Back in Beverly Hills! And a History Lesson

Whew, that was close!

[NOTE TO NEW SUBSCRIBERS: In-between posting my unused Takimag pieces, and new political ramblings when I see fit, I’m also blogging my experience as a homeless guy living from hotel to Airbnb to hotel again, all my possessions in a duffel bag. If these posts don’t interest you, no need to unsub. Just don’t read ‘em!]

Where we last left off: I’d survived catching a deadly disease from Larry Fishburne, and due to an Airbnb screw-up, I’d been dumped in the WORST part of Santa Monica, homeless hub, fecal front-line, schizo central.

Well, I survived a week in the bummiest part of Santa Monica. My place itself - a 6th floor furnished apartment in a security building - was fine. But on the street?

Hell.

Fucking Hell. Seedy, stinky, screaming homeless, cackling homeless, and the ones that scared me the most, the silent homeless. They just stare. Those are the ones to look out for…they’re like coiled springs of voiceless rage.

I found out the hard way that Santa Monica is where every CVS, Rite Aid, and Target has EVERYTHING locked behind glass. Everything. From soap to trash bags to toothbrushes. Shopping becomes a miserable trudge. And everything closes at 9 or 10pm, before the nuts take over.

I made it out generally unscathed. I did get nearly attacked by a crazy black man Friday evening as I went out for food at around 7pm. Dude comes charging at me like a bull, but I had my guard up to such a degree that I saw it coming and maneuvered out of his way. Dude speeds past me, turns around, and (I kid you not) says “what da matter wit’ you, man? Get da fuck outta my way.”

Which I had actually done. I think he was disappointed that he didn’t bowl me over, as was likely his plan.

Honestly, even the tourists were seedy. A different class than we get in Beverly Hills.

I really hated it there.

The condo was fine but the Airbnb host company, “Cozy Homes,” was not. I was not supposed to BE in Santa Monica. I HATE Santa Monica. I was supposed to be near Beverly Hills but the woman from Cozy, showing up an hour late (leaving me standing outside the building with my bags), couldn’t make the key work for the BH unit. So I spent another hour standing around as this bim tried to get me in.

Remember - it’s Airbnb; I’ve already paid.

I tell her, “look, either get me inside the unit I paid for, or I’m going to demand a refund.” She spends 10 minutes on the phone with the Cozy HQ, and she says “we have another unit for you…in Santa Monica.”

At this point it was late and I wasn’t about to argue. Thankfully my friend was there with a car; Ubering would’ve been costly.

Okay, I finally get “housed,” albeit in one of my least-favorite cities. But it’s a nice unit, and my first night is fine.

Then…9am the next morning, someone’s a’ knockin’ at my door.

I stumble out of bed…

“Hello señor, we’re the repo men. We come for thee furniture.”

Uh, what?

Yep, the furniture in the place was being repossessed. I told the repo hombre that I’m just an Airbnb guest…I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no repo.

“Call Cozy Homes,” I tell the guy. He agreed, and left (for a repo man, he was very cool about it), leaving me with a stack of repo papers addressed to “Teoman Ozturk.”

I messaged Cozy. “Repo men just showed up. What’s going on?”

Cozy: “We know nothing about that. Don’t bother us.”

Right then, an envelope gets slipped under my door. It’s a FedEx from a law firm addressed to “Serhat Ozhan.”

I don’t open it, of course (that would be illegal), but based on the law firm and addressee names, I do an online search, and yep…Cozy has stuck me in a unit that’s the subject of an unlawful detainer (eviction). The actual owner of the unit, Serhat Ozman aka Teoman Ozturk, has been evicted, and a court has ordered the place cleared out.

Well that’s fucking great.

I message Cozy, “what’s going on? I could turn away the repo guys, but will marshals be at the door tomorrow? I can’t turn THEM away.”

Here’s Cozy’s verbatim reply, copy-pasted straight from their message: “You are welcome to check-out and find another unit, we did not force you to stay at this location.”

Remember, this was NOT the location I paid for. It’s the one they moved me to. My guess is, they knew I had grounds for a refund once they couldn’t enter the Beverly Hills unit, so they rounded up the Santa Monica one, knowing it’s “distressed,” but not caring.

Needless to say, now that I’m outta there, I’ll be leaving an appropriate Airbnb review.

Also needless to say, it was NOT relaxing knowing that the place was at the center of a court action. I was supposed to stay until Monday afternoon, but I cleared out Sunday evening because I had a concern that Monday morning would bring unpleasantness to the door.

Why must everything be an ordeal?

But Lord be praised, I’m back in the HEART of Beverly Hills, at a hotel right in the center of my old stomping grounds, the place I grew up, the place where I’ve dined with kings and Coulters, nieces and Sinises, Jared Taylors and jaded tailors (my tailor Hiram, who’s grown weary of my ever-changing waistline).

Grocery stores open ‘til 1am, 24-hour Rite Aid, with NOTHING behind glass. Safe walking at all hours.

I can relax.

Yes, I DID prefer the interior of the Airbnb to a hotel room, but at least in a hotel room you won’t be woken by repo men.

I’m living week-to-week these days, so in a week I’ll find somewhere new. But no matter what, I ain’t drifting far from my beloved BH again.

Good to be back.

A History Lesson

In my last piece I castigated some of you guys, as I often do, for thinking that Downtown L.A. matters, that it’s “the heart of the city,” that it’s a place locals actually go to and care about. But then it struck me, “Dave, you’re not doing your job as a history guy. Don’t castigate — teach!”

The voice inside my head is correct (I just wish it would stop commanding me to stalk Judi Dench). I should teach.

Do you know why, unlike many other major U.S. cities, our Downtown is in the boonies, not the city center? Why it’s been left to rot with the bums and schizos? Why what happens there (like riots) has no impact or meaning elsewhere in the city/county?

