romance – Page 6 – Hopeful Romantics

Los Angeles is the Hollywood Sign

Los Angeles has always been a city of contradictions. For one thing, most of its citizens share a love hate relationship with the city. It is a Western City, populated at first by New Yorkers and Mid-Westerners, and now with people from every part of the globe. It is an American city with an Hispanic past. Its major products are agrarian, technology, and dreams.

It has been ridiculed of its tackiness and referred to as Tinsel Town. Yet with the suburbanization of most cities in America, with their endless grids of unremarkable houses in predictable tracts all punctuated by a series of shopping malls and big box stores, the City of Los Angeles, has become incredibly unique to itself. On one hand when you live in Los Angeles you are aware that this may be the vanguard of American living. If only the rest of America didn’t despise us so much. You live here at the far end of America. When you visit anywhere else you feel more like you have been living on the moon.

The City of the Angels one of the most populous urban areas in the nation. Yet it’s odd and endless grids are offset by a large array of year round foliage, replete with any number of exotic plants, desert vegetation, oaks, maples, Bougainvillea, Jacaranda, and the occasional Willow. The houses themselves are a flurry and mix and match of architectural types, with Tudors standing next door to Spanish Mission, next to mid century modern, next to the sleek, contemporary pronouncements of the twenty first century. All encapsulated by an endless ribbon of freeways, highways, boulevards, and narrow, winding canyon roads. A city with extreme wealth and extreme poverty, luxury landscapes and urban blight, all embraced by the Pacific Ocean to the West and Santa Monica and San Gabriel Mountain ranges to its north and east.

LA has probably the worst urban gridlock. It is a once flat city going high rise. Yet in some parts of the city urban sprawl is being witnessed by decidedly non-urban creatures like deer and coyote. This is in addition to the opossums, snakes and wildcats, vying for space with major street gangs and gangs of paparazzi. It is some mix, and confused chroniclers of the city have labored for years to analyze the contradictions.

In my twenties, I remember when the richest part of Beverly Hills, the rich flats resplendent then with celebrities and wealthy replicants of the post-Ozzie and Harriet era, living just across the street from the Wonder Bread Factory. Here were houses envied by much of a nation, to say nothing of the Beverly Hills City Hall and Police Station, all enduring the smell of sugar and yeast from what was then the biggest bread maker in the country.

Los Angeles has long been denigrated for its lack of culture and abundance of nut jobs. But meanwhile, it has long been the political sanctuary for creative refugees, be it the Mexican artists, fleeing the Mexican Revolution, or the Europeans fleeing Hitler’s scourge. Despite the long standing and tired joke that the main culture here is in yogurt, the art scene flourishes as one of the most dynamic in the world. There are many literary luminaries living here, and a media and entertainment center it is second to none. As for the nut jobs, there are many, but the city’s financial and legal centers impact greatly the economics of Asia Pacific and global economics in general.

LA is the world-wide capital for self absorption. It is a powerful city, where many adults still dress like children. Yet it is for the most part a bastion of liberal politics, and more ethnically diverse than just about any other city. LA is a city where people don’t care much about your background, the color of your skin and to which religion you cast your prayers. They care instead about what you do and what you drive. They care about how you look and what you wear, and whether you are smart enough to seize on opportunity when it air kisses your front door.

So it is small wonder, that at least part of the consciousness of Los Angeles would be symbolized by the Hollywood Sign. Why is this a contradiction? At least for a city that likes to knock things down and build things new things in their place, thus reinventing itself and nullifying history, the temporarily constructed Hollywood sign remains a part of our permanent history. But maybe not for long.

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In 1949 the City Council in its great wisdom ordered the “land” part of the sign to be removed so it could become the enduring symbol of the center of the earth, as least as far as the motion picture industry was concerned. But structures made of wood and sheet metal were not meant to endure, and the sign fell in and out of disrepair. Its durability wasn’t helped any when people crashed their cars into it, vandalized it, and even jumped from it; as in one case where a failed and forlorn Hollywood actress jumped from the letter “H.”

