place for dying, thirsting vegetation, for burros, and tumbleweed.

Today is another unreasonably hot day.  Ninety-eight. A broiling sun glares at the moving traffic, from the west. Traffic is bumper to bumper, a solid mass of crawing iron inching past the glorious manicured lawns of the Beverly Hills mansions.  In the morning, this same merciless sun flares at the drivers from the East. There is nothing to shade this onerous glare. Occasionally, the flat landscape is interrupted by an illogically placed tall, square building, phallic like, proclaiming the economic macho of an insurance company.

Over the years I have heard of this great climate, the principal reason for our overpopulation.

There is no predictability to California weather. There are months of mornings when a so called marine mist obscures the sunrise. The afternoon that follows is humid and hot. There is the torrential rains, and the overclogged storm drains.

We are building a subway to nowhere. Public transportation is erratic, its buses filthy, it's drivers unkempt, the side doors of the buses reeking of urine.  The children scratch their illiteracy into the bus windows with glass cutters and knives. They dare the passengers to object to their creativity.

The sound of traffic never stops. Every artery is viscous with the myriad of corpuscular spaced vehicles. The city is contantly in motion. The air turns brown in resentment, but the clamor is against secondary smoke.

Beggars infest Fairfax. A sympathetic judge has ruled that their aggressive tactics were assured by the Constitution.

Los Angeles is a haven for the new age of accentuated ugliness. The streets are stained with the escaping juices of "Big Gulps" and discarded tacos and burgers. We are reaching the perfect state of equality through mediocrity. Beauty hides her face.

Desperate immigrants crowd the corners waiting for an offer of a job. It is perhaps fifteen years since I ventured into the legendary intersection of Hollywood and Vine, that fairy tale location where generously endowed ingenues only had to sit on a stool in a pharmacy to be discovered.

I made one previous visit, long ago, not to marvel at the squares that cover the sidewalks like gilded linoleum tiles, but to return a defective telephone. As I waited, I had the chance to observe my fellow man. Dress is casual ugly. Some have the aura of buzzards waiting to pounce on an unwary target. The street people, now ambulatory after a night of cramped sleep in a doorway, or on some desolate projecting pier, search round for some useful droppings of the more affluent. This is the place where purportedly dreams are manufactured, where one can find the "Maltese Falcon", jewel encrusted and priceless.

An elderly handicapped man wheels his electric conveyance with madcap verve among the people waiting for the bus.  Suddenly, he stops beside me, looks up and says, "In six months you will be riding one of these!"

Rages suffes my being. I am speechless. I want to kill him. But he is gone.

The next day, having deferred to the idea of forgiveness, I am out again. 

He was pushing a Ralph's shopping cart filled with his desultory accoutrements. He was tan, open shirted, sandalled and mustached.

Suddenly, he fell, actually, he collapsed in the manner of a body abandoned by the failure of musculature. In so doing he pushed over his cart, and its contents, a motley assortment of plastic bags and rags, followed by a collection of aluminum cans. 

A companion came to his aid. He righted the cart, gathered the jetsam and lifted the prostrate figure to his feet.

They did not hold. They collapsed like rubber. 

I approached to see if I could help. The most helpless figure raissed his head, supported it with the palm of his hand, and spat out an invective in my direction with a slurred but comprehensible imprecation.

"What d'you want, man?" he shouted, his head wavering in the unsteady hand.

"He is drunk," said his companion, clearly. "He drinks too much."

The companion looked at me not with an apparent sense of penitence for the offensive truculence of his friend. Still I offered him a bill. He refused. He was calm, and gracious, and conscious of the offer to help, but he was asking implicitly to be left alone to deal with another of life's depradations in the pitiless streets of Los Angeles, "La Reina del Cielo", the city of the Queen of Heaven. 

Well, Dad's been gone for nearly 14 years and I think even he would be startled about the level of decline in this state and city, accelerated if it were possible to do so, by the nearly two years of mandates for the rule following ordinary resident, but not for pretty much anyone else beyond the middle of the bell curve. Secondary smoke is not ok for cigarettes, but it is the beloved perfume of pot. Graffitti fully wended its way to the West Coast, for a while dwarfing the problem in New York, though now the delights of New York's policies have restored that city to its Koch era ruin. I am not sure he'd any longer find New York to his liking. A friend has said to me about dad's response to the world, the nation and the states of his former residency, were he alive, would be to have a heart attack. 

Apropos of nothing, perhaps, as I was writing today, I heard that the trial of Jeffrey Epsteins liberated right hand woman Ghislaine Maxwell, which is beginning, is not accessible to live view, which of course means that whatever is going on is being kept from the public who we are ordinarily told deserves to see everything, and here's a factoid--the prosecutor is the daughter of James Comey.

