My T —
This is your first official lesson on L.A.
(Never too soon to start!)
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You reminded me of something.
First, lunch.
I had the day off and a craving for Chinese food.
There’s this one place I go to — that I’m absolutely ashamed of — near my old apartment.
You can’t even really call this Chinese food.
(Not simply because all the workers in the front and back are Mexicans.)
I call it “sticky Chinese” — what no-nothing Americans think is Chinese food.
Corn syrup, food coloring, msg, fried everything — unhealthy, sickening.
So why do I go there? Two reasons.
Reason 1: You get a lot of food for 12$. Which is why everyone else goes there.
When I went there was a Mexican family of 6 (4 young kids) there. I’m sure they fed the entire family for 60$ and had leftovers for days afterwards.
(It is literally impossible to eat that much food in one sitting.)
This family also bought a meal for the homeless guy outside, who came in, sat down, and ate.
Another old guy came in and ordered. He was hard of hearing and yelling at the staff.
He took his box out to his van to eat. I suspect he lived out of his van. Not by choice.
You’ve gathered by now that this is not a wealthy neighborhood.
Which brings me to —
Reason 2: It reminds me exactly of the Chinese food I ate growing up.
Two blocks from my house there was a restaurant only slightly better than this one.
The Golden Lion.
It was every American stereotype of a Chinese restaurant — and Chinese culture — you could imagine, with an eggroll on top.
I don’t think I need to describe it to you: you already have the picture of it in your mind.
It was all I knew — until my Asian friends in High School took me to get real Asian food.
My hometown was the same too: working class, poor, Mexican, decent, mostly.
Funny how you can have such fond memories for such awful things.
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This is not what you reminded me of but it’s related.
You reminded me of a story idea I had a long time ago.
It’s not a story yet. It’s still just an idea.
To appreciate it, you’ll need that lesson on L.A. history.
So, once upon a time, in the middle of the last century…
There were two small, poor, Mexican barrios, just north of downtown, in a little valley:
La Loma and Palo Verde
(Sounds nice, right?)
They are still there.
UNDER Dodger Stadium.
Literally, under.
You see, after the city forcibly removed all the residents, they took the tops of their homes and schools off, filled the valley with dirt, and built Dodger Stadium on top of it.
I cannot see a ballgame there and not think that somewhere, beneath me, their towns still stand.
A ghost city.
This is as L.A. as it gets.
This city is layer upon layer of stories.
Mine is not a story yet though.
I thought of making it a children’s book — I have no idea why — but I think it has to be a film.
Maybe you can help me with it.
You have no fear of the truth and complete objectivity, at least with this material.
There’s a book of pictures of those neighborhoods taken by Don Normark.
(I lent my copy to the girl at my coffee shop but she never returned it. So rude.)
This story is special to me.
When I think of those towns and people, see those pictures, I think of my hometown and my family. Not much different, really.
Incidentally, one of my favorite albums by one of my favorite musicians tells this story:
Chavez Ravine by Ry Cooder, a native Los Angeleno.
This record is about as L.A. as any record I know. Check it out.
Track 2 is what it sounds like to drive through L.A., I think.
(Guess which tracks are my favorites. I think you can.)
It even has a sci-fi angle:
Parts of the story are told through the eyes of an alien on a UFO who visits and wants to go to a local dance.
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There’s so much I still want to say to you, tell you, but I think I will stop for now.
It rained so hard last night it woke me up. I love that.
It sounded like the rain in movies.
It is cool, clear, bright, and blue outside right now.
Maybe I will take a walk.
— Your D
P.S. My Easter was nuts. I thought I’d write you about it. I might still.