by Bob Westal
From the Immortal Chronicles #2 (Winter 1998)
In preparation for this article,
I'd meant to see Your Friends and Neighbors. From what
I've heard of the movie, it seems highly relevant to this issue's
theme. But it left it's final resting spot at the friendly Fairfax
Theater last night. So, you're spared the movie review.
Nevertheless, the phrase "friends and neighbors" seems strangely salient, because, at least here in L.A. ("Loads of Alienation"), the two categories have become entirely distinct. We have friends, determined by such factors as schools, interests, "affinity groups," and the like. And we have neighbors, who live near us and who, if we're friendly types, we deign to say "hi" to, but hardly a word more.
Occasionally, we'll do small favors based on convenience, feed each other's cats and pick up each other's newspapers while we're on short vacations (assuming we're reasonably confident that our neighbors are not drug-addicted kleptomaniacs or serial feline tormentors). If there's an earthquake or a massive "civil disturbance," we might temporarily bond with our neighbors as we commiserate on what we were doing when the cataclysm struck and maybe temporarily band together for purposes of looting and begging for food and water. But that's it.
On the other hand, we might go to an AA meeting or group therapy and tell several total strangers about our near-death experience caused by auto-erotic strangulation. ("I saw a light up ahead as I passed through the tunnel and I realized this was to be my guiding spirit in the Other World, it was Bob Guccione...."). We may call up talk radio and declare ourselves to have been pen-pal confidantes with John Wayne Gacy ("We used to trade clown pictures and discuss our respective near death experiences from auto-erotic strangulation"). But no such confidences are traded with our neighbors. Our neighbors are, literally, lucky to get the time of day from us. And I'm as guilty as anyone. In fact, when queried by my neighbors, I often pretend not to know the time out of sheer spite.
And then there's's the fact that few of us bother to really
explore our neighborhood, let alone meet our neighbors. With such
distractions as demon-T.V., demon computer games, not to mention
demon laundry, demon cooking, and demon dishwashing (and for those
of us who spend too much time with our Ouija boards, demon-demons)
we have little time to learn anything about the places we actually
live in. Also, this being Los Angeles, we all have another excuse,
the demon automobile, which may allow us to explore parts of town
we don't live in, but also prevents us from ever really seeing
much beyond a one or two block radius of our living quarters.
Heroic character that I am, I have tried to break through this
wall of alienation. After all, part of the reason I moved to Hollywood
was that I could actually walk to some interesting places and
maybe even meet some interesting neighbors.
So, having now walked several times to the Chinese Theater and environs and found it interesting but hardly a place to meet any neighbors, since everyone there seems to be either from Tai-Pei, Bavaria, or Barstow, I decide to set off in other directions.
I start, logically enough it seems to me, at a cozy local establishment called "The Seventh Veil" - among Hollywood's best known purveyors of disrobed entertainment. I take note of two things: the surprising number of men who appear to be there with their girlfriends (actually, I don't know for a fact that these women are actually the guys' girlfriends, of course, but the romantic in me would like this think this isn't a first date). I am relieved to note, however, that naked women in Hollywood look remarkably similar to naked women in other parts of town, only with more piercings in less appropriate places.
(The friendly and efficient staff of the Seventh Veil bring to mind the fact that, even in Hollywood, a few of us have not completely forgotten the old ways of the neighborhood. At night one often sees young women just hanging around, shooting the breeze, or just strolling in the balmy evening air, occasionally giving a passing car a friendly wave. I often wonder why one only sees women doing this in my neighborhood...although it appears that men have not entirely forgotten the rituals of the old neighborhood as well. Strangely, all of these men seem to be gathering a couple of blocks south on Santa Monica Boulevard. One wonders why they seem to be avoiding the company of the young women of Hollywood and Sunset. Maybe some of them would hit it off, maybe go to Pop's for a malt.... Obviously, the guys are intimidated. Must be the stiletto heels.)
