Low on Lotus: 2007 Lotus Festival Coverage, Day 1

Friday night marked the start of the 30th Lotus Festival (not the "30th annual" - it actually started 35 years ago but due to budget cuts there were no Lotus Festivals in 1978-79 and 1986-1988), with a first-time-ever twilight jazz concert to get things warmed up. Only a few merchandise booths were open, and the food court and "Flower Island" booths lay dormant. The concert featured three jazz acts - none of which had any connection to Asian/Pacific Islander culture, but hey, there ain't nothin' wrong with jazz. The Militant arrived in time to catch the Cross Hart Jazz Experience lay down the gamut from bebop to jazz-funk, and even spotted an old friend from way back among one of the bandmembers. Right after the concert was a brief fireworks display which made Echo Park literally live up to its name (wisely, they're saving the big show for Saturday night).
The unfortunate thing was, as shown in the photo above, the dearth of the festival's namesake. What is normally known as the largest lotus bed outside of Asia didn't have much to show for it this year, with a meager row of lotuses lining the western shore. Damn you, global warming! (Actually, lotus flowers normally thrive in warmer climates). But Saturday is where the fun really begins, with musical and dance performances, dragon boat races, wok popcorn and neighborhood gentro-hipsters whining why none of the vendors in the food court serve vegan food (Tsk, tsk, y'all don't get it...)

The Cross Hart Jazz Experience provides the jazzy sundown vibe.


One of China's greatest contributions to the world lights up the lake
and echoes throughout the park.

Ridazz Wanted
After the last firework popped and after his chat with his jazz musician friend from way back, this Militant hopped on his bike and headed due west on Sunset, when he passed another bicyclist on the opposite side of the street who shouted, "Midnight Ridazz!" and the Militant replying, "Where?" and hearing the answer, "Down the street, Sunset and Echo Park!" So the Militant made a u-turn and ended up in the parking lot of one of the last five Pioneer Chicken stands in the world where a gradually-growing mass of handlebars, wheels, spokes and frames convened under the golden glow of sodium lights. This soon became my first full-fledged Midnight Ridazz ride (fatigue after a Critical Mass ride in late April caused the Militant to bow out of the MR ride before it began). This Friday the 13th ride started with an LAPD SUV apparently looking to spoil the fun of over 500 ridazz, but luckily on this night, the cops were there to guarantee our safety by blocking off intersections and reminding us not to ride on the streets British-style. The under-20-mile ride, in perhaps the greatest of night weather conditions, snaked from Echo Park to Historic Filipinotown to MacArthur Park to Koreatown to Pico-Union to the Byzantine-Latino Quarter to West Adams to Downtown to Chinatown to the Arts District to Boyle Heights (in The Real Eastside), through the industrial district back to Downtown and Echo Park. In many ways it was a nocturnal version of the Acura L.A. Bike Tour, (right down to approaching Downtown on the 6th Street Viaduct) which the Militant rode back in March after a seven-year hiatus.

The Militant observed that the overwhelming majority of the ridazz were of the white velohipster crowd, yet there were a good number of Asians and Latinos in the pack. But out of the sesqui-mil tally there were only three ridazz of black descent. What exactly is keepin' more of the brothaz and sistaz from bein' ridazz?

Ultimately the sheer quantity of ridazz became a human invincibility shield, allowing people to be out in the open in neighborhoods and areas most of them wouldn't dare caught being in otherwise. Residents curiously peeked outside windows and stood on balconies and fire escapes to see the crowd, ultimately cheering them on. Riding around MacArthur Park or through the dank alleys of the industrial district on the east bank of the Los Angeles River was suddenly no big deal (though the foul smell of the Vernon meat packing plants that wafted up the river was perhaps the low point here), these ridazz have taken them over.

Happy Birthday, Metro Rail!
Today, Bastille Day, marks the 17th anniversary of the opening of the Metro Blue Line, the first of what are now five lines in Los Angeles' Metro Rail system. The Militant still clearly remembers that hot summer Saturday in 1990 when the shiny Japanese-built light rail train emerged from the Flower Street tunnel amidst a blue-colored fog and blue confetti, and arrived at Pico Station, which, for the first seven months of operation, was the northern terminus of the Blue Line. A dedication ceremony took place on the Pico Station platform, where VIPs sat (including Mayor Tom Bradley sitting not far from the then-brown-haired future Mayor Jim Hahn). Bleachers were erected across Flower Street, where members of the public waved blue pom-poms handed out to them, soon getting in a long line to ride this new-fangled contraption to Anaheim Street in Long Beach (the southern loop stations did not open until September '90). Today, the Blue Line, now with repainted trains, all devoid of the color blue, is an emo teen, shuttling from north to south and back, from the lows of the subway tunnel to the highs of the bridge over the 710 freeway, carrying 70,000 passengers a day.

