Cosmic Mama Don’t Dance

image

I met a guy on Santa Monica Pier last week. I was there for the Twilight Dance Series, my first time back in a couple of years. The Gumbo Brothers, local to Venice, were rocking the crowd. Later, a pretty cool funk band, out of New York, would take the stage.

As this guy (cute, like a young John Ritter) and I were chatting and shaking our things, he asked if I ever hung out in Venice Beach. He told me that he lived near the Sidewalk Cafe.

“I go to Acoustic Thursdays at Santino’s sometimes.”

“That’s near Windward Circle,” he was honing in on the area.

“Yep. On Pacific.”

“Isn’t that where a bunch of elitist musicians play weird shit for themselves?”

My heart fell a little. Not really, was my thought, I had heard some cool jams there, along with several young guitarists and singers finding their way. Though I had to concede, sometimes, there seemed to be an exclusive vibe that I didn’t much care for.

When our conversation lulled, my body loosened into some high revved, tearing it up sax playing. After observing that he thought I was a great dancer, my clever new friend (who had purported to be an art thief and took some pleasure in lightly making fun of folks), snarkily asked why rich, middle-aged, white people all danced like idiots – referring to some pale, affluent citizens of Santa Monica who were getting their salt and pepper grooves on.

“At least they dance,” I said. “Ever notice in Venice, how no one dances? Isn’t that a little weird for a bunch of Bohemians who are into the 60s?” A generalization, of course, but there is a noticeable dearth of boogie.

The Art Thief started to protest, then thought about it, playing the Boardwalk scene in his mind with its endless string of musicians, perpetually performing to walking and standing throngs: “You’re right. That is weird.”

“Go to a concert festival along Venice Beach and, if anyone is dancing, it is a lone homeless person or a couple of serious drug addicts.”

He considered further, “I never thought about it. Why is it like that?”

I could’ve said a lot of things, but I didn’t. I know, first hand, that Cosmic Mamas get eaten alive if they show their love. Probably the same deal for the few Pure Papas who remain. Art meets Thug means Street Cred trumps Music. Hustlers don’t like joy because it is harder to steal from Happy People.

So, they don’t dance on Venice Beach. Go figure…

__

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.

Carried Away…

My imagination got carried away over this whole Silicon Beach thing. I have drifted in and out of other people’s dreams (or my obsessions with being a part of other people’s dreams), for quite some time. Not yet confident as a writer, I was unable to get a real bead on who I was. My own dreams have alluded me – not just in their pursuit, but in the actual formulation. I don’t think I planted any of my own seeds in Jamie’s Secret Venetian Silicon Garden.

I know Venice intimately, but from a distance, like a diligent and highly discreet stalker. (Though I have learned the hard way, not to make stalker jokes.) There was a time, back when I was unemployed and had only been a Venetian for a short while, that I was very happy in a state of blissful ignorance. I loved when the Canals were nothing but a big gorgeous house park, instead of a monument to gentrification. I loved when the Boardwalk was a carnival that held little interest, instead of a place that I consciously avoided.

My life in Venice Beach has been about birds, really.

Cranes, hawks, egrets, mockingbirds (an evil attack one lives on Amoroso), wild parrots (a whole freaking flock nesting in our palm tree), ducks (cheeky little bastards in the spring), swallows, geese, seagulls, pigeons, doves, crows, bluebirds, kestrels, pelicans (catching them in flight in the Canals with that wing span, still blows me away), hummingbirds…

My life is early morning fiction writing after yoga followed up with toast and strong, sweet coffee. My life is about insomniac nights, candles burning, Robert Johnson warbling Stones In My Passway, barely audible through my computer speakers, but fused with a haunting serenity nonetheless. My life is a little too lonely. That is mostly my fault. Sometimes I like it too much that way.

My life is about dogs. I lost one a few weeks ago. A beautiful lady black lab who was nine years old. She had a tumor on her heart and went so fast. When I go to the house to walk her surviving buddy, Ranger, I cry every single time. I’m crying now as I type this because I still cannot accept that I am never going to see her again. She was a good dog. I named my guitar after her. I still can’t play for shit, but the new Ms. Burton has an acknowledged spirit. That counts for something. As it turns out, that counts for everything.