Like many actors of a certain age, the sign may have looked good from a distance, but up close it was looking aged and worn, and perhaps only worth advertising that the once glamorous Hollywood proper was now populated by hookers and junkies, and tourists still gaping at the concrete feet of celebrities outside of Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

In 1978, the sign was in such disrepair that the city launched a fund raising drive to replace the letters. In steel. At the time, the cost of replacement was $250,000 or so. Alice Cooper donated a new letter “O” along with his manager at the time, Shep Gordon. To garner donations, pieces of the old sign were embedded in Lucite and sold or given away. A friend gave me one of those, and to this day it still adorns one of my bookshelves. Despite the passing of years, I still find it oddly reassuring, a relic of accidental permanence in an impermanent environment.

More work was done on the sign in 2005 and 2006. Like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, it needs maintenance.

So where is the big contradiction? Okay, if it is not a contradiction, then its is surely ironic. The Hollywood Sign started out as an advertisement for a housing development. And now, Fox River Financial Resources, Inc, wants to disrupt its solitary presence by putting up a housing development on the 138 acres of surrounding land. The real estate development will either jeopardize the Hollywood Sign or make it awfully damned ugly to look at with a bunch of houses in its perimeter.

The City of Los Angeles and its Trust for Public Land has but three more days to raise an additional $2.8 million of the $12 Million in total needed to buy the land from Fox River, which bought it from the Hughes estate in 2002 for $1.7 Million. A nice profit. For what Los Angeles considers one of its historical treasures.

Personally, I want to see the sign saved. A few luxury houses on the mountain crest will hardly substitute for the sheer beauty of the mountainous area, a rare bit of space unmolested by our problematic need to build on every piece of vacant land. As these are to be four luxury houses developed on this parcel, the abusively rich can find another place to park their ass. We would miss the sign, but hardly the cretins intent on their fiefdoms. The Hollywood Sign, after all, does symbolize Los Angeles.

Puppetry of the Pearly Penile Papules

For many years now, the running commentary is that a man’s penis has a mind of its own. Or we have heard it said that the little head is in command of the big head. Maybe so. Maybe not.

But here is a case where a man’s penis should have maybe done the thinking for him. Apparently the big head was cajoled and pressured into thrusting the little head into public scrutiny, where both person and penis were met with derisive comments and otherwise embarrassing results.

According to an article the Courthouse News Service, a man has filed a complaint against CBS Television Network. The man alleges the producers of the reality show, “The Doctors” tricked him into discussing his laser surgery before a live studio audience. The laser surgery was intended to remove “pearly penile papules.” Pearly penile papules are seemingly harmless skin colored bumps or pimples that I’m sure do little to enhance one’s sex appeal.

The man contends that he contacted the doctor at the surgery center, in La Jolla, California, for an appointment to consult about this $4,500 surgery. A couple of days later, the would-be patient received a call from “The Doctors” requesting he appear on the show. The offended party contends that he was unduly pressured into appearing on the show. He wasn’t told about the live studio audience. The show was broadcast, he alleges, without his consent.

The man now claims he has suffered “relentless embarrassment and harassment.” He claims he receives less than complimentary phone calls and emails from friends and acquaintances who have commented on his television debut. We can only imagine the content of the voice mails and emails, but there is little doubt they can prove unnerving.

Honestly, I feel bad for the guy. He may have a case.; he may not. He may have been tricked or he may have imagined himself aglow in the light of celebrity. I don’t know. Television producers in need of willing and gullible subjects can be very persuasive. They can work their charms and hammer you in every way until your relinquish yourself to their programming needs.

In the mood of the times, it is flattering at first that you Joe Blow from wherever are suddenly a point of focus. It can bring some distraction to your everyday life. People will notice you. In a bad economy with jobs outsourced and not all that many prospects out there, you could make yourself famous. It’s like marathon dancing during the Great Depression. A long shot. And often painful.

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So when life is drab and your money is short, when Hollywood calls you may want to consider the possibilities. This is the age, after all, were privacy woefully lacks the currency it once had. In a bad economy, especially, you can’t make yourself rich and famous by secreting your most intimate biases, dreams, and sexual proclivities. Just walk down the street or stand on any elevator where someone is yammering away about their love life and not-so-secret desires. Do they care that you are standing around wondering what kind of imbecile makes all this known to the public? Not in the least. Either they don’t care or they want you to look at them, take notice, think of them as someone engaged in a life more exotic than its somber reality.