Don't ask any questions. I'm betting though my father would be sitting down and writing an observation about all of this, were he here, which for his sake I am grateful he is not. This is a very hard time to bear. 

Once Upon a Time by Constantine Gochis

 It is time, I think, for another Constantine Story.

Mr. Randolph was one of my father's favorite customers.  It was not that he was a big spender. In fact, he was one of Papa's elite clientele whose nature was never to carry cash, or anything heavy. "Put it on my account, and have the boy bring it up," was the usual interaction. In my pre-teen years, I was the "boy".  But this was not the essence of their close association. 

He was a person who exuded elegance, although somewhat worn. He was carefully attired, carried a can and wore a soft felt hat, tan in color.  He wore it contantly, regardless of sartorial color conflicts.  To my youthful eyes he too seemed somewhat worn, probably not of the very affluent of the neighborhood.

Mr. Randolph was friendly and garrulous. Whether he bought something or not, he frequently became engaged in philosophical discussions with my father. Papa always addressed him as "Professor Randolph" althought he was in fact of more pedestrian accomplishments.

To better understand this application of distinction, it must be explained that my father applied his own value to states of accomplishment.  "Professor" was not a title of reverence for him.  It was a challege, and invitation to a joust. In the society of grat minds, he felt sure that ony the vagaries of early deprivation separated him from the heights of learning.

I suspect that it was Mr. Randolph who introduced my father to an aphorism that my father employed, throughout his life in many dissertations on the profundities of life, one that varied lightly in syntax, "Stay on your feet and limitations," or "Lay on your feet and limitations." It became his paradigm of universal application. 

When he was confounded by the logic of an adversary, he resorted to his store of illustrative fables. It was his riposte. His most pointed rebuttal lay in the story of a man who was sitting on the branch of a tree and sawing it from the inside.  A "professor" who was passing, cautions him that if he continues his action, he will surely fall.  The man, who always replies with pique, responds, "Professor, if you are so smart, tell me when I am going to die."

I do not mean to disparage, though I was told by unimpeachable authority that the high note of his early education in the old country was his feat of tying his master to a tree.

But I temporize.  It seems that in one of the many dissertations with Professor Randolph, the subject of a magical substand, "ergosterol", was revealed to my father. Ergosterol is an enzyme that humans posssess beneath the skin that produces Vitamin D, but only when exposed to the sun.  This revelation had evil consequences of some severity for me.

On the next day after the epiphany, my father directed Mr. Hagiopolis, his employee, to take me to Long Beach for a sunbath.  I was, consequently, badly burned and blistered.  My mother, not yet instructed in the salutary effects of "ergosterol" opined that the event was caused by the "Matia", the evil eye cast upon me by her sisters in law.

The patriarch, however, inspected the areas of holocaust and was pleased. He was of the philosophy that medicine that tastes good is bad, hence, the discomfort of minor burns had to be equally beneficial.

He directed Mr. Hagiopolis to take me back to Long Beach the next day. 

Today's Tale of the Saavy Virus and the Never Ending Proscriptions and Restrictions

I have today, once again, been a good compliant citizen. Frankly, I hate myself for it. And wonder whether there will ever be a time when I will stand up and say "No! This far but no farther!" I went to my local pharmacy and took the booster shot to prop up the vaccination that lasts maybe eight months, but is the sine qua non of permission to move about in our society. 

As I walked to my appointment, I noted the majority wearing their masks outside, though that mandate has not yet been reinstated. I was quasi-amused by a woman who reached her car fully masked and then as she opened the car door, pulled it down and let out a great sneeze as I crossed her path. I noted the streams of dog pee from every planter in front of a commercial/residential building, over which I stepped carefully. But there is no dog pee contamination emergency, so all was well. I was a little early to the courtyard where my pharmacy is, so I sat in one of the public chairs and people watched and read the ever increasing signs on various businesses. One of course, was the requirement to show a vaccine card to staff for indoor dining, where one will still have to wear a mask while standing, but not whilst eating. As I have, and others have observed, this is one heck of a saavy virus, from a medical point of view, because it knows when people are standing and sitting, and when I sit and eat without a mask, the virus is very empathic and does not invade my body. Is that not the science? Airplanes I hear are variously strict (depending on the company and whether the staff were former hall monitors) but when one bites one's meagre food offerings or the ones brought from home, one may lower the mask, but immediately replace it while chewing. That will keep the virus at bay, I have no doubt. Not.