My life is about bees and flowers. My life is about riding my bike to the ocean and watching the sun go down. My life is about singing when all the doors and windows are closed. My life is about walking to the Albertsons and saying hello to three or four folks along the way. Sometimes homeless guys manage to sleep in the brush surrounding the “Costco Compound.” Sometimes they even manage to set up a little camp. They never last long. Not only is it private property, it is technically Culver City where they don’t put up with that shit.

My life is about long phone conversations with friends, meeting for a drink, seeing a play or heading to a museum. My life is about my neighbors and a yard sale, a bag of mellow leaf and a fridge of Tecate that brings us all closer together. My life is about my family. My father so badly wants me to visit home.

I go to Starbucks for morning coffee when I don’t brew it myself. I would have preferred a local Mom and Pop for my regular joint, but none are within walking distance. Also, when a gal is up at 4am, there is something mighty nice about a place that unlocks its doors at 5:30am on the dot. Plus, the staff all knows me. They ask about my life. They were really excited about my cover story in the Beachhead.

I haven’t found much joy in many places, though the music and poetry are usually fabulous. People are not quite as alive as I had expected. There is a lot of sadness of which is spoken in the work, but not to each other.

Poetry nights at Beyond Baroque, a great band at the Talking Stick, something rare, but magical along the Boardwalk, walking around seeing all different kinds of folks…amazing stuff…But then there’s the old surfers and hippies who are always wanting a hug, which lasts way too long and/or involves a penis press and/or an ass grab. They bandy the phrase “Free Love” around like it is 1969 and that’s what they still mean.

In Venice Beach, it ain’t often about Free Love. Not anymore. It’s Free Fuck. Getting in, getting out and getting off – that’s howdy do Hollywood style. But, what do I care?!? It’s a free country. We all have to live in a body. Most of the time, people just want a fantasy.

What I do care about; however, is the lie that covers it all up, the pretty graffiti we slap all over that hard, exposed, entitled cock and say it’s art and, therefore, love. Those lies are something we don’t talk about in Venice Beach. Just like the rest of America, we don’t really call things what they are. We are no less hypocrites here than folks are anywhere else, we just have a good soundtrack.

There are a lot of things in Venice I would like to see change, but who the hell am I? I was proud to stand up for Free Venice in the Beachhead after that loaded Town Hall. Free Venice has a voice that needs to be heard and it was unfairly ambushed. But, I am certainly not that voice. I have not been here long enough and am not embedded in its history. I am in love, but not attached.

I am a bird watcher. I pray and meditate and lose myself in God on my best days. I lose my temper and yell at sanitation workers, who are blocking the one-way street with their truck on my bad days…

I am a happy woman who could be much braver in sharing her happiness, face to face, instead from behind a word processor. I could do much better living my life and I plan to do just that.

___

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee. 

Urban Nature III: Sun, Moon, Sky and Venice Beach

I spend a lot of time looking up. A natural dreamer, I often stare at the heavens and imagine myself there – always a different version, of course. Maybe instead of an actor, I should’ve studied to be an astronaut. Somehow, we all seem to find a way to escape around here.

Every once in awhile, no matter how much one might love Venice, you need a change of scenery. Taken atop LA, in Topanga Canyon, during a hike with one of my dearest friends, if you look really hard, there’s the Santa Monica Pier jutting into the Pacific. Venice is just to the south…

From the High Rooftop Lounge of the Hotel Erwin, a favorite spot to have a drink and watch the sun go down. Just be careful of crazy, skinny redheads who desperately need a cocktail and maybe a little something something extra.

Taken on a private rooftop, I was house sitting and enjoying the amenities.  It was back in March when the Venus-Jupiter conjunction was so visible in the night sky. Though hard to spot, the two planets are hanging out together at the top of the photo.

We had an absolutely spectacular sunset last autumn following an unusual afternoon of thunderstorms. I took about a hundred pictures and this is one of my favorite. If you look closely, you can see the eye of God – and the nose, upper lip, and maybe a little bit of His beard.