Integrity and decorum have long fallen by the wayside as the multitudes seek to gain the advantage over their peers by exhibiting themselves in some absurd fashion, by having more babies, uttering believed to be metaphysical by some and nonsense to the dwindling quantity of discerning minds. Couple this was the fact that most people are in fact functionally illiterate, so signing away their life on documents they are unable to read is more commonplace than ever before. They buy houses, cars, and get involved in get rich quick schemes by passing over the fine print. They claim in the aftermath that they were victimized by virtue that they were either incapable or too lazy to read the documents with which they were presented.

The quest for fame is even greater than the quest for sex. Both may be ephemeral and ultimately unsatisfying, but the quest for celebrity in this day and age is the strongest urge. The quest for celebrity emanates from conditions of alienation and anonymity. More often than not the feeling of one’s loneliness and insignificance can only be sated when not one but thousand or millions of eyes turn their eyes away from their iPhones and cast them onto you.

For that brief recognition people will subject themselves to damn near anything. They will have sex with animals or talk about their worst moments to their twenty million best friends. They will humiliate themselves at every level and willingly swap their dignity for celebrity with only the slightest bit of prompting. Where there once was a time where you had to pry out someone’s innermost secrets, in quest of celebrity you can’t shut them up.

What is remarkable is that someone who finds the cure for AIDS will have the same amount of celebrity as, say, the Octomom. There is no discrimination. Famous is famous. We may claim otherwise, but it’s not the truth. They are here and they are gone. Unless they manage in some way through some gift of accomplishment or media savvy to sustain our fickle attentions. Otherwise, they are off the show and back on their cell phones, pumping up their inflated sense of accomplishment.

The True Legacy of J.D. Salinger

By now anyone with a heartbeat knows that J.D. Salinger passed on, last week. The death of the controversial author of “Catcher in the Rye” was certainly a news event, bringing out the deferential and the snarky. There were reviews and reminiscences, lengthy and brief accountings of his place in literature and his place in American and even world culture. It was in one spontaneous moment a reminder that even the pop minded, celebrity inundated America sometimes remembers its true artists and its literary lions. A nice touch for a country with a memory of its history that is equivalent to a dog.

Salinger only published four books. The first is “The Catcher” in the Rye, published in 1951. He also published “Nine Stores,” “Franny and Zooey,” and “Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenter.” This is a modest literary output but significant on so many levels. To read Salinger is in some way to follow the trajectory of the American family and with it American Culture. At once it is intensely personal. We derive an intimate knowledge of the fictional Glass family, fashioned after Salinger’s own Irish-American Heritage. But we also derive a sense of the dissolution and reformation of the American family.

In Salinger’s intimacy, we find a universal world, a changing sequence of family life that has left us somewhat bewildered in the 21st century. We see how in “Catcher,” the questioning of the system. the realization that even the more exalted visions of success and supremacy are artificial, or “phony,” as protagonist Holden Caulfield, pronounces throughout the book. We see in the complete published work the splintering of the family, with its doubts and second thoughts, idiosyncrasies, and its conflicting impulses to survive or destroy itself as the characters hang on for dear life or take leave of themselves.

This was America of the fifties and sixties. Holden Caulfield is maybe dated now to some extent. He, like the protest movements that grew out of the fifties and sixties, is maybe a an inglorious monument to a slice of modern history. He is quaint in his evaluations of society, as the system he faces has in its ongoing metamorphosis worked to co-opt us all. His cause, which was personal cause, aimless and misdirected rebellion, may now be seen as no cause at all. In a world where mood elevators, the Prozacs and Zolofts relieve us from actually realizing the dreadful impact of meaningless and often nonsensical social behavior, we tend to bury our inner Holden Caulfied’s. We bury them where they can’t rise up, ask questions. Start trouble.