Fro-Yo, Oh No!
It looks like Echo Park isn't immune from the Fro-Yo Cold War as this banner was seen at the corner of Alvarado St. and Sunset Blvd. Minus one point for using the name of a color; plus one point for not using any alteration of the word "berry."

Absolut Reality

The Militant can be rather verbose, but at times the Militant lifestyle can be downright tiring, so this Militant is going to keep it (relatively) brief today.

Pasted ad bills are a common urban sight, hawking everything from events to cable TV shows to movies to CDs, posted in multiples as if its repetitive motif as an artistic statement transcends its original intention as a visual advertisement, ever temporary, until they are pasted over by another ad. But this particular one in the hood caught this Militant's eye. This one (pictured left) for Sweden's Absolut Vodka depicts an "Absolut World" where the urbane concrete flood control ditch known as the Los Angeles River is a lush urban greenbelt, filled with enough pristine-quality agua to support boats and other recreational watercraft. It's almost as if this ad agency consulted the Los Angeles River Master Plan instead of one of those hegemonic Madison Avenue ad executives. Who knew an alcohol ad could be something Friends of the Los Angeles River could love?

Berd of Paradise

Continuing his theme of "Neat things I saw around the neighborhood as an excuse to make today's blog entry" the Militant presents one of the newest "Berd" installations by the enigmatic Angeleno street artist named Browne, located in the general area of the Militant's compound, at Vermont and Melrose avenues (pictured right). From a different vantage point, the Militant saw the plywood-rope-and-padlock wonder of the Berd juxtaposed against a background of clear blue summer sky, the tip of a Vermont Avenue Canary Island pine tree and the majestic uncloaked ridgelines of both the Verdugo and the San Gabriel mountains looming boldly in the distance.You just had to see it to believe it. To quote the great Angeleno songsmith Randy Newman, "Looks like another perfect day..."

The Militant Does The Neighborhood Council Scene

This normally-prolific Militant hasn't been clicking on the the big orange "Publish Post" button for a few days, and it's not just because of the All-Star Break, which, by the way, this NL-leaning Militant has been rooting for a win by the Batting Pitchers League for a loooong time and was thusly crushed by Tuesday's results (what do you expect, it's Frisco...). Nor, on a related note, will I let the knee-jerk booing of the words "Los Angeles" being echoed in the PA system of Pacific Be, er, SB, er, AT&, er, Telecommunications Company Park by them Frisco Fans get to me (I swear, they would even boo at hearing "Los Angeles was destroyed by a 9.7 earthquake" just because it mentioned the name of The Greater California City).

No, see, the Militant is a living paradox. He likes to call attention to himself, yet is ever-so-cautious about revealing his identity. He rails against the slavery of East Coast Colonialism, yet is a virtual slave to his own community commitments. And worse yet, he likes to refer to himself in the third person.

But without saying too much, the Militant would like to note down, from an observant militant eye peeking under this sweaty Dodger camo cap, some of his recent activities...

Monday, 6:30 p.m.: Congress of Neighborhoods Planning Group Session
DWP Building, Downtown Los Angeles.

For those not aware, the Congress of Neighborhoods is a bi-annual event put on by the city of Los Angeles' Department of Neighborhood Empowerment (a.k.a. DONE) which is basically a pow-wow of sorts for the city's 89 neighborhood councils, but open to anyone and everyone who is concerned about neighborhoods. This militant has attended most of these events in the past, including the last one at the Westin Bonaventure in April. Since then, the new folks now at the helm of DONE (who replaced a woefully unpopular and incompetent interim general manager last Spring) have opened up the planning of the event to the councils as well as concerned community people in general, a welcome sign from what I have sensed from the NC people.
The next Congress event is slated to take place on Saturday, October 27 from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the aqua-and-blue colored wonder that is the Convention Center. This particular meeting polled the participants on what sort of topics and themes the event would have. Ever the diversity watchdog, this Militant would rate the representation of the group (on a scale of 1-5) a 3.5...definitely not a snowfield, but still not a full bag of Skittles. It was interesting, though to see what topics the participants felt was important to them: Those representing whiter, more well-to-do neighborhoods were concerned about planning/land use management, budgetary and procedural issues while the interpretation headphone-wearing Spanish speaking contingent were more concerned about the essentials: safe streets, quality schools, places for their kids to play, some even bought up the issue of racism in neighborhood council boards. Evidence The Great Divide definitely exists, but at least everyone in the group is pulling together to make a great event this Fall.

Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.: Neighborhood Council Review Commission Workshop
Salesian High School, Boyle Heights, The Real Eastside.

It's been said that the Los Angeles' Neighborhood Council system is a "great experiment in participatory democracy" when approved by voters in 1999 as part of an update to the city's charter. But like any killer app, it was prone to have various bugs. So the Neighborhood Council Review Commission (a.k.a. The 912 Commission - yep, that's a charter reference), made up of L337 community leaders and neighborhood council folk, would re-write the neighborhood council code and roll out "Version 2.0," as they like to say. Again, many NC-folk, both current and former, along with other concerned community peeps , attended this workshop, which was designed to gauge the community's opinions on the 912 Commission's recommendations, and voice their input on the NC system in general. But at the end of the meeting, a number of concerned Real Eastsiders voiced their disappointment at, in their own experience, a system that failed them due to infighting, backdoor deals, Brown Act violations and conflicts of interest. In other words, they were pwn3d by teh h4xx0rz. There's great concern that experiences like these turn off and turn away people who should be involved in the NC system, not to mention sour the reputation of a largely unknown entity to most Angelenos. Some voiced their opinions at the workshop that the City take upon itself to publicize, market or outreach the whole NC to the general public, rather than the NCs themselves relaying to the people 89 different versions of what the NCs are.

Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.: An Unspecified Neighborhood Council Meeting
An Unspecified Location, An Unspecified Part of Town.

So yes, this Militant attended a certain neighborhood council of a certain community of which he is a stakeholder in. This militant may or may not have been involved in the planning and outreach process of such a meeting. But needless to say, at the end, it was a good meeting, with the deputy of an unspecified city councilmember in attendance talking about a relatively successful unspecified program from their office that deals with an unspecified urban issue. There were also senior lead officers from two unspecified LAPD divisions present, who gave community members present an update on crime (both of which reported fairly low levels of crime as of late). The people seemed glad to be there, there were much information and resources shared and in all it was a very productive meeting for this unspecified neighborhood council. Even the Board Meeting section was swift and to the point and even put at the tail end of the entire meeting so as not to bore/alienate community people who preferred to put their community concerns into motion, instead of hearing board members move motions. The board wasn't just civil, but they even lightheartedly joked around. Way to go, unspecified neighborhood council! I'm glad, and proud, to be involved.

5,000 Light Years From Birdland

Have you noticed? There's a lot more birds in the neighborhood, and no I'm not just talking about those wooden ones suspended on wires over the intersections. Their audible presence is easily heard, chirping, tweeting and warbling at all hours of the day. During the Griffith Park Fire, they seemingly fled to the treetops of surrounding neighborhoods and exactly two months later, they're still around. refugees from an infernal disaster. Like New Orleanian evacuees from Katrina, these birds are making their music elsewhere because there's no home to return to. Two months after Mt. Hollywood glowed like a volcano in the night sky, the extreme eastern end of the Santa Monica Mountains look like an extremely bad haircut with some parts covered with brush and flora, and others a barren, ash-draped landscape. With no rain for a good several months (if we're lucky) and the eventual mudslides that will occur (wouldn't want to be in in the Los Feliz hills during the next rainstorm...), it's gonna be a long while before these winged refugees, all presumed to be living within a 2-3 mile radius of the park, return home. I wonder though if they will ever return home. Perhaps El Alcalde can get his mind off poontang for even just a few minutes and step up his Million Trees LA campaign to increase it severalfold. In addition to the fire-ravaged areas, it might be a good idea to have a few more planted in the Hollywood flatland areas, Los Feliz and AWV to help out our new fine-feathered neighbors. I might just plant a few more trees in the hood in addition to the handful of street trees I've already planted around here. According to the MTLA website, "Los Angeles has 18% tree canopy cover, which is below the national average of 27%." Wow, I guess this Militant watched too much Live Earth the other day.

Speaking of the birds, any real-life William Forresters out there who can spot and ID some our two-winged neighbors? I'm too busy being a Militant to know the difference between a great blue heron and Gil-Scott Heron.

Today's Dodger Rant

What do a white flag, a towel and Brett Tomko have in common?

Watts on an Early July Afternoon - A True Story

"Don't go there, it's not the safest part of town," many a (non-Militant) Angeleno would say, usually to a tourist or newcomer to town. And usually that would apply to all parts of town save for the Westside or the Valley west of the 170. I wonder though if such words were uttered in the name of genuine care for the safety and welfare of another, or to simply bring other neighborhoods further down, as if they were eternally denied the chance to revitalize themselves.

