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Entries categorized as ‘1980's’

Those Selfless Angelinos of 1984

Wednesday, June 11, 2008 · 4 Comments

Give me a break!

This is from the LA Times’ series on traffic:

When Los Angeles traffic experts get depressed at the sorry state of the freeways, their minds sometimes drift to the improbable days of 1984, when the Olympic torch blazed through town and the city’s sea of cars parted.

For more than a week, downtown and Westside freeways worked as their creators had intended, whisking drivers from place to place.

The respite from congestion was flickeringly brief, but many still ask: Can the experiment be repeated?

For the 16-day event, transportation agencies put aside turf wars. Employees carpooled or worked staggered hours or took vacations. Truckers shifted deliveries to off-hours. Construction projects were rescheduled. Arterial lanes were reserved for buses. Two-way streets became one-way streets.

Actually?  Despite all the measures, the entire city was braced for the worst traffic in memory.  The staggered hours, shifted truck deliveries, etc. were implemented to keep the already crowded freeways from congealing into a gridlocked meltdown, among other things delaying athletes and media from reaching event venues.  It was assumed that the traffic would still be terrible.  It was a shock, a thrilling surprise, that traffic jams disappeared almost entirely.

But that’s not how young Times reporters and their sources remember it:

“We had essentially no congestion,” said David Roper, retired operations chief for the California Department of Transportation’s Los Angeles division. “What was behind all this was the feeling ‘I don’t want to be the guy who screws up the Olympics.’ “

You cannot be serious. This wasn’t altruism, it was fear!  So many people I knew left town entirely.  Everyone remembers that the 1984 Games made a profit.  What’s often forgotten is that it made a profit from a brilliant sponsorship campaign, and not from ticket sales.  Most Olympic events were not sold out.  Few wanted to brave the traffic.

The reporters’ point is, it only takes a small percentage of drivers to stay off the freeways for the commute to go smoothly for everyone else.  Today was proof.  I had to go downtown for the first time on a weekday since gas prices zoomed past $4 a gallon.  My route is basically the entire Harbor Freeway.  I didn’t go at the traditional peak, but even at 10 a.m., it’s usually blocked from somewhere north of the 105 through downtown.

Not today.  It was clear all the way, even through that crazy stretch where cars try pick their way to the correct lanes for the 5, 101, 110 and the exits.  And I’m sure it’s because of the gas prices. I hear anecdotally  that companies are shortening the work week, instituting telecommuting and making other arrangements to keep their employees from searching for work closer to home.

This is a big, fat, prize-bait series the Times is running.  Obviously, it was conceived before gasoline got so expensive.  The writers might not have expected it, but summer 2008 is going to be another Traffic Miracle, thanks to whatever you blame for high oil prices.  Maybe by the end of the week, they’ll have figured it out.

Categories: 1980's · Los Angeles Times · Southern California · traffic
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What CDs Did To Pop Music

Monday, August 27, 2007 · 5 Comments

cd.jpgIt was 25 years ago this month that the first commercially-available compact disc was manufactured, according to WSJ.com’s Jason Fry.  (Link is to subscription site.)  It was what turned out to be ABBA’s last album, “The Visitors.” 

It is ironic and suggestive that ABBA, known primarily as a singles group (What album does “Take a Chance on Me” come from?  I have no idea either.) would be the pioneer of a format that killed the LP.  The “concept album” as developed by Frank Sinatra and perfected by the classic rock bands of the 60s and 70s, started as a manufacturing spec but evolved into a musical form as prodigious and supple as the sonata.  And the CD crushed it.

The LP’s limitations imposed a helpful form on the musical design of albums. Each side could be about 20 minutes long — maybe 25. So the entire experience lasted only 45 minutes or less; there wasn’t much room for filler. Then, it was divided into two parts (or four parts for a double-LP). Typically that mean 4-5 songs on each side; two suites of 15 to 20 minutes, a brief enough period to hold the listener’s attention. You had to have a strong Side One Track One, a strong closer for Side One, a great track to kick off Side Two, and a great closing track. This imposed a discipline on performers and producers alike.

With CDs, this structure disappeared, and was replaced by an endless temptation for indulgence, as Fry also points out.  And that, he says, has had fatal consequences for the music industry. (more…)

Categories: 1950s · 1980's · AOL · About Me · Baby Boomers · Music · Technology · antipiracy · mp3

Michael Deaver, R.I.P.