Nevertheless, Caulfield lives on. For Salinger, like Bob Dylan and a number of others cannot merely be judged by their artistic creations. They must also be regarded for the impact they had on society itself. Millions have read “The Catcher in the Rye.” We know it is not a story rife with sex and celebrity, gratuitous violence, and all the other elements that drive the train of pop consciousness these days. It is a story of perceptions and idea, told with with and humor.

Yet “The Catcher in the Rye,” was banned from schools and libraries around the countries. The usual reactionary pundits held up this slim fictional volume as emblematic of the moral and social decay. It was, after all, an attack against artifice and shallow values. It was a perception of society that gave vision to ourselves in a way we were horrified to recognize. Rather than examine its point of view, like all things different, it was judged subversive and shouted down.

But millions of us read it. And millions of us found our heads turned and our thinking changed. We no longer put as much faith in our institutions. We no longer accepted our society and its social mores without question. What was fed to us and to be accepted on face value was questioned, criticized, and ultimately rebelled against. “The Catcher in the Rye” was the seed, the first implant that rewired the nation. From that seed, there came social disruption. Society though still manacled to lockstep ideology and systems not of our making, had still felt the impact of changes in its sexual values, civil rights, and our outlook to those that hired us, those who governed us, and the wars they committed to on our behalf.
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“The Catcher in the Rye,” was more than a book. It was a de facto instruction manual for how to see things outside the institutional perspective. I should add here that there are good stories and then there is good literature. While good stories, the big, sweeping blockbusters, must by their nature be story driven, this is not necessarily the case with good literature. With a good blockbuster, you must start at the beginning and finish at the end. A page turner. The same may hold true for good literature. But there is a difference.

With good literature, or I should say a test of good literature, is to be able to start anywhere in the book and moving forward or backward glean insights and understanding from what is written on the pages. You can turn to the middle and not care, really, how the book was started and how it will end. In good literature, wherever you start, you can read something that will move you in some way, that will turn your head around. This is the case with Salinger’s works. Start anywhere and there is something to gain.

As for Salinger himself, he stands in vivid defiance of our modern, celebrity saturated times. He at first may have wanted his fame and attention, but soon tired of it to retreat to his ninety-odd acres in New Hampshire. He was famous for being a recluse, which while not altogether new is remarkably edifying in a world where the desperate want to be publicly vaunted for some insipid act. It may be fleeting fame, but it is fame. Having eight kids and once and you are the OctoMom, gracing the tabloids and the six o’ clock news. Make some outrageous claim in defiance of all things scientific, and your are considered Presidential material. Have sex with the right person, and you get to tell your story and write a book.

Yet here was Salinger who backed away from it all. The presumption was that he had stopped writing. This apparently is not the case. While he may have engaged in what we call eccentric behavior, Jerry Salinger, still lived a long and fulfilling life. He was able to explore metaphysics, homeopathy, and other pursuits that would have given cause to deem him an oddity, had he been under the social microscope. He came and went, had people for dinner, had sex with people of his choosing, mostly out of the public view. He engaged in his intellectual pursuits outside the public eye, so people couldn’t judge him or hash out their half baked theories on what he was up to. Although, even when they lacked a clue as to what he was up to, theories bubbled like farts to the media surface every now and then.

Salinger was a living example, melding as best he could his real life with his written word. Maybe we will see more of those words in time as some of the alleged books and stories he had been writing all these years emerge in the public light. If they do, a lot of people will have a lot to say. And we will be forced to listen to theories, conjecture from the pompous and mindless to fill up the air time. To be fair, more knowledgeable souls will chime in with their thoughts, and from them their may be nuggets worth pocketing. Or not.

But all of it in the end means little or nothing, compared what the author has ultimately put on paper. As for Jerry Salinger, whatever he had to say about this human condition, we can be grateful, he has said it already.

Hang High the White Collar Criminals

People are pissed off. This in itself is no real news as the public disgust with the news media, politicians and Wall Street has been on the increase every year. But now they are really pissed off. People are so angry that not even their Prozac and Zoloft, and the other mood enhancers, can fend off the seething desire to retaliate against the charlatans they believe have done them wrong.