A few weeks ago, out for a late evening stroll, I snatched a waning crescent moon rising above the treetops. Ah to sleep, perchance to dream…

__

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee

Weeding the Garden of Dark and Light

Last week, I took my first morning visit on Ocean Front Walk, since the LAPD has begun enforcing the new curfew, which bans folks off Beach and Boardwalk from midnight to 5am…The giant fluffball on my left, we strolled through a different world…Sans camps of transients between shops and shore, the Pacific seemed more present. And, like everything that is Venice, I found myself with dichotomized feelings.

On the one hand, how sad, all those people – just gone. Where did they go? What happened to the nebulous communities? Could our citizen wanderers still gather elsewhere? Or, were they all on their own? What about their animals?

A slight young man in a black wool coat approached, and asked if he could pet the dog. Of course, I allowed it. He murmured about being there to buy something, but I didn’t quite understand him. I assumed he was looking for drugs or other black market goods, available on the West Edge of Venice Beach. A bit bewildered, the young man – thin, raven-haired and kind of handsome – mumbled, “I couldn’t find anyone.”

“Oh honey,” realizing he must have been absent, as had I, “They enforce the curfew now. They run people off at night.”

“I been in jail. I didn’t know where everyone was.”

“From midnight to 5am, they have to find somewhere else to go.”

That was a little tough. A homeless guy finishes his jail time. He has been out of touch. He probably hadn’t had any visitors. He goes to his community – which for him, was this broken beach umbrella and blanket village – where he expects to find at least a few of the people he called friends – especially at six in the morning, when everyone should be planted in their spot, fast asleep…

Wishing the soft spoken, ex-con well, I moved from Sunset to Windward, basking in a widespread tranquility, which I had never previously experienced at that location. Granted, I was walking this dog much earlier than usual, but I’d been in the area at sunrise before. There was ALWAYS something going on – a strange, perpetual liveliness, not terribly alive.

Post curfew regulations, the peace rolling in from the ocean was astonishing…the solemn quiet, the waves whispering…I never thought the Boardwalk could feel that way, even so very early in the day.

Those poor homeless people, when they are sleeping, many of them still have a lot of troubled energy. That energy lay between the property tax and rent paying residents and the Lullaby of Mother Earth every single night. With the frenetic daytime activity that is inevitable, because the Ocean Front Walk economy caters to tourism, it would be nice to have a more pure serenity in those wee hours.

One could argue, I suppose, if many of the homeless are, in fact, troubled, they need that serenity washing through them more than anyone – even if it can’t bring their minds (often weak from hunger and too many chemicals) all the way to calm.

I think that it is not my battle or my choice. I do not know how to feel. People should be warm and safe and peaceful, as they sleep at night.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.

A Change is Gonna Come…

On a recent morning, strolling to a convenient Starbucks, I took a route around the back side of the Costco/Albertson Compound (which actually lies on a strange little tract of land Venice apparently annexed to Culver City). Along the way, I spotted this kind of rickshaw-wagon bicycle parked on the side of the road. It was filled with food and blankets, a lot of stuff I couldn’t see in the dark, with a baby guitar strapped to the top. There was a man asleep inside. A hand scrawled sign hung on the back of the pedal powered mobile home, “Do Not Disturb.”

Though present all over Venice, Ocean Front Walk is a particular haven for the homeless. Why not? It is beautiful; and, the constant flow of tourists give them some prime scavenging territory at the very least. Even for the Boardwalk, however, the transient population has become rather dense in the last couple of years.

Because of a lack of regulation several problems have cropped up along the Boardwalk that the City and Community feel the need to address. Typical to Venice, there are a lot of strong opinions and a lot of disagreement. For the time being, the City will be enforcing two new regulations along Ocean Front Walk. Both laws impact the homeless community, with one targeting them directly.

The first regulation addresses the West Side of Ocean Front Walk and is specifically written to curb commercial vending. It regulates what goods may be sold in the numbered spots, where all the temporary vendors set up each day. The law has been written so that people may only sell certain, primarily self-produced, goods, i.e. art that they have created themselves.