The year was 1993; the month was July. Still in college but enjoying summer vacation at the time, I decided to do a little exploring around town with a friend of mine. Three years prior, this thing called the Blue Line had thrusted an exotic new form of transportation into the psyche of some Southern Californians: light rail. My friend, Tony (not his real name, in fact I had forgotten it as we lost contact years ago), heard me talk about this exotic new form of transportation for a while, and eventually wanted to see what it was like.

So on an early Saturday afternoon, I picked him up and drove to Downtown Los Angeles where I parked my car at a certain location (there was no Red Line at the time) and proceeded to take a ride on the Blue Line.

Tony was amazed at this sleek, new exotic form of transportation, from the moment he bought his first ticket to when he boarded the train and got to his seat.

We took the train from Downtown all the way to Long Beach and back, just sampling the sights and immersing ourselves in the experience. I had forgotten who proposed the idea, but on the trip back, one of us decided, just for adventure's sake, to go to Watts.

Watts. One of those places where perception defeats any semblance of reality. Let's play a game of word association, shall we? I'll throw out the word: "Watts." What's the first thing to come to mind?

Surely it would be one of these words: Gangs, Crips, Gangs, Bloods, Gangs, Drive-By Shootings, Gangs, Drugs, Gangs, Ghetto, Guns, Gangs and oh yeah, I forgot...Gangs. And remnants of the 1992 riots were still visible all over the city.

But still we wanted to see this Watts place. It was still daytime, the weather was relatively warm but not unbearably hot and not a cloud in the sky. Both of us were area natives, so perhaps this trek would satiate our urban curiosities. I had been to South Central before - the actual South Central, meaning southern blocks of Central Avenue that were once the hub of Los Angeles' black community before World War II. Just a couple years prior, I was a volunteer for a city council candidate at the time and had walked the neighborhood to garner support for his campaign. He didn't win but I got to know a part of town that was largely misunderstood. Tony was Half-rican American (half-black, half-white) though he grew up a Westsider. From my previous experience, I was probably more comfortable round these here parts than he was.

We arrived at 103rd St. Station in Watts and alighted the train. We were both in wonder, awe and freaked-out amazement that we were actually in this fabled place called Watts. The first destination: A two-block walk from the station towards the southeast to the area's sole landmark: The Watts Towers.

I had known what most others had known about the Towers: That they were an ersatz sculpture made out of steel bars, concrete and glass bottles found around the area and cobbled together by one Simon Rodia, an eccentric, diminutive Italian immigrant who one day decided to leave and was never heard from again.

We were unable to get in due to renovation but we ogled the towers from as close as we could get. To me they were a slight disappointment; not in their aesthetics but in their stature. If placed in Downtown they would certainly be overshadowed by even the mid-rise buildings.

But we were here and appreciated the sole part of Watts that has always been appreciated.

And then we heard the sound.

"POP!" We heard echoing in the distance.

We looked at each other, startled, knowing instinctively what it was, wondering who would be the first to say, "Dude, let's get our asses out of here." But our exploring selves wanted to continue our trek; we came this far already.

"POP! POP!"

Out lives seemed to flash before our eyes. Those perceptions were true, we feared, this place was full of trigger-happy gangstaz ready to kill the first thing that moves...

"POP! POP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! (followed by a descending whistling sound accompanied by a fizzle)"

"Wait a minute," I thought. "What's today's date?" I asked, almost rhetorically.

"It's July 3," Tony replied.

"Tomorrow's July 4. Those were FIRECRACKERS!" I said.

Then we started to laugh.

Much more relaxed now, we proceeded to walk back towards the Blue Line station at a much more leisurely pace, along the abandoned railroad track that once took the old Pacific Electric Red Cars from Watts Junction to Santa Ana. The sound of the firecrackers had continued, just like they would in any other neighborhood.

Even years afterward, when I would boast that I had actually been to Watts - and survived (to play on the xenophobia of others), I'd bring up this story to tell to others about how perception can get in the way of reality.

On Independence Day 1993, both my friend Tony and I had declared independence from our fears.

Two Turntables and a...Stradivarius?

Hot on the heels of Greg Patillo, a.k.a. the beatboxing flautist, comes Angeleno hip-hop violinist Paul Dateh who gets props for pulling off some really dope chops (arco, marcato, legato, pizzacato and the dynamics bit) on da fiddle, for shizzle. He's accompanied above by DJ Inka One. Most MySpace bulletins usually consist of self-absorbed "why should I care" notices and childish chain-letter like "surveys," but a gig notice for Dateh and Inka One was posted on my bulletin today. I guess there is some value in that. The two will perform 9pm tonight at Cranes, 1611 El Centro in Hollywood. It's free, y'all. This Militant is going to spend his 4th of July practicing his cowbell skillz so I can get to be the first-ever hip-hop cowebellist. I got a fever...