In further search of neighborliness, I considered checking out some of my local bars. It doesn't help that so many bars, both old, famous and infamous, are located in my area that I'd have to be a bit of an alky to visit a significant percentage of them. So, I take the lazy man's approach to barhopping and go to the one bar located within easy walking distance (though, oddly, I never actually walked there since I just happened to be in my car at the time). That bar happens to be the Lava Lounge. Located in a decrepit mini-mall, it's actually pretty cool if you don't mind paying a small cover charge for the privilege of buying six dollar well drinks. Ambience is everything in this joint. As lounges go, it's pretty loungy.
I have a drink, look around at the crowd of hipsters and feel a sort of joyful disdain. Everyone seems mighty unneighborly. They're their with their friends. No reason to talk with any new people. Especially not this guy who's just there drinking and gawking and hoping people mistake him for just another alcoholic. That's good, because of the whole misanthropy theme-thing.
Later, I decide to give the bar thing just one more chance.
I go to the Martini Lounge (where, perversely, I order a Black
Russian, also six bucks) to check out a (mediocre) new band. I
feel just a little bit old, until I spot the requisite 50 year
old guys with the leather jackets and goatees. One geezer in particular
resembles a split-gene clone of Kelsey Grammar and Sylvester Stallone.
Oddly, I find this reassuring, if terrifying beyond words.
Next on my list of places to attempt an escape from urban isolation
are coffee houses. The sudden appearance several years back of
this once-bohemian phenomenon was noted by one writer as being
in response to a kind of critical mass in our L.A.'s alienation
quotient. I don't know if they've helped, but, Starbucks notwithstanding,
I like having them around. So, of course, I must explore the coffee
houses in my vicinity. And since they are fewer than bars, and
with all that wonderful, wonderful caffeine (aka, the staff of
life, the stuff that dreams are made of), I have little trouble
visiting all of them. Would that there was more worth visiting....
My explorations start with some promise. I visit a place called the Conservatory about four short blocks due east, located next door to the site of the then-unopened restored Egyptian Theater (home to -be still my film geek's heart - the new American Cinematheque). At first I actually become something of a regular, stopping by a couple of times a week. It's a nice little place. Cozy. Decent music playing on the stereo. Still, they seemed to be having problems, the tourist traffic going by on Hollywood Blvd. perhaps not sufficient to sustain the business. (Figures, Folgers is good enough for the likes of them!) I resolve to support it. They'll do fine (and stay open late enough to please me), I reason, once the Cinematheque opens. (If you're going to be watching a new Uruguayan discovery detailing the lives and loves of a 14-year old plow boy and his mule, you need at least two shots of espresso.) But my resolve thins. It's a whole three blocks away. They close too early. I can't figure out how to turn off the italics on my word processor.....
Then, an Internet cafe promised to open a mere half block from me, I reset my sites. Filled with anticipation, I await it's opening. Soon enough, it does.
Disappointment, thou art my copilot.
No sooner do I enter the confines of this clean, too well-lit, place than I hear the THUMPA THUMPA-THUMP of the dance club next door (it's obviously technotrance-urban -dub-acid-irritate-the-fuck-out-of-anyone-passing-by-music night). I might as well be in the club. The thumping comes through so clearly I already feel as if I'm being wordlessly rejected by every woman within a 30 yard radius while listening to joyless music, offering only booming bass and endless repetition. (Oh take me, gods of Curdmugeonhood, for I am already yours!)
Later visits to the Internet coffee house prove less noisome, but the place just isn't right for working or hanging out in. Too bright, and the music they play by choice also tends toward the techno. Nice baseball caps, though. I buy one and resolve never to return. It's back to the Conservatory for me. Sigh.
You're right, of course. In fact, I'm considering changing my last name to "Westalian" and I've already whipped my resume into shape. It's just a matter of time before the good folks at Justice International give me a number and take away my name!
In the meantime, I shall continue to explore the (for now) seedy environs of Hollywood, even as it inches towards its dream of becoming Times Square West. And, you know, the next time someone in my building asks for the time of day, by God, I'll give it to them...correctly.
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