As we learned from the fiasco a few years ago on Wallstreet, a little regulation can be a very good thing. Councilman Rosendahl pointed out that it is certainly unfair to the permanent vendors on the East Side of Ocean Front Walk (who pay taxes), to have their business negatively impacted by people who don’t play by the same rules. Of course, the fighting among homeless and transients (who are often paid to hold spaces for vendors) has to stop. I have witnessed those arguments. They can be vicious and easily turn to physical violence. Finally, I don’t want a Venice Beach that is known for endless prints of Marilyn Monroe in gangsta gear and T-shirts with Charlie Sheen flipping us all off. If this is an artists’ community, then what we represent to the outside world needs to reflect that.

The down side, of course, marginally surviving people who are the go-betweens for posters, clothes – and whatever else comes in from outside – are pushed even farther down the food chain. There is an incense guy who has been a staple there for over twenty years. Under the new rules, he’s out. Then, you have jewelry makers – much working in a style from their native countries – despite concerns raised, they are out.

The regulations aren’t perfect. They never are. We have to ask ourselves, what happens to all those people who just lost their livelihood?

The second regulation recently coming into enforcement has caused an even bigger stir. The City of LA is calling on a law, which has long been on the books, that defines not only Venice Beach (the actual beach), but Ocean Front Walk, as a park. Therefore, it can be closed at midnight and people cited and arrested for curfew violations.

Due to the perpetually unruly Boardwalk, many residents welcome the enforcement. On the other hand, there are questions about whether or not residents may use their front doors when they are coming home late; if folks walking from bars to home, can use the somewhat well lit Ocean Front Walk, or, will be forced to skulk down Speedway, a dark, narrow alley. All that, I assume will get resolved.

The larger issue is how these new regulations, these big changes, really jibe with the long enduring Spirit of Free Venice, an idea which may be on the decline. The die-hards are dwindling in number and are an aging demographic. It is not to say they don’t have power and are not yet quite vocal and significant. But what is the Spirit of Free Venice in this day and age?

Many young professionals of Venice – even some of the artists – seem a different breed. An entertainment industry attitude has permeated certain parts of the community. There are some things that are more about the “scene” than the art. The seediness is much less tolerated than it has been in past decades. New Venetians seem to want things a little more sanitized, nicer for their families and visiting friends. Google’s presence will only reinforce that.

A community’s fear from recent shootings and increasing night-time violence aids the City in seizing an opportunity. Crime is bad for all of us, that is true. Crime is bad for tourist bucks, as is too much of an unsavory element. We are seeing an open effort to eliminate the transient population that springs up in blanket villages all along the Boardwalk every night. These hut towns are comprised of the local, perpetual homeless along with young men and women who are passing through, or are poor and stuck and have nowhere else to go. In the mornings, guitar music and pot smoke wafts from each “camp” whether made up of young or old. Many of these mini-tribes include a pooch or two.

With an increase in the homeless population, there is an increase in the number of mentally ill and people who have serious health problems. Because of other common aspects of Boardwalk culture, drug abuse pervades. Though most of the transients are essentially harmless, a few are a danger to themselves and others. But, if kicked off Ocean Front Walk, where are these people going to go?

If you are not already aware of this, Venice Beach has, so long been a neighborhood known for both the number and tolerance of its homeless, that it was the subject of a South Park parody. When all the homeless started showing up in South Park, it was because they had been kicked out of Venice Beach. When I first moved here, I was struck by how many homeless people lived in the park by the library.

I also used to be amazed at how many campers were parked all over Venice. Five years ago, I would ride my bike around the neighborhood, early on Saturday mornings, and spot old run down RV after old run down RV. After a little while, I got used to it. More than once, I made conversation with a friendly face inside; though, I confess some camper folk seemed a little scary and I crossed streets to avoid them.

Now, you hardly see campers at all. Parking for them is strictly regulated. Even though the rules were not changed without a fight, too many people got tired of the sight of the dilapidated recreational vehicles turned homes and the resulting parking issues.

So, we got rid of our campers. Now, we get rid of our homeless. We run off young transients and hustlers and bums. We get rid of our flea market vendors. We preserve artistic integrity along the West Side of the Boardwalk and support the tax paying merchants on the East Side. We keep tourists and locals safe.