Hmm? Equity? No Way...
Speaking of MySpace, after performing the mundane task of deleting fake porn whore accounts (You know, the ones who send you a message going, "Hi cutie :) I like ur pic ;)" even though you have a picture of a toaster in your MySpace profile, and you go to their profile, and there's always an outgoing link that reads "Look at my pics here" and she only has one (scantily clad) picture in her profile and every one in her friends list is all guys who were suckered into the scam), an expected ad showed up on the MySpace screen and I skipped ahead to something else, but then I had to do a double-take...Was it what I thought I saw? Naw, It can't be...an online dating site ad picturing a white female...and and Asian male? No, it can't be...This Militant knows that Western society makes it a point to show that the only socially-acceptable interracial relationships are between white males and Asian females. But lo and behold, there it is (screen capture posted above). Sure it's probably two models paid to pose for an advertisement, but wow, how different...how...subversive. Even though there's a long way to go before I see equity in this heavily disproportionate ratio, this Militant is impressed. Now all this doesn't necessarily mean this Militant has a white girl fetish, but I must go on record to say that there's something so undeniably sexy about white chicks flashing gang signs.

Wheel To Reel: The Bicycle Film Festival

It's no surprise this city's full of film festivals. There's one for practically every demographic. There's the Los Angeles Film Festival, The Hollywood Black Film Festival, The Los Angeles Latino International Film Festival, The VC (Asian American) Film Fest, The Los Angeles International Children's Film Festival, Outfest, Screamfest, and even the Los Angeles Blind Film Festival.

Just kidding about the last one.

But this was the first time I heard of a film festival dedicated to bicycles and the people who ride them. The Bicycle Film Festival is a film fest oriented towards bicycle advocacy which runs in 16 cities internationally over the course of a year. This weekend, it was the City of Angels' turn.
Now, if you've been following this Militant's online adventures lately you'd hear a lot about bike riding this and bike riding that. I will say that although in the past 12 months I've bought a new bike, participated in the Acura L.A. Bike Tour on Marathon Sunday, participated in my first Critical Mass and Midnight Ridazz rides last April, and ride a heck of a lot these days, I'm just a veloculture n00b. But this blogster, as Militant as he is, doesn't feel like he really fits in with the whole bike counterculture (I describe my overall political ideology as "Picky"). Still, this thing piqued my curiosity and after hearing about it from various acquaintances, I wanted to see what it was all about, as well as the sight of hundreds of bikes -- including mine -- parked on Hollywood Boulevard.

The actual festival ran on Friday and Saturday. I went down on Saturday, at the very ghetto Vine Theatre on The Boulevard a few doors west of Vine St. , though it seemed to suit the predominantly velohipster crowd just fine. The seventh and final program was "Fun Bike Shorts" which screened 14 mostly-digital short films about bikes and the bicycle lifestyle. Most of them were nothing more than "Cool let's put a camera on a bike and ride around and that's it" videos and one looked more like home video footage of a cycling competition in Germany. But there were a few that showed a unique, human angle. On the Board: Freecall Messengers in San Francisco showed a day in the life of bike messengers on the streets of Frisco, including how the entire operation functions, which was actually very educational. Hunger in the City featured the "Los Angeles Burrito Project," a weekly nighttime ride where riders volunteer to deliver warm homemade burritos to homeless people on the streets of Downtown. Honorable mentions went to a Danish animated horror film that humorously depicted human-slaughtering zombie bicycles and a high-octane selection shot during cycling rides in London, NY, Chicago, Milan and Mexico City. It exposed the more extreme side of bike riding with near-misses with cars, riding against oncoming traffic and wipeouts.

Later that night there was a BFF afterparty at an art gallery on Cahuenga near Selma, and it was rather exhilarating to dash over there on bicycle in all but two minutes while club-bound automobiles crawled bumper-to-bumper on The Boulevard (have you noticed that lately? There's no more cruising...more like...idling). Have fun idling, fools.

It was still interesting to see several bikes latched on to parking signs, meters and even payphones, which looked more like Hawthorne Blvd. in Portland, Oregon than Cahuenga Blvd. in Hollywood, California. When this Militant left at 2:30 a.m., for some reason the vibe on the street still felt like 10 p.m. I guess that's how big Cahuenga's gotten (Still remembering the days when the only thing happening on that part of Cahuenga was The Room).

