LA Guns

I'm going to try to not let this turn into an outlet for me to vent about work, but it's hard.

With that said, I must inform you that people are mean. People are really mean. One customer in particular made my blood boil today. I was making drinks this morning while my manager was taking orders and the customer orders her, "extra dry iced cappuccino" -- impossible by the way -- and my manager shouted the drink order to me. The lady asks her, "can he do that?". The intonation is very important here however I can't find the words to convey the contempt for mankind she seems carry with her on an everyday basis. My manager defended me half-heartedly, but also walked away leaving me to charge her because the line had thinned out. I saunter over to the counter to ring her up and I charge her for a double.

She chides me.

She tells me she ordered a single.

She tells me that I shouldn't charge people without asking first.

She tells me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.

I apologize each time but it only makes her worse.

I thank her for pointing it out to me.

She repeats to me that she caught me doing the same thing yesterday.

I thank her for pointing it out to me twice.

She has an obvious face lift, huge sunglasses, coral lipstick, a slinky sleeveless black dress with white piping and pearls. She is indignant. Her brow gives clues to the expressions her eyes complete under her shades. I give her her drink. She lashes out "too much foam!".
I can tell she just wants to piss me off at this point -- it's obvious. But then it gets worse, she actually takes the lid off her cup and shakes the foam out onto the counter in front of me. I try to control the rush of blood i feel pulsing to my temples. with all goods received I thank her, I tell her goodbye, I tell her to have a nice day.

Her eyes narrow behind her shades to what I imagine now to be metallic spears, she extends her hand palm up, "didn't I give you a dime in that change."

"Here's your nickel ma'am, have a greeeat day!" -- I over annunciate in hopes she'd pick up on what to me is an obviously sarcastic statement. She storms out lidless with non-fat foam on her hand but she'll be back tomorrow. She's there everyday.


In the scheme of things I've had fairly little interaction with this woman but still the mind wandered at the bus stop. I daydream about leaning over the counter and slapping her upside the head. I wonder if anyone has ever called her out. I wonder if she could be shamed by a lesser. Even the transitory thought of the possibility of a scenario occurring is enough to run over my sensory system.... my mouth waters.

I'm not letting it bother me though -- no really, it's true. Since I'm fairly sure that most people capable of these behaviors are dumb as fucking tacks, I'm going to try to let a silent but all encompassing air of superiority be my guide. I'm not pompous.

It's justified under the assumption that the particular ilk of customer in question has some sort of luxury fetish. They have become well off by inheritance, marriage or under some sort of venture capitalist boondoggle -- I'm not too well informed on the subject but two good guesses would be either Chinese strip mines, or investment in chain luxury themed shopping environments (like the one I work for). Finally, they decide to invest their piles of cash in some gaudy mansion in the hills, terrifying plastic surgery and a ridiculous car. So, its easy to see why I feel justified in my blanketed statements of condemnation.

Themed shopping environments like the one I work for are on the rise, (they apparently just opened one in Dubai). What is so insidious about places like these is their gratuitous claims on authenticity. People come expecting a very controlled environment -- much like Disneyland. The menu is bilingual, with French being dominant. People opt to order in ridiculously bad French. Ask me if the bread is French. Our tables are made from wood salvaged from 19th century Belgian box cars. The yeast is from a culture taken from the founder in Brussels.

In a way Beverly Hills itself is a themed environment. Tourists wander the streets taking pictures of elaborate window displays for Imported lines of thigh cream and tasteless couture for the modern well to do working woman. Passersby gawk at luxury sedans, if traffic is light they rush to point them out to their companions. It defies reasoning but it remains an everyday occurrence on the walk to my bus-stop.

Perhaps my two weeks here has intensified my class consciousness. Perhaps it has that effect on a lot of people. Maybe the fact that I see these tourist gawk, pose and strut down the street is solid evidence for the prevalence of this collective class conscious. It's blatant here but it's pervasive throughout other areas of Southern California as well. It stymies most efforts towards any real progress in civic, and regional matters. Everyone wants theirs. It acts out with minor regional variations on a national level, (is this why the Wheel of Fortune is still on the air?). Brown-outs, and droughts function are more reasons to expand, more reasons to build palaces with near Olympic sized pools on marginal land, to increase bus fare and pay increased attention to the more pressing issues of the day.

Like what you ask? -- White flight in Orange County, of course.

UCLA released a study based on the most recent census data that reveals that the state is increasingly Latino. That for the first time ever in California history more people left the state last year than came in, (what about after the gold-rush?). A lot of the people leaving are white, they're leaving for places like Idaho, Washington, Oregon and Arizona, where new sub-developments remain plentiful and homogeneous communities are more or less present. That is the American Dream I suppose.

Watching the news in L.A., while not particularly shocking still manages to make my skin crawl. A reminder that the media is inherently racist. It creates a depiction of the world that manages to maintain the marginalization of the regions majority ethnic groups. It is unbelievable. It would be conceivable under isolated enclave conditions however that is nowhere near reality, some twenty-odd million people. It's amazing and it will perpetuate itself indefinitely. This is familiar to me. I know this. I grew up with this. It reintroduces itself to me like an old friend. Experience draws me to remark on new particularities.

Something in me enjoys place; The feeling that one location is distinct from any other. Despite worsening conditions, homogenization is nowhere near complete. I decontextualize a location first by looking at a map. I see a field of blue. An ocean. I see some mountains nearby I will never go to. I see a basin and a desert. This is my home. I look at an irrational grid system of streets laid out with north-south and east-west running streets all running roughly at 45 degrees. I get lost on paper. I am seeking some sort of distinctive feature that doesn't seem prefabricated.

Los Angeles. Mini malls, hazy pale skies and graying asphalt. The original dream of everyday resort living that drew millions of White Midwesterners a half century ago in a gradual decay. That is the only truth I can really find. So I embrace it, I wallow in its filthiness, its littered streets and orange street lights. The would-be paradise. I love it. It remains distinctive despite it's better efforts. Buildings erected twenty years start to show signs of their use and the indistinct borders of neighborhoods take shape. City erected wrought iron gates isolate neighborhoods. A dying cactus. A giant handmade sign warning children not to play in the yard. A faded poster photograph of James Dean in the kitchen window. I am looking for small things.

I read the cryptic text forecasts from the local branch of the national weather service. Temperature inversions hold in the basins toxic out gassings, winds veer north one day and back the next. Temperatures fluctuate in a four degree range for weeks. It's the driest water year on record for nearly all of California.

In remote rugged areas of Ventura and Santa Barbara counties goats chew on the chaparral. The thinning effect of the grazing suffices for fire suppression where more formal means are impractical. This year the goats aren't eating, the shrubs too dry and brittle to be palatable.

The other day I mentioned that I dropped my cell phone into a stream running along the side of the road. That stream, that stream that i have grown to resent more and more with each use of the poorly designed menu options on my replacement cell phone, is inauthentic. Maintenance for the omnipresent verdant theme park some 25 million live in. Gardeners scramble for time, robots water front lawns and I take the morning bus down Santa Monica Boulevard. The few open hillsides are dessicated to a dull brown, they are mottled with short brittle trees. They exude authenticity.

In this spirit I embrace the oncoming fire season. This gesture, while both reactionary and short sighted, has helped me find my bearings.

I am here.