All goes as planned. Shops are doing well. Artists sell a little more art. It’s a little cleaner. Crime goes down. Property values go up. We have more money for schools and well maintained streets. There’s a little rougher part of Venice to the north, bordered by Rose, Oakwood and California. Some poorer folks up there start getting property taxed out of their homes as more developments move in…

In these tough times, we all have to look at that underbelly and be honest about what it is. Of course, we have to save the beast. Even though it may be unrealistic, how do we all make it through?

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.

Of Homeless and Hustlers

Meandering around the Venice Art Crawl on their one year anniversary last August, I didn’t feel particularly keen to look at art. It was a little too much of a happening that night for my mood – too many hipsters packed into Erwin and the Old Gas Station. So, I wandered back roads and walk streets in the area for a bit.

Appearing around a dark corner a tall, homeless man with a backpack and quite a pungent odor, offered trail mix from a paper sack out of which he was munching. “Hi,” was all he said as he tilted the bag in my direction and smiled. Part of me, didn’t want to take it for health reasons, but I ultimately could not refuse. So many marginal folks living along the Boardwalk rely on the kindness of strangers. It seemed selfish to break the circle.

Several weeks before, while walking one of my client’s dogs on Ocean Front Walk, a young transient couple stopped me. The too skinny, white kids were remarkably clean cut, considering. The girl, a pretty blonde, begged, “I need some money to get an abortion. Can you help me out?” Wow. I had panhandlers request money for many reasons, but this was a first. When walking dogs, I carry keys, my cell and poop bags, so I had nothing to give.

Once I explained, she clung to the fluffy white pooch for quite awhile, enveloping him in a full embrace, as if she were never letting go. Thankfully, he is a good dog – gentle and patient. He stood very still and stared at me with his golden tan eyes. I smiled and patted his head to reassure. The boyfriend, a seemingly compassionate young man in way over his head, finally coaxed the frightened and confused girl off the dog, “The lady has to go. I can see she is a good person. If she had anything, she would give it to you.”

Later in the year, me and the same fluff ball were on the Boardwalk again for our morning walk. This guy, with a guitar slung over his shoulder, came up to us.  Open and jovial, I was leery of him nonetheless. In a calf-length black coat, his long dark hair was matted and oily. A thick skin with large pores reflected a hard life of substance abuse. He reeked of alcohol.

Hurried searches of the pockets inside his coat culminated in the presentation of a plastic hairbrush, “He is so pretty, you gotta let me brush him, Mommy.” What could I do? He started grooming before I could answer.

At first, the dog didn’t seem to like it. The brushing was a bit awkward, catching and pulling matted clumps of fur. I got a little nervous, but he finally settled into the spontaneous pampering that became smoother with each stroke. And, I will say that my new Boardwalk friend did a pretty thorough job.

“That will be $2.50,” he informed me, grinning while he pulled white fur out of what was presumably his personal hairbrush.

Not keen to pay him for something I hadn’t wanted him to do in the first place, I could honestly say I had no money.  ”I’ll catch you next time, Mommy,” he said, then pushed a hug on me. I accepted good-naturedly because, in Venice, these things happen.

Encounters with Ocean Front Homeless are not all amiable. I can’t forget the zoned out guy staring at the fluff ball as we went by, sinisterly declaring he wanted “to fuck that dog!” Or, the angry transient going past on an old bike, who took a dislike to me for no apparent reason. After I wouldn’t accept his berating quietly, he shouted at my back as I walked away, “You are too confident, cunt! Too fucking confident!” I wish I could say that I handled all that well, but the name calling may have been provoked by my middle finger.

Toward the end of summer, late on a Sunday morning, I put on a sundress and went for a morning stroll along the shore. On this day, an old beach rat called out as I passed by between him and the ocean.  ”At times like these, I wish I was on one of those nude beaches in Europe.”

When I caught his eye, he laughed and told me that I was beautiful and it was just wishful thinking. His young beach rat companion joined our conversation. We chatted about how they had been run off the beach the night before and how there seemed to be a bit of a crackdown as of late. “The cops broke up the drum circle,” the old man lamented, “They’ve been doing that circle forever. I can’t believe that shit!”

Saying our goodbyes, the older man touched my feet in a strange and reverent way almost sending me tripping down to the shore along the steep bank. We all hugged (they smelled of sand and saltwater) and shared a moment that was truly Venice Beach.

______________________

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.