People want justice. They have lost their savings, and they have lost their jobs. They have seen their pensions cut in half. Their houses, if not foreclosed upon are underwater. What equity they had is gone. They have been lied to, bamboozled, and moved around by the sound byte media and the sound bitten politicians. The had put their faith in their civil and social leaders, their financial advisers, and they have been led astray. The economy has become a fiasco and the state of the nation is regarded as but one more news event to be commented on by the spurious and insipid who through media magic have been qualified as experts. A reinvigorated Wall Streets continues its efforts to make a buck off the public’s ignorance and apathy.

But people are pissed off. Certainly, some of the responsibility for this national debacle must fall upon their shoulders. For it is the public that overbought and extended itself. It is the semi-literate public who disregarded the large print, yet alone the fine print, on its mortgage contracts, never bothering to ask why am I paying so little for a house that is worth so much? Instead, they bought into the snake oil sales pitch that they should overlook the balloon payment due in a few years, as they will always be able to get another mortgage. And the real estate con artists most used phrase, ” housing prices will always go up,” resonated with millions, much like we take comfort in our being watched over by angels, or global warming will be corrected by forces other than ourselves.

We are a nation that doesn’t read too well. Forget about the languages of other nations. Approximately half of us our functionally illiterate with our own language, and that’s when we bother to read. Much of our more significant correspondence has been truncated down to pithy little phrases that hinder the scope of any detailed thought or definition. We utter sound bytes that are fed to us and believe wholeheartedly that this is original thought. Anything more than a few sentences to a paragraph forces us to give up what little element of concentration we still possess. And critical thinking, true critical thinking, is far too demanding to warrant our attention.

So, in short, our ignorance and laziness can turn us into victims. We are easily bamboozled. We take lies as truth on face value, as long as those lies come from our own segment of social and political belief. We give more credence to our celebrities and are suspicious of our scientists. A crackpot with a theory gets more attention than the knowledgeable with the facts. Especially if the fact is bad news.

We believe for some reason that we have the inherent right to be safe and free of any slights or contrary opinions or perspectives that would make us uncomfortable. We think of our children of geniuses in the making and believe they will prevail and prosper by virtue of their American heritage and their legacy of a two car garage. We believe we can buy anything and pay for it later. We take out home equity loans on our houses with inflated values and then use that money for trinkets and beads and other crap we don’t really need. We buy boats and overpriced designer clothing. We buy gourmet foods for our pets and dress our four-year-old’s in $300.00 blue jeans.

Instead of being a producer nation, we are a consumer nation. Two-thirds of our economy is based in consumerism. It is a hell of a lifestyle, and to support it we borrow money from foreign countries, borrow against our house, our credit cards, and, lately, we melt down our own crappy old jewelry and sell it off for its weight in gold. We do this for one of two reasons. We are either in love with ourselves; we are special people who absolutely deserve to garner all the material offerings that the world can provide. Or we hate ourselves, have the kind of esteem issues that compel us to buy these baubles and trinkets so that we can feel better about ourselves. Feel that we measure up to the people next door.

In short, we have set ourselves up as suckers. We are ripe for the plucking. We are semi-literate, prescription drug indulged individuals who worship celebrity while eschewing any kind of critical or cognitive thinking in favor of our own distorted view of the world. We are the perfect mark for any group of slippery sliders wishing to sell us a bill of goods. And that they did. Our government gave Wall Street a license to steal. And that is what they did.

First came the panic. We were on the verge of a depression. Enter the federal government as those surviving companies, paragons of what is loosely labeled free enterprise and free market conditions, took bailout money by the trillions to shore up their companies. Those those that took the bailout money, or stimulus money, were supposed to use it wisely. Stimulate the economy. Pass it from Wall Street to Main Street. It didn’t happen. Instead the money was used for consolidation, for shoring up financial institutes and for buying companies that should have been left to die. A trillion bucks later, and unemployment remains high, businesses are closing, and there are millions of foreclosures.

