Growing up in greater Los Angeles (it’s greater than San Berdoo, I guess), I lived near communities that were Chicano, Latino, Hispanic and cholo, so I felt a special kind of nostalgia seeing dozens of low riders lead yesterday’s Carnaval parade in San Francisco’s Mission District. Continue reading
Street art has become a kind of big deal in some cities. It is an early stage experiment in some places, like Bangkok, and an integral part of the architectural landscape in others, like San Francisco’s Mission District.
When I went to China a few years ago, I didn’t think of Beijing as a city with a thriving arts community. More of a temple/palace/Great Wall kind of place. So I was surprised when I got off the bus in Beijing’s Dashanzi Art Zone. Also called “798,” the neighborhood is a virtual Disneyland of playful murals, outdoor sculptures and aromatheraputic galleries.
Springtime in Los Angeles is gorgeous — blue skies, puffy cumulus clouds, bright orange poppies, lush green hills. Every once in awhile, you smell the syrupy perfume of orange blossoms. The traffic is famously slow on freeways that seem to go nowhere but a lot of the cars are awfully nice. Although my first loyalty is to my geographic soul mate in the north, I feel very comfortable here and even a little nostalgic. Disneyland. Vin Sculley. Olvera Street. Surfer boys. Palm trees.
My Dad loved to write about his feelings and his experiences, and eventually wrote a memoir for his family called Dust of My Feet. The title refers to what he left behind and what he took with him. I think. My sisters will have some opinions about this.