Saturday, August 18, 2007 · Leave a Comment

mike-deaver.jpgThe last thought I remember having before going to sleep last night was, “I wonder how Mike Deaver is doing.  I’ll have to e-mail (a mutual friend) to see if she knows what’s up.”  This morning, the first news story I saw on the internet was Mike’s obituary.    

I was aware of his diagnosis: Pancreatic cancer.  I first heard he had it about a year ago.  There was nothing in the news about it, but Deaver’s name was in the press for other reasons, suggesting he was working through his illness.  I hoped he would be one of the fortunate few who overcome what is almost always a fatal cancer.  That he survived a year is a testament to the heart of a fundamentally peaceful and kind man. 

You reading this know Michael Deaver as an historical personage; Ronald Reagan’s “media maestro,” a member of the “troika” guiding Reagan through his first term.  If you dislike Reagan, you might blame Deaver for using his masterful PR skills to sell him voters who were otherwise eager to reward Jimmy Carter with a second term or Walter Mondale with a first.  If you like Reagan, you might have mixed feelings about Deaver, too.  He was often suspected by the hard right of being something less than a true-blue conservative. 

I don’t know about any of that.  As brilliant as Deaver was, I think his reputation as a media hypnotist was overblown by political pundits struggling to figure out how this ”amiable dunce” Reagan got elected.  “Must’ve been those American flags Deaver put behind him.”  And if Deaver wasn’t a consistent right-winger, that reflects the fact that Reagan wasn’t a consistent right-winger either.  Deaver was a true PR man, and the essential skill that PR people need to have is a clear picture of who or what it is they are selling.  Deaver understood Reagan the man, and that’s what enabled him to create Reagan’s image as a candidate.

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Categories: 1980's · 1990's · About Me · Lobbying · Michael Deaver · Politics · Public Relations · R.I.P.

A Sticky Week for Writing

Monday, August 6, 2007 · Leave a Comment

Tempers are flaring everywhere I go, and even a simple non-athletic feat like washing the dishes or walking the dog can get me sweating enough to where I have to throw my clothes into the ever-growing pile in the laundry hamper.

Everywhere around me, people are on vacation. It’s not like living in Martha’s Vineyard, but Southern California is one of those places where working people coexist with people who are off the clock, temporarily or permanently. Since I work from home most of the time, and live not too far from the beach, it’s more pronounced. Take my dog for a walk at, say 11 a.m., and there’s a guy about my age all dolled up in colorful spandex sitting on a bike. Vacation? Early retirement? He couldn’t be unemployed. Nobody’s unemployed these days, supposedly, except by choice.

But I also have friends and family who are off and want to do things. When I was unemployed — or as I like to call it, “exiled” — I partly justified my existence by becoming the unofficial recreational planner for stressed-out friends and relatives. It almost seemed like I could take it up as a full-time gig: “C’mon. Relax. Go to the beach.” “You think I should?” “Hey, look where being a workaholic got me!”

Anyway…it’s one of those sticky summers we get occasionally. Hot sometimes, humid always. Today in the South Bay, the temperature is 73 degrees, but the humidity is 66 percent. Over in St. Louis, center of a big heat wave, it’s 97 degrees, but only 38 percent humidity. Up in Boston, it’s 76, but with 80 percent humidity. Awful, but we’re not much better. We Southern Californians typically don’t complain about weather, though. That would look ungrateful.

Could this be a signal of global climate change? Could be, but if so, the pattern began more than 20 years ago. I remember a summer in the mid-1980s as the first sticky one in memory, when whipped cream puffs of clouds hung over the region, the coastal waters were hot and subject to algae blooms. It seemed very weird, even ominous. We still talked about nuclear war back then, and for some reason that summer felt like the final days before apocalypse. Unlike this summer, I remember that one never gave us an afternoon breeze. The waves didn’t crash on the shore — they shuffled their feet and fell to their knees.

Now I get it. The weather has changed in some way. We get dealt a humid summer out here once every four or five years, and 2007 we got stuck with one.

Anyway, so I’ve not been writing here much because it’s so sticky that my mind is stuck, and because so many people around me are either on vacation, in a bad mood or both…but I’ve got a few things in the works. So stay tuned. Or come back after your vacation.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Global Warming · Southern California · Weather · oceans

Listening to Maria McKee, the Willard Grant Conspiracy and Nick Lowe

Saturday, July 28, 2007 · 1 Comment

So I came back from the Maria McKee/Willard Grant Conspiracy concert at McCabe’s week before last with three CDs:

And since then, I’ve picked up another one I’d like to talk about, too: Nick Lowe’s “At My Age.”