There is constant talk that America is in the economic downturn from which it may never recover.. We have stopped our buying, most of us anyway. Suddenly, we realize we really don’t need those extra trinkets and beads and that Fluffy the Cat doesn’t need gourmet food that children in a developing nation would kill for. Little Child can make do in a $50 pair of Levi’s, in fact it is chic again, and the two luxury vehicles in the driveway, the $20 thousand dollar vacation, the caviar and custom made $500 shirts, the ski mobiles and snow mobiles and the RV that drags them to places where we can overrun the landscape may not have the cachet they once did.

Then came the anger. We are trying to save our money. We are watching every buck. We are eating in and ordering movies with a couple of pizzas for our rich and robust entertainment on a Saturday night. We have no credit left, so cash is king. We try to make the best of a bad situation, knowing that we were left stranded by political and financial chicanery and that the vaunted promise of change is like other campaign promises, fading in the light of a harsh reality. We are tightening our belts and punching new holes in the leather, because we can’t afford to buy another belt.

And we are very pissed off. In response to our anger we have voiced our concern by claiming we are lapsing into Socialism though few really know much about that economic system and what it really means. We make noises about a free market, but corporate welfare leaves the rest of us struggling. We become tea baggers and in tepid attempt to express ourselves conduct insipid reenactments of the more stalwart at the Boston Tea Party by flinging our Lipton’s into the rivers and lakes. We are angry and it is vented in misguided ways with little direction that will promise little results.

We are frustrated and we have few channels for its expression. In the past couple of decades we have been indoctrinated with the belief that anger and frustration are by their nature bad things and shouldn’t be expressed in polite society. As colonialists in our nascent stages and in quest of our independence we dragged our scalawags into the streets where they were summarily tarred and feathered. Now we just whine at them. We are admonished that we shouldn’t act out, that we shouldn’t raise our voices, that we shouldn’t complain. So when we do act out and raise our voices, we do so with meaningless displays. We wear our guns to a healthcare meeting and consider this a show of resistance.

We immerse ourselves in nonsense. We conduct meaningless debates that are exploited by the media and the interest groups who manipulate our deeper emotions. We are turned against each other over petty discord, and we allow our prejudices to condemn us to the kind of narrow thinking that obfuscates the real demons among us. It is in the best interests of the special interests that we continue this nonsensical rancor, allowing time for the real criminals to continue to rob us blind.

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We are a nation that believes in justice. We are a nation that believes in accountability. At least we used to. We believe someone should be responsible for transgressions against society. We went to war and fought the Nazis, then conducted the Nuremberg Trials to show that leaders must be accountable for their actions. At Nuremberg, we listened to one Nazi after the next claim they were only following orders. And then we hanged the bastards. We hanged them high.

But no more. Our leaders are anything but accountable. They screw up and get promoted. They run their companies into the ground and they get bonuses for their efforts. They break the law and rob and steal, and receive bail out money from the government, which is best described as public money misused and misdirected. We bail them out and absorb the disaster, and they pat themselves on the back. The New York Times just announced that Wall Street is preparing to give itself even more bonuses, after taking government money for bailing out of a debacle they created and then leaving us in the lurch. Who could be more deserving of a hefty reward than a collective bunch of failures?

There has been predatory mortgage lending, falsification of documents, and the fraudulent act of according toxic financial packages mythical value. There was insider trading and the illegal shuffling of money. There were crimes committed. And yet the government in its implacable wisdom has deemed it fit not to investigate or prosecute any financial wrongdoings. While it has been broadly acknowledged that a fair portion of the financial dealings were indeed criminal acts the government while wrangling over partisan politics can not be bothered bring these white collar criminals to justice. Sure, they brought Bernard Madoff to justice, ad a few others, but their few billions in stolen funds are mere drops in the bigger bucket, compared to the trillions stolen by others.

We are not accountable. We do not suffer consequence for our actions. We allow criminals who screw up royally and drive this country into the ground to walk off with the the spoils of their ill gotten gains. We endure one of our few remaining industries were the media discusses the crimes ad nauseum, and books are written. But no one stands accountable and no one goes to jail. Remarkable.