Anyway, back to my people watching. A couple sat next to one another. She was wearing her mask. He was not. They are in love; the virus knows that. It won't allow him to be get infected.

Then my favorite walked by. It was young woman fully masked, again, remember, outdoors, wearing an "Obey" T-Shirt. 

I leave you a link to one explanation of the OBEY shirt line. It was, as I thought, a way to project that you were non-conforming, questioning. 

https://www.highsnobiety.com/tag/obey-clothing/

In the young lady's case, it is a literal truth. Obey. Or be banned. And here, she didn't need to be wearing a mask, outside. But she was. To be fair, as needs I must be, perhaps she has another very good reason for her obedience. But I could not help a slight shiver of cognitive dissonance. 

The other prominent sign on pretty much all the transparent doors was the one that said "Help Wanted" for pretty much all jobs. Now, some people say that the reason for there being a job glut in this arena is that people are getting paid not to work. I buy that this was true, for a while. But many people are no longer getting the hefty unemployment. My personal sense? Since people have to work in hot kitchens and run around serving people at a quick pace wearing masks, I think that they find that impossible. I don't have such a job but I find wearing the mask to shop, when I am compelled to go inside any establishment (as I did to get the booster) tormenting, not a mere inconvenience, which I have been told I must believe it to be.For fifteen days, that might have been a reasonable remonstration. But not going on two years. Sorry. No. But people looking for a job can't say what they think or feel because it is verboten. A friend told me yesterday that someone she knows flew about 5 or 6 hours wearing a mask as required, and when he took it off, the area behind his ears were badly irritated. Too bad. So sad. Right? 

My appointment time arrived. I masked up. My free booster. But you see, it's really not free, any more than the original vaccinations were. It gets charged to all those entities which insure me, and you, and for which our hiking taxes go. Medicare if you are that age. Your company's insurance company. Your third party provider. I showed all my documents, my license, my vax card, my insurance cards. Question. As voter ID is considered heinous, how are those folks without identification getting their shots? Maybe there is a program where you can say, "I have nothing to show you but vax away!" And I must assume that none of these people buy alcohol, at least in California, where you must show ID even if you are Methusaleh on a walker. 

The staff makes you wait fifteen minutes, as you know, after your shot. They hold the vax card until you have attained the full fifteen minutes. After that, you can collapse freely, should that be your fate. No liability for the pharmacy! 

I was hungry before I went for my shot. I was hungry afterwards. I really wanted to get something. But, this little hill I have been sort of standing on---imperfectly, as I showed my card at a nursing home the other day, and on a social occasion I had agreed to attend, though once inside most people weren't wearing masks and no one interdicted, and I will rise above my principles, yet again, when I go to another social occasion in December--I said to myself I can resist it here, now. No shwarma. I love shwarma. No Wokcano. I could go for their hot and sour soup. Nope. Nope. Not even Starbucks. No drive in here, which is what I usually do. No browsing at the modern furniture store that I'd usually do. Small resistances for this girl who always has obeyed authority, who thinks we are being groomed for ultimate control. There will always be a good public health reason.

For example, today I heard that there is a new variant out of South Africa, that has a mutation or more than one mutation causing "immune evasion". 

https://www.cnn.com/2021/11/25/world/covid-variant-south-africa-immune-evasion-transmissibility/index.html

Did you know that the measles is coming back? You know why? Because during the Covid pandemic lockdowns, parents weren't getting their children vaccinated against the measles.

I believe that when the society tolls all the deaths from "Excess causes" down the ahem, "scientific" road, we will read (if the social media and MSM censor trolls don't limit the views) that more people died from other causes, loneliness, suicide, untreated diseases, than from the public health crisis of "Covid". And every freedom that ever defined us will be gone, given to an administrative state for which none of us voted, even the progressives among us. 

For now, most of my "resistance" is verbal. I know what is happening to us. I feel it in my bones. I am among many who do. But unlike others, I am still conceding to getting my vaccinations and this booster. I am in some form of solidarity with them in so far as am avoiding as much as possible going into places that require the proof of vaccination (HYPPA SCHMPA where some bureaucrat says so). But since I do go to nursing homes to visit friends therein residing, and because I have always taken whatever vaccinations required, I have complied. But if, as I expect, I will hear another booster is required, or an entirely new version of the vaccine is necessary, or that there is a mutation that re-requires lockdowns and masking outside again, and not seeing anyone, I will have to reconsider, because then I will be sure of the game I already believe is being played to test the resolve of the citizen to be free. Will I? Probably not. I am a coward, truth be told. That's what the ubiquitous "they" count on.

But I can always wear an "Obey" T-shirt and pretend I am brave.