Well, gather ‘round and I’ll tell ya!

Keep in mind, this is the abridged version; there are entire books on this topic. But basically, L.A. was born around the L.A. River, the source of fresh water for the Tongva Injuns who used to live here. The L.A. river is waaaaaay inland, very far from the coast. When the Spanish settled, they, too, set up their towns around the river, which was not only a source of water for drinking (human and cattle) and irrigation, but trade.

See, unlike many of the early American cities on the Atlantic, L.A. did not start as a port city. It was built around the inland river. The coast was undeveloped. L.A., being a desert, grew around its main source of fresh water.

Back then the L.A. River was one nasty bitch. Because of L.A.’s cyclical weather (three, four years of drought, then three, four years of heavy rain…rinse, repeat), the Spaniards would build too close to the river in the drought years, then during the storm years their villas would get washed away as the river flooded and the Tongva would laugh at them and the Spaniards would crucify the Tongva chieftain and the Tongva would shut right the fuck up after that.

BTW, today leftists claim our cyclical weather is due to “climate change.” These boobs wouldn’t know historical fact if it was shoved down their throat like Diddy’s dick. This has always been our weather. The early Spanish complained about it constantly.

When the territory became Anglo, and American, construction was still centered around the river. By 1896 L.A.’s population was 100,000, most of it congregated in or around Downtown, which adjoined the river. Yes, there were hundreds of square miles of amazing real estate between Downtown and the coast, and northwest in the Valley, but the problem was fresh water; the river was still the main source. So that’s where the city sprung.

As the age of BIG WHITE MAN BUILDINGS reached L.A. circa 1900, Downtown started getting GIANT MANLY BUILDINGS, finally resembling, architecturally-speaking, the baby brother of the older East Coast cities.

But as THE WHITE MAN was building skyscrapers, he was also getting real good at figuring out irrigation and water dispersal. Soon, aqueducts and dams were built, water pipes were laid, the men laying water pipes were laid (“oh Chester, you look so manly hoisting that tube”), and alllllllll that area between Downtown and the sea, and north in the Valley, became developable, and develop it the white man did.

All that amazing Westside territory, and coastal territory, and the Valley, exploded in construction. This as L.A.’s population continued to grow (577,000 by 1920). And then in 1938 that mutherfuckin’ asshole river overflowed yet again, ruining many a WHITE WOMAN’S fine hardwood flooring (“oh Chester, do something!”). And the white men were like, “who the FUCK you think you’re dealing with, river? An Injun? A greasy Spaniard? We’re the WHITE MAN! We mustard gas our own kind just for fun. We level cities just ‘cause we can. We’ll brick you the fuck up, you douchebag.”

And the white man was better than his word. He paved the river, forever ending its reign of terror.

Also pretty much ending the river as the center of anything ever again.

The river in its prime, raging with impunity:

Then the WHITE MAN went to work!

Not such a big shot now, are you, DICK?

Then comes WWII and L.A.’s seaports become the most important in the nation as we go to war with them sneaky-eyed devils across the Pacific. L.A. gets a new kind of flood…laborers, seamen, and semen (whores to service the sailors). And blacks, who arrive to work at the docks.

Randolph Elder: “Little Larry, I’ze relocatin’ us here because here’s where you’ze gon’ get the best chance at a good life. You’ze gon’ become a lawyer, then a book-writer, then a wireless talker, then you’ll meet a Jew named David Cole who’ll be exposed for his Holocaust woik and you’ze’ll denounce him faster ‘n a fox can catch a turtle.”

Larry: “What’s the ‘Holocaust,’ pops?”

Randolph: “It ain’t happened yet, son. And I sure as hell ain’t gon’ tip off them Jews that it’s comin’. Damn Christ-killin’ parasites!”

[DISCLAIMER: the preceding conversation almost certainly didn’t occur]

So as everything north and west of Downtown developed into what we now know as L.A. (the city and the wider county), Downtown was slowly left behind in the dust (irrigation was the first step to the expansion, individual car ownership the second). By the time ol’ Dave was born, you had Marina del Rey, Santa Monica, Venice, Malibu, the Palisades (they’ll be back!), Palos Verdes, West L.A., Sawtelle, Beverly Hills, Westwood, West Hollywood, Hollywood, East Hollywood, Silver Lake/Los Feliz, Miracle Mile, Pico/Robertson, Palms/Mar Vista, LAX, the South Bay, Westchester, Long Beach, Torrance, Culver City, Universal City, Burbank, Glendale, Inglewood, and all the cities of the San Fernando Valley.

That’s where people lived and worked. Downtown was now simply in “the east.” Skid Row, and some tall bank buildings, but even that “financial district” thing would fail to sustain the area, as Westside districts like Century City did the tall bank building thing even better (i.e. you can actually leave the tall bank building for lunch without getting mobbed by homeless).

Oh, tourists still stay in Downtown; it’s near historic Little Tokyo and our one-block Chinatown (“I no wanna build no moe…you buy egg roll, you get out! You LEAVE!”), and it’s still where City Hall and the main courthouse are, and every decade the City Council announces some bullshit Downtown “revival” plan that never pans out because they refuse to remove the homeless, but it’s become an irrelevant wasteland.

So please, when something happens Downtown and Trump announces “L.A.’s burning,” remember today’s lesson: Downtown L.A. doesn’t matter. Not anymore, not for decades. I only wish the homeless in Santa Monica had stayed Downtown, but sadly once the Santa Monica City Council let them sleep on the beaches, there was a migration.

Downtown’s where all the ugliness belongs. It’s NOT “core L.A.” It’s the outskirts.

No matter what Trump says.

He’s from NYC. I’m from here.

I know better.

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