Bikeanalia

The actual festival ended with a block party Sunday in East Hollywood on the corner of Melrose Ave. and Heliotrope Drive, near Los Angeles City College. The location was selected because of the presence of two popular institutions in the local veloculture: The Bicycle Kitchen and Orange 20 Bikes. It's also the location of City College Cafe, the newly -formatted gentrovegan pub Pure Luck and the insanely popular Scoops Ice Cream shop. The Militant admittedly did not ride his two-wheeler there, but rather made the trek on foot since it was so damn close anyway. Info booths from the Los Angeles County Bicycle Coalition, the AIDS Lifecycle Ride the East Hollywood Neighborhood Council and C.I.C.L.E. (Cyclists Inciting Change through Live Exchange) represented and there were lots of bike-oriented activities like stunt contests, a bicycle bell ensemble (honestly, it didn't sound as badass as one expected it to be with musical pieces consisting of four notes) and even a bike outfitted with a blender that made smoothies(!) A DJ spun mostly hip-hop, neo-soul and retro '80s and '90s tunes, which instigated enough dancing in the streets to make Martha and the Vandellas proud after the sun went down.

Overall it was a fun event, though this militant seemed to have trouble fitting in for some reason (then again it's rare for me to fit into any group...I guess that just fuels my militancy...). It would have been nice though to have some more activities oriented to invite and entice non-bicyclists into the veloculture, even just ever so slightly rather than a party seemingly thrown just for a bicycle clique. With gas prices getting more expensive and ass sizes getting more expansive, this Militant believes it's important for the veloculture to expand to more demographic groups than just lycra-clad cyclists or 20- and 30-something hipster types. Knowing the demographics of this neighborhood, what a sight it would have been to see old Armenian dudes or 40-something El Salvadoran mothers ride in to this event (or anywhere around this hood, for that matter) on bikes.

Hey Now, You're An All-Star

Congrats to my favorite Doyer, pitcher Takashi Saito for making the 2007 NL All-Star Team. The 37-year old closer extraordinaire joins teammates Russell Martin and Brad Penny in the National League lineup at the July 10 All Star Game in SF. This Militant Dodger Fan has hoped and speculated Saito San make the team, and also is hoping for him to close the game in anticipation of a long-deserved NL win. After Padre (booo!) Trevor "I Look Like A Freaking Zombie" Hoffman blew a save in last year's ASG, this year's NL manager, Tony LaRussa, would hopefully know better than to repeat the blunder of last year's outcome. I mean really, I'm sick of this AL All-Star win monopoly and Saito would just just rock the 9th. Sayonara, AL! Another cool aspect of this year's ASG for the Blue-Thinking fans: With Martin behind the plate and Penny at the mound, this is the first All-Star Game since 1995 where the starting battery comprised of two Dodger players. Mike Piazza and Hideo Nomo successfully filled those roles 12 years ago. That was probably the last time the NL won...

All We Are Is Dust in the Windorphins

You've no doubt seen those billboards and bus shelters around town advertising Windorphins, which at first glance look like some sort of new candy. A quick glance at the website reveals that Windorphins are just these little avatar thingies you create that pop up when you win an eBay bid...so basically they're kind of like eBay meets Zwinky, created as some new gimmick by the virtually institutional online auction site. The Flash-formatted Windorphins site is presented like some faux-medical breakthrough, complete with marginally humorous videos featuring various white people in lab experiments. The WTF factor is still high, being that 1) eBay doesn't really have much competition anyway; 2) They really aren't like "A ticker-tape parade for your soul" and 3) Damnit, I really thought they were a new kind of candy.

The Bike Path To Summer

Although Memorial Day weekend was over a month ago, and the Summer Solstice came and went last week, for this Militant, it's not Summer until I visit the beach. Having some work responsibilities wrapped up by early afternoon, I found a unique window of opportunity to hit the coast on Thursday.

Since 1993, I've inaugurated the arrival of Summer with a ride down the 22-mile South Bay Bike Path.

Despite the beach being outside my driving ban territory, I still decided to save some gas anyway by taking advantage of Metro's new Rapid Line 704, which supposedly gets me to Santa Monica in an hour. To my dismay, the bus wasn't on time (or maybe I missed the last one?) and it wasn't a fancy red-colored bus, but rather a regular poppy-orange Metro Local with a "704 Santa Monica" headsign. Nevertheless, the bike went on the front rack, the iPod went in my ears, and I was on my way.

It did take about an hour to reach the beach, not bad. I disembarked at Colorado and started pedaling, passing the throngs of digital camera-snapping summer tourists outside iconic Santa Monica Pier sign, crossing the curiously-named Moomat Ahiko Way -- which is native American Chumash for "Breath of the Ocean" and not after some Arab-Japanese fellow as I had previously thought. Within a few minutes, I was finally on The Path.

