The L.A. vs. San Francisco-post

In this week Doomlund referees the all-out battle of the California Tourist Titans.

The cabby redirected all of his attention from the road ahead to me in the backseat, pretty much placing both of our lives in the hands of good fortune and San Francisco’s – God be thanked - linear infrastructure.

- “Ya know, people come to this town on vacation and they end up staying a couple of years, and I’ll tell ya why that is:”, he paused briefly and took a hazardous left turn up Polk St., while I held my breath for a second. “San Francisco is the least polluted town in the U.S. We have the cleanest air here. We have the most beautiful surroundings in the entire country. The water is pure. The sky is blue. We have scenic public parks in the middle of the city. And the best thing is that everybody get’s along with everybody. Cus’ ya know what; the only thing we don’t tolerate…”, he paused again, this time for dramatic effect, “… is intolerance”.

I had been in L.A. and just arrived in San Francisco when I got a feeling that the smog had been replaced by smug. And it wasn’t just reckless cab-drivers either. It seemed to be everywhere I went. From the born-again flower children of Golden Gate Park to the tourist traps by the wharf advertising the cleanest most inviromentally conscientious businesses in the States. Some claim that American values are rooted somewhere in the biblebelt of the midwest. But not out here. In Frisco ecology is God. And it’s diciples never pass on an opportunity to applaud themselves for it.
Now, the town is nice and all and don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with a bit of ’awareness’. I really had a grand old time there. Seeing Alcatraz is a blast, it is a beautiful city and the air does actually feel a bit cleaner. But still.
I had just come up from Los Angeles. L ‘goddamn’ A, where cynicism is in the water and madness in the blood of its people. The air there was filthy. Trafic was murder. The typical big-city buzz bordered on white noise. And still God help me, I loved it to bits. L.A. had swept me off my feet or put more acurately; it punched me out cold.

And I’ll tell you why that is with just a short literary detour:
In his novel The Day of The Locust from 1939, Nathanael West, a native of New York who moved out to California in order to pursue a career as a Hollywood scriptwriter, depicted L.A. and its maniacal alter ego, Hollywood, as the point where western civilization – with all its progress and man-made wonders – would stand its final trial under God. Thus West’s L.A. is a gloomy city where decadence, debauchery and the dogmas of false prophets will one day ensure the wrath of the Almighty himself, and be swallowed up in a pit of fire like a modern day Sodom. The protagonists of the story are all innocent in their own way but they must come to terms with the crooked morals that rule the city, and one by one they all succumb to madness, suicide or an overwhelming urge to kill. All of it takes place under the illuminated Hollywood-sign in the Hills – the symbol of the american dream in the thirties, but to West a dream that has evolved into a nightmare of deprivation and the evaporation of all meaning.

Although Nathanael West preached good Christian morals (i.e. eternal damnation of the soul) he did have a point in so far that the city of L.A. offers total chaos to the unsuspecting visitor. But divine judgement aside, the chaos is what makes the place hold together.  

Because that’s the kind of strange maniacal embrace Los Angeles offers you. If you’ve ever felt like you don’t fit in any where you’ve probably learnt the important lesson that not fitting in anywhere also means that you fit in everywhere which is a pretty comforting thought. In ways Los Angeles is like that to. No generalization fits it adequately – a fact Nathanael West obviously had trouble coping with. No two blocks or neighbourhoods are alike, and that goes for the people who inhabit them as well.
Walking out of my hotel in the mornings I found myself stepping directly onto a regular battlefield of cultures, all fighting to occupy the same space under the swaying palms and the hot-as-hell SoCal sun. The glitz and glamour of Hollywood up in the hills, the Skidrow winos wrestling in alleys over quarters at 9 in the morning, day-labouring hispanics waiting on Alvarado for a gig and finally the remaining millions of people who are millions of other things. Like some kind of eco-system in a perpetual violent conflict with itself, Los Angeles holds them all. Yuppies, poets, bums and bastards alike.

Figuratively speaking – and only figuratively speaking –  L.A. is not a warm place. Chaos does rule, as West pointed out. Everything is scattered about and getting your bearings is almost impossible. It’s a city best experienced from behind the wheel of a cool air-conditioned car. But still being embraced by the chaos of this city feels like a comforting act of solidarity. If you don’t fit in anywhere, you fit in everywhere. And if anywhere in this world is everywhere - it’s Los Angeles. Heaven or Hell is up to you.

Like finding a home in a hurricane.

Yours truly, smog-lovin’, surf’s up rocking, rat’s in palm-trees huntin’,

TD.

Tags: Los Angeles, Nathanael West, San Francisco, Sunshine