I realize that out of the thousands of people in the financial sector, Wall Street, if you prefer, only a portion committed criminal acts. The rest merely climbed in on a rare opportunity, universal deregulation, perpetrated for the past twenty years by idiots in government who failed to see the catastrophe the end game would bring. But then, among the high paid toadies there are the criminals, the ones who robbed this country blind. These are people with no conscience that raided pension funds and pillaged the economy worse than any group of gangsters. While we arrest a couple of grocery store robbing fools and put them in jail with vapid pronouncements that we are fighting crime, we allow the true criminals, the ones that took our retirement money and the futures of the children to live in luxury.

This is what we are pissed off about. Underneath the spurious nonsense about Socialism and the loss of our old America, we are seething that everything we believed in has been delivered as one big lie. We are enraged that all those Western Movies, Cop Movies, where the good guys defy the odds to bring the bad guys to justice is just a lot of crap. Because we have not just been robbed of our money. We have been robbed of our culture and our sense of justice and fair play for all.

Had either this administration, the past one possessed half the insight it claims it has, then they would prosecute these white collar criminals. They would bring them to justice. We would take back the money they stole and give them long and harsh prison sentences. We would make examples of them by making it more costly to commit the crime than to endure the moderate penalty that, if ever, are now being handed out. We would hang them high.

Making white collar criminals accountable would promote the true healing of this country. Here is where at least partisan populist cultures can converge in rare mutual agreement. This would ease the anger and the pain. This would give us justice. And justice is what we deserve.

Advent of the Electric Car Means Luxury Cars for the Poor

The Age of Steam is upon us. Or, in this case, as we are several generations removed from the Age of Steam, we are adapting to the age of alternative energy. Alternative Energy is in itself a funny name, as energy is energy, so an alternate energy source is just a difference source than the fossil fuels we have been using for several centuries to foul up the planet.

Or, more to the point, some of these energy forms we have been using for quite some time. Coal has been with us for centuries. We have stories written about the people who have extracted it from the earth. Stories about the people who delivered it to houses. We have stories about the people who work with it, suffer illness from it, and die from its dreaded black lung disease. We hear tales of horror about going into the bowels of the earth and the mine shaft collapses, both newsworthy and legendary. We hear about perhaps even the greater horrors of strip mining and what it does to the community and general environment. We hear about clean coal, and the rebuttals there will never be any such thing as clean coal.

Coal drives machinery and begets our electricity. So does oil energy, nuclear and solar. No matter what source we utilize, it gets down to one or two things, driving our machinery and providing electricity. Our industrial machinery relies on these sources of energy. Some machinery requires the conversion from the energy sources into electricity, and others do not. The automobile is one of them. The automobile depends on the combustible engine, which is set off by tiny explosions initiated by gasoline or some other fossil fuel. That is the way it has been for nearly a century. First steam and then the internal combustible engine, functioning on diesel or gasoline.

Until now. With the world well aware that oil won’t be around forever, we have been searching for new sources to fuel our vehicles. There are rumors and then there is the reality. In the rumors, we have hydrogen powered cars and solar powered cars. Maybe. But not at the moment. What we do have are hybrid, part gasoline, part electric cars, and, finally, all electric cars.

Despite the pitfalls of short ranges and the need to find an electrical outlet, the electric car is upon us. Much as the Age of Steam was once upon us, the electric car is greeted with mixtures of wonder and skepticism. These two sentiments rest at the heart of our true diversity. We are naturally skeptical, and we are naturally in wonder. We live in awe of new achievements, technological breakthroughs, but we also revel in their subsequent failures. We either choose sides and split up the responsibility for uttering either sentiment, or we fall back into our time honored position of wait and see. Right now probably more people are waiting and seeing than pushing the pros and cons of electric powered transportation.

Nevertheless, it is here. The recent Los Angeles Car Show featured a variety of electric cars. Other, gas powered vehicles garnered not even half the excitement as the new offerings of electric cars. Damn near every car manufacturer stepped up to the plate, showcasing either its production model or prototype. It is here, and despite our concerns, we secretly can’t wait to embrace it.