My destination, the end of the path at Torrance County Beach was a virtually-unseen point in the distance, past the slight haze created by coastal moisture. Riding on the path during the summer is a unique experience; the sum beats down on your back and arms yet your face is cooled by the moist sea air, rewarded frequently by the delicate coastal breezes. The experience is just not the same during the winter, where it's considerably colder, and the flat, spanning aesthetic of the beach is dramatically altered by storm berms bulldozed in the sand. Yes, I can always come here in the winter, but I don't like to.

Having breezed past the Venice Boardwalk on my summer bike rides on The Path, I decided to play "tourist" and simply walk my bike along the Boardwalk (a misnomer since it's simply pavement). It was my first time on the actual Boardwalk since helping a friend visiting from Philadelphia realize her dream of rollerblading in Venice Beach a decade ago (for my newbie rollerblading ass though, it was a muscle-aching nightmare). Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be a tourist. If all I saw of Angelenos were stoned-out smelly dudes strumming guitars while selling ersatz paintings or hawking henna designs, I might not like this town all that much. Although I must report that I spotted the Silver Lake Walking Dude of all people, in all his sunburned glory, here on the Venice Boardwalk, well outside his home environs.

After Venice Beach, I got back on the bike and rode through the "street" segment of The Path, crossing one of Abbot Kinney's few surviving canals and navigating the perimeter of Marina Del Rey, finally reaching a dedicated bike path again where it junctions with the Ballona Creek Path. I think I'll shut up for now and let the pictures speak for themselves:

Gigantic crane birds (center) hang out in the Ballona Wetlands --

the last piece of land untouched since the native Tongva tribe roamed the area.

The Del Rey Lagoon, just south of Ballona Creek,
is the last vestige of a large span of marshland
that would eventually be dredged to create The Marina.

Looking back north, The El Segundo Power Plant hums and churns
while surfers ride the waves just yards away.

The surfer's monument at Hermosa Beach Pier.

The path ends here, next to the fortress-like cliffs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

Looking back, to think I came all this way.
Santa Monica can hardly be seen in the distance.

The sand, the surf, the foam, the kelp, the easy feeling of a
summer evening in Southern California.

When the sun sets over the Pacific...

My Summer initiation ritual is not complete without baptizing myself in the waters of the Pacific (okay, just a knee-deep wade would suffice this time), reminding me that I've completed my journey, and forming a connection to my ancestors who have similarly waded the other side. As the sun set, some music provided by the iPod orchestra completed the mood, of a day finishing off its business in this part of the world.

Now time for the journey back.

With night approaching, the environment suddenly changes, and it's not necessarily for the worse. The moist sea air embraced me like an invisible blanket, keeping me relatively warm as I speed through the cold of night. Pier lights served as decorative strings jutting out into the dark, unknown expanse of the ocean. As I raced back towards Santa Monica and the receding layer of remaining post-dusk sunlight fades into bands of orange and purple, the bonfires of Doheny State Beach formed seemed to form their own runway perpendicular to the paths of jet planes roaring above.

Come 9 p.m., in the dark, unlit expanses of Playa Del Rey, I felt like a western Pioneer navigating towards unknown territory, with only a small bike light guiding my way. Daunting, yes, but really very exciting. The full moon also provided quite a sight with its light reflecting on the waters of Ballona Creek (photo right).

But once I reached Santa Monica, the quiet solace of the beach at night ended suddenly, with the lights of the Pacific Park blaring on the Pier and throngs of people walking around both on the Path and on the sand. The energy of this beach continued as if the sun had never set. A free valet service was set up to accommodate people's bikes next to the path, and the lot was mostly full.

Navigating the Santa Monica streets by the 3rd Street Promenade, I had long left the dark, silent solitude of the beach at night and was back in the city again, waiting for the 4 bus to take my bike and my tired Militant self back home.

Yes. Summer is finally here.

When Ya Gotta Go, Go Metro!

Looks like the automatic pay toilets have hit my hood. A brand new Metro Latrine is being installed at the Metro Rail Vermont/Santa Monica station. About time, I say. Maybe the Metro Bus stop across the street won't reek of urine anymore. A week ago, the news racks were removed from the site, a rectangular hole dug out of the pavement and a large concrete base installed. When a water main was spotted protruding from the base, I knew it was Potty Time. The toilet, an off-the-shelf model by international street advertising company JCDecaux is identical to ones seen in Downtown, as well as in Frisco, Chicago and Paris.
A closer look at the pay toilet gave way to a definite nod to Los Angeles' rich diversity. Instructions on how to use the toilets are also given in German and French (pictured left), because, we all know that Los Angeles is famous for its large Deutsch- and Français- speaking immigrant communities. Oh well, it doesn't matter what race, ethnicity or nationality you are. You might be an American outside the toilet, but inside... You're-A-Peein.'

