I have had my fill of green, of oak trees and cornfields, and other pleasant prairie things…so make this contraption GO FASTER. I’m exhausted from hours cooped up on your flying deathtrap, and to top everything my butt has completely fallen asleep. So be quick in your landing and safety speech and give me more complimentary peanuts to tide the hunger damnit!…How I long for desert, for cactus and palms, for a dry wit and a sun-baked life.
<· I touched down in LAX on an unseasonably windy day in late may. As the plane began its long descent, I could feel an overwhelming excitement rising in the pit of my chest. I was taking part in that all-too familiar American tradition. A native Chicagoan, raised in the suburbs, but off to college in New York City, I was taking a trip to SoCal for 10 days. Ostensibly my purpose was to visit friends, but I also wanted to assess everything California had to offer for my adult life ahead. I was taken aback by the sprawling metropolis beneath me: carved out of the sand and plopped next to the sea, it came replete with a legion of pools, surprisingly verdant lawns, and highways that made the Illinois Tollway look like a rustic horse-path by comparison. I took in the glittering promise of the West Coast, breathless from nervous excitement. California, here we come.
The characteristics of California according to Ms. Katy Perry:
Gurls who take some liberties with spelling
Grass that is really greener,
Water with just an extra something,
Daisy Dukes,
bikinis, tankinis, martinis, (but no weenies)
sun-kissed skin,
sex on the beach,
freaking in Jeeps,
&
representin’ California + the west coast in general
g Geologically speaking, California longs to leave, to break away from the rest of the continent, and, honestly, Californians probably wouldn’t mind leaving with it. As anyone who travels here from out-of-state knows, SoCal’s culture is a blend of continental assimilation and remaining stubbornly Californian. It’s certainly far removed from the attitudes and lifestyle of mainstream America, hell, Northern Californians can’t even identify with them. Although still connected to the continental 48 for a couple more millions of years or so, perhaps we should still consider California as a culture on the fringe, more akin to the spirit of Hawaii than a place like Illinois, or even it’s neighbors Arizona and Nevada.
Living within the bubble of the entertainment capital of the world allows Californians the unique position to make cultural commentaries…and they excel especially in pointing that proverbial finger at themselves. Every medium is filled with artists who attempt to grasp the essence of California in their work—from the glossy sheen of Entourage to the dark mystery of Mulholland Drive, the introspective haze of Less Than Zero to the clearheaded detachment of Slouching Toward Bethlehem—these disparate images give outsiders the basic understanding of the contradictions that lie at the core. And if none of these can paint a clear picture of the place, one need only turn on the radio. It would be impossible to quantify the number of musicians in the past 50 years who have used California as their muse for some of the most celebrated songs in American history, hence the use of Katy Perry and Tool, which were simply my starting points in this exercise. Even these notes follow in the vein of such statements mentioned above, gathered by an outsider after only a relatively short trip. Let’s face it; few other places on this Earth inspire such constant inspection. Californian-(self)love is infuriating and unrelenting and unbelievably pretentious, but also fascinating and fun in the best, most indulgent way. These musicians just might be on to something: you can check out any time you like but you can’t ever leave.
California is quite possibly the most ironic state of the union…a sparsely populated desert that belonged to Mexico only a hundred and fifty years ago is now the most populated and (until the recent booms in the south) most desired real estate. The state is a geographical (and cultural) oxymoron, one that doesn’t really exist anywhere else in the U.S. except perhaps Florida and Texas. Now, I’m not trying to suggest that most states are homogenous. Even Illinois has immense lifestyle differences, (most identifiable in the contrast between Chicagoland and the rest of the state.) But even these states would be hard pressed to match California in pure variety…surfer dudes, sk8r punks, actors, pornstars, businessmen, their aging counterparts—retirees of every kind, the Fabulously Wealthy, the Not So Fabulously Wealthy, incredible numbers of immigrants—both legal and not, and a contingent of conservatives who continually seem surprised when reminded of all the others in their midst. It’s generally accepted by Californians as the norm, no big deal, right? Except to an outsider it is genuinely strange. New York City may be America’s true melting pot, but with California we see many different groups still separated, but kept arranged on the same, small plate.
The second evening of our trip we resolved to go camping in the San Bernardino Mountains, near the idyllic resort town of Lake Arrowhead. As we climbed the altitude out of the Inland Empire, the temperature dropped…and dropped…and dropped. When we reached the site we were dismayed to find snow still on the ground. It could not have contrasted more with the temperate valley we had left behind just a few hours ago. The people of the region really served to confirm the divide more than anything else. Those who we observed in Lake Arrowhead came from a radically different breed than the chic Angelanos, and they pegged us almost immediately as The Spoiled Kids From L.A. Who Don’t Know What The Hell They’re Doing. Though it certainly wasn’t true, (only our host actually lived in Cali and we all had a good deal of camping experience) we definitely were not prepared for the unbearable cold that night in the mountains, and quickly made plans to move to a campground on the beach by next morning. As we checked out of Lake Arrowhead, a perceptive ranger walked by and mocked, “what happened? Did you guys forget the television, the heater?” Not one to admit shame, my friend cheerfully replied, “well, we did bring the television.” After our hasty retreat from the mountains, it took us less than three hours to reach the ocean and encounter an entirely new set of eccentric residents, many of whom lived semi-permanently on the beach. I would continue to feel such differences at many points throughout the trip, and, keep in mind; we didn’t even have the time or cash to venture to the northern parts. It would appear that most Californians are united in name only…west coast represent indeed.