Of course life will be different. With the economy in the dumper and the cost of gasoline bound to increase in the forthcoming years, a little fuel economy never hurt anyone. Electric powered vehicles offer just that. Also, electric cars can be fast, as in very, very fast. There is on reconstituted, electric powered old Datsun Sedan that is breaking quarter mile speed records at the local drag strips. They are fast, and they are cheap to fuel. They may lack the range, making longer trips a little difficult at the moment, but over time that concern with be a thing of the past.

Of course, electric cars don’t make the sexy sounds of the old V-8’s. No throaty, ass gripping roar as the engine accelerates. The quiet electric motor may lack something in the sex factor. As a matter of fact the sex factor may lack something as well. So far we have no reports of couples doing it in an electric car. No humming engines on Lover’s Lane. Singles don’t get hot over the new lack of throbbing engine. Hey, but throw in a few accessories, perhaps some truly futuristic accouterments, and having sex in an electric car will someday be downright sexy.

Okay, so with the price of fuel going sky high and the electric car the poster child of the car shows, what’s to become of the plain old internal combustion luxury roadsters we know and love? I live in Los Angeles where the love and reverence for the luxury car takes on religious dimensions. A perfunctory observation of the boulevards and parking lots would tell even the densest of individuals that you are nothing here if you can’t plod through bumper to bumper traffic in a 200 mile per hour Ferrari or Maserati. Or if you are too cheap to lay out the necessary $300,000 or more, the very least you can do is a Turbo Porsche or Aston Martin.
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If you are a paltry piker living from paycheck to paycheck than you should simply make do with a Lexus, BMW or Mercedes Benz. If not the top of the line, then at least an entry level or middle of the line model. Lest you disgrace yourself with anything that would appear unseemly and out of touch in an image minded status seeking society that has as its epicenter the City of the Angels.

And while Los Angeles is the epicenter for status seeking car culture, the rest of the nation, despite its protests of humility and self-denial, is not all that far behind. Not really. Look at the recent real estate boom, or the more recent real estate illusion, where millions of people took out equity loans on their overpriced homes to buy among other trinkets and beads a luxury automobile. Because if you can’t live in luxury for that ten minute trip to the market, what is life, after all?

But now, after all the years of scratching and stretching for that luxury automobile, we find ourselves in a proverbial quandary. There is the slow dawning that the sleek Italian or German, maybe even Japanese piece of machinery in the driveway will soon be diminished in status and value. The electric car is here, and it is the next big thing. Even if it is a modest Chevy Volt it may have more cachet than that lumbering Lexus some stranger must have left in your driveway. I mean, with everyone going electric, what is a person to do? When you can buy a sleek and sophisticated all electric 200 MPH Tesla to drive in bumper to bumper traffic what are you doing with that gas guzzling Neanderthal of another technological era?

Well, if you are a righteous, environmentally concerned individual, you would be giving away that smoking, belching dinosaur. You wouldn’t be caught dead in it, not when you could be ensconced in the vanguard of the 21st century. Let’s e objective. It’s time to go electric. So what to do with that suddenly out of fashion internal combustion vehicle?

Why you give it to the poor. That’s right. Sign over that pink slip to some non-profit organization and hand the keys to a member of the underclass. Let them experience luxury driving for a few brief moments before the polar caps melt and global warming floods the streets, making the Hummer the only drivable vehicle. Let the poor souls who are out of work or barely working, surviving grimly in this economic downturn, take a brief spin in an historical landmark of automotive engineering. It’s only fair.

It’s a win-win situation. The poor have a brief shot at luxury living, and you can feel good about brightening up their lives. You also get rid of this inconvenient truth of a luxury albatross that is so diminished in value it is hardly worth the paint that covers its metal. As for its value in status and image, you are driving the equivalent of a Nehru Jacket.

So let the poor have all those luxury cars. A few smiles, before the last hurrah. All those streamlined super designed German and Italian vehicles will brighten up those seedy neighborhoods. Add a shabby chic sensibility to the dilapidation and graffiti overload.

Some may caution with the price of gasoline ever on the increase it would burden the poor. They would have these beautiful cars but not the money to pay for the fuel that would power them. Not to worry. The poor are poor, remember. They are not going anywhere, anyway.