Yet Another Pinkberry-Related Los Angeles Blog Entry. Wheee!!!

Yes, this Militant is not above getting bitten by the Pinkberry bug. Yes, the whole fro-yo Cold War has been detailed several times over. Yes, this Militant has sampled competitors CeFiore and Kiwiberri (but not yet Yogotango, Roseberry, Mr. Snowberry, Berri Good, Chuckberry, Berri Gordy or Halleberri) but frankly I don't care. When the weather is warm, frozen yogurt, by any other name, really hits the spot (and so does ice cream, but I'll get to that in a future entry...). So I couldn't help it if there's a spankin' new P'berry on the northwestern fringe of Silver_Lake (underscore added to remind all the gentro-hipsters out there that it's actually spelled as two words) on Hyperion and Rowena (which is technically in Los Feliz due to the location of the community sign, but since there's already a P'berry in Los Feliz, I'll let this one slide). Everyone in both the Traditional Media and the Blogosphere has talked in detail about the flavor or content of the yogurt, whether it is actual yogurt, the choice of toppings or which nonfat frozen yogurt (NFY) chain is the best.

I'm here to talk about those stupid overpriced trinkets on sale on the P'berry shelves.

Unlike competitor CeFiore, P'berry makes no claims as to being Italian-style NFY, but for some reason they thought selling colored plastic trinkets from Italian design firm Alessi was cool. Gee, I dunno. Yes, they look neat on static display but that's about it. I don't think paying $69.00 for a stupid dog bowl is what I have in mind when craving some original flavor NFY topped with strawberries, mangoes and almonds on a warm summer day. I don't even think my dog would care if I did. But hooray for gratuitous consumerism, eh? During my P'berry visit today, a preschool-aged kid quietly begged his mom to get him a "Cico," a little blue alien-looking guy in a baseball cap holding a spoon. The store staff told the mom that they were out of stock, but the child was persistent and the mom relented. She even got the manager out and asked if she could buy the display model. The manager let her, and got a box to package it in. All this for $15 extra. All this while the NFY line was being held up. Turns out "Cico" is actually, according to the Alessi site, an "Egg cup with salt castor and spoon." Wow. I guess egg cups are really the in-thing with kids these days. And here I thought it was Dora the Explorer, Spongebob Squarepants or even Nintendo Wii. Looks like my four-year-old goddaughter down in San Diego is getting an egg cup this Christmas!

Maybe I'm a little too cynical. Some of those Alessi trinkets might actually be practical. I can get a small colored container and instead of ordering having cereal toppings on my P'berry, I can just go BYO Fruity Pebbles! Then again, some of those trinkets, in my Militant opinion, border on being racist.

Now some Silver_Lakers, whether longtime residents or gentro-hipsters, have lamented that P'berry represents a dangerous venture into the "corporatization" of New Ivanhoe. I guess having a Trader Joe's must really bother them, or even having not one, but two 7-Elevens. Besides, if these folks are as progressive as they claim to be, surely they would welcome a minority- and female- owned company, right?

Besides, 10 years from now when people in Podunk get into the NFY craze, you know where it all began.

Over The Hilton

So as I savored my P'berry, I spotted a Mistubishi Outlander in the tiny mini-mall parking lot (I rode my bike, no parking worries for me!) driving off onto Hyperion with the words "FREE PARIS!" painted on the rear window. Yeah, how nice. I mean I would totally agree with that sentiment...during the Nazi occupation. I guess one attention whore begets another.

Bain Gets Guitarded

Wetlake Village-based music store chain Guitar Center was sold today for $2.1 billion to Boston-based private equity firm Bain Capital Partners, LLC (Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney is one of its founding partners). GC, or as this very musically-inclined Militant calls it, "Guitard Center," is the largest musical instrument company in America and began here in Hollywood, across the street from its current location on Sunset Blvd's guitar row. Speaking of which, the reason for such a plethora of pickin' points of purchase? Guitar pioneer Les Paul once lived in the Sunset-Gardner neighborhood and several guitar companies wanted to be in close proximity to his lab.

Though GC is a popular subject of ridicule for the Militant elsewhere on the net, I lament the loss of yet another Southern California-based firm selling out to our East Coast colonizers, and this just makes me mad. DO WE !@#$% OWN ANYTHING ANYMORE?

Oh well, at least we still got Pinkberry.