Once we were comfortably situated on Carlsbad beach, we planned a day excursion to San Diego, about an hour south. I was pretty thrilled; three years ago I had traveled to the San Diego area for a week on a school trip. Now, I was filled with nostalgia for the place, and this second time around only increased my appreciation of it. The scenery was gorgeous, the food superb, and the downtown area was charmingly bizarre: A blend of skyscrapers and Latino-style architecture housed offices, restaurants, even a lushly decorated, authentically old-school train station. And I can’t even begin to extol the virtues of Balboa Park, which we sadly did not have the tine to fully explore. As we drove back, I felt a sense of completeness. The curious high-schooler had returned independently as a college man, and must (god willing) return again. San Diego is the sort of town that forces you to promise to keep coming back. Removed from the weirdness of L.A. and the commuting nightmares of Orange County, San Diego would be the most rewarding choice if I were to ship out and set up my life in SoCal. Realistically though, S.D. does not escape the problems and issues of the region, especially illegal immigration and outrageous housing and utility prices. Even if I can’t possibly afford it, that town will always allure to that part of my mind that secretly wishes to devolve back to the enchanted teenager.
Throughout her career, Georgia O’Keefe escaped to the desert to create some of her best-loved work. I could feel the same pull, as tangible and insurmountable as gravity, as we drove around Palm Springs in the middle of the week. Even in our modern age, we still have not found a way to conquer the desert; throughout the valley are warnings and signs of a dire drought in the region. (National Geographic has a fantastic article here that discusses the Californian water shortage, which I cannot even begin to distill properly.) As a resort town dependent on tourism, however, Palm Springs tries to maintain a tight balance between conservation and luxury. Now, I don’t mean to preach about this—I certainly was not doing my part for the environment when I willingly spent a day in the local waterpark. But these are the contradictions that define the region, and the unyielding desert provides the backdrop. With the windows down and the wind surging through my hair, I imagined myself as the black cloud at the front of a sandstorm, pulled through the devastation by a ferocious wind, whistling around silent pillars of red stone. I feel the echoes of a nomadic past meeting a pastoral present. I weave down the borderline and knit together east and west.
Some more characteristics of California according to Mr. Maynard James Keenan, vocalist for the band Tool:
A Bullshit, three-ring circus sideshow of freaks
Fretting for lattes, lawsuits, hairpieces, and prozac
Living in a hopeless fucking hole
L. Ron Hubbard and the like,
Armed gangster wannabes,
Memory junkies,
hidden agendas
insecure entertainers
&
one great big festering neon distraction
I began to sour on the place by the end of the week. The general insanity of the Memorial Day holiday certainly didn’t help. My friends and I never made it to Venice Beach as we planned after spending two hours in gridlock traffic. Defeated, we caught glimpses of the ocean through choked alleyways as we retreated away from the nightmare that is L.A. traffic and parking. To my mind the frenzy seemed ridiculous, (after all, it was only an overcrowded beach) yet Venice is one of the most celebrated and popular locales in the state. Then again, Angelanos are notorious for overstating the virtues of their city. (The site for travel-guide company, The Lonely Planet, provides a hilarious scale here that pretty accurately illustrates most attitudes toward L.A.) It doesn’t help that much of Los Angeles is relatively new, or that the network of suburbs is so expansive. While rolling your way across in town in a motorist’s worst nightmare, you’re given time to properly look around, and the view is often grim. When we look beneath that Warholic, pop plastic veneer of the movies, L.A. can appear pretty soulless. Celebrated sci-fi writer, Phillip K. Dick, has these telling observations of his native Orange County in A Scanner Darkly: “In southern California it didn’t make any difference anyhow where you went; there was always the same McDonaldburger place over and over, like a circular strip that turned past you as you continued to go somewhere…life in Anaheim, California was a commercial for itself, endlessly replayed.” The trip was immensely enjoyable, but overall, I did not fall totally in love with the Golden Coast—sorry Katy, it wasn’t meant to be. Though I suppose I will always still admire it from afar…especially the weather.
Take me back now I suppose, take me back. Your West is not wild enough for me. Pleasantly wacky to be sure, but what I need is a little adversity. I just can’t thrive living by the beach or resort, driving long hours to get anywhere at all, with the windows down, feeling the touch of sun and sea breeze. On the contrary, I must be trapped with other people, forcing my way onto the subway, daily facing down death at the hands of bicyclists and taxis. So I will try to sit back and relax, but I cannot promise I will enjoy the flight…especially since MY ENTIRE BODY IS TENSE FROM THIS DAMN SEAT. Fine, fine, I will try to relax Ms. Persistent Flight Attendant, but keep this in mind: I’m headed back East toward Chicago and points beyond, looking forward to our early dawn. And you can be damn sure that the observer will have to write it all down in the cold, damp, midwestern morning.
SM July 2010
I didn't realize when I took this shot that there was a small black fly hiding within the folds of the petals--I caught him only in review, and really like his unassuming presence.
Finished product. Any shirts I make in the future will probably have a slightly different placement (I'd like to angle the bird a bit and move it higher up) but overall it turned out relatively well.