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Categories: 1980's · About Me · Maria McKee · Music · Nick Lowe · Willard Grant Conspiracy · Writing

Maria McKee: The Voice, Up Close, at McCabe’s

Saturday, July 14, 2007 · 7 Comments

maria-mckee.jpgIt’s a little room, smaller than the smallest theater in a suburban multi-plex, where Maria McKee performed Friday night.  Although every seat was filled, the crowd at McCabe’s Guitar Shop couldn’t have been more than 200 people.  It’s almost crazy: How could a performer with so much talent be presented, how could she be available, in such an intimate setting? 

Maria McKee is only 42 years old.  She is still in her prime, some 22 years after the hyped debut of Lone Justice, her original band.  She has an opera singer’s range and power.  She masters songs that are sometimes fiendishly complex, poetic and emotionally overwhelming.  She skillfully accompanies herself on piano or guitar.  She looks like she could do this for another 25 years.  There is still time for you to hear her.

Onstage, McKee is nervous and obsessive, but has a sense of humor about it, stumbling around trying to read her set list, find a water bottle or fix a broken strand of jet.  Then she starts up a song and… I can’t think of any apt comparison.  Aretha Franklin?  Bruce Springsteen? Patsy Cline? Elvis Presley? Janis Joplin?  Maria McKee is as good a singer as any of them, as good as anyone I’ve ever heard, including Beverly Sills and Renee Fleming. 

McKee called herself a “dilettante,” and joked that because of problems wrangling her instruments, her shows in Europe from night to night changed styles, from Broadway to folk to power-trio.   But what that really means is she can sing anything and make it authentic.  Some of that’s due to her musical pedigree, but mostly it’s because her voice and stylings are so compelling, she transcends any genre.

Back in 1984-5, I had no problem with the Lone Justice/Maria McKee hype.  I probably added to it, my enthusiasm the beat of a butterfly wing that swirled into a hurricane.  I stumbled across Lone Justice one night in that brief period when L.A. nightclubs were teeming with great bands that defied radio fashions.  Oh my God, who was that singer?  She was 19, spooky-pretty, and when she opened her mouth, it was the loudest thing I ever heard, louder even than Captain Beefheart, who was so loud my ears leaked.  Lone Justice was a “cowpunk“ band when it started — metal twang. The guitars were fierce but McKee had no problem being heard over them.  I figured I had discovered the next big singing star, the next great band. 

Lone Justice put out an album that had all the songs I’d learned from watching them a few times, but the album did not capture what I recalled hearing.   Then they put out another one that didn’t sound remotely like what I’d heard; in fact it sounded like the quintessential tinkly-synth crap I was trying to escape.   Then Lone Justice broke up, and Maria McKee disappeared for awhile.  

In the early 1990s, McKee started up a solo career. Her first couple of albums were better than the Lone Justice albums, but still didn’t give me what I was looking for.  How could all these different producers and record-company executives not understand her talent?  Or maybe she was someone you had to hear live and live only.  A lot of the other LA bands I loved also didn’t translate that well in the studio — the Blasters and X in particular.  I figured that was McKee’s problem, too. 

She says it’s because she didn’t really care enough about being a star to make herself into one.  But who are the big pop divas of the past 20 years?  Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Beyonce — all of them talented, but all of them using an overdramatized style heavily dependent on melisma, defined as “the technique of changing the note (pitch) of a single syllable of text while it is being sung,” but that you all know as the “woah-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-eee-ohhhh.“  It’s showy but totally unmusical. 

Maria McKee, by contrast, has a natural vibrato, perfect pitch and rhythm, and respect for the lyrics. She’s dramatic too, but authentically so.  She wrings emotion out of the words, not a roller-coaster ride.   Which means her style was out of fashion.  McKee was the ultimate flowering of the folk/rock/soul style — think Linda Ronstadt, but much better — and she arrived too late.  I think she would have been huge if her first album had come out in, say, 1969.

But for talent like McKee’s, it’s never too late.   She will eventually find an audience, and in the meantime, she is building a distinctive body of work for her future fans to obsess over.  Time is on her side. From all appearances, McKee has not lived a decadent life.  I doubt she smokes; her voice is too pure, her skin so smooth she bragged about it onstage, swearing she hadn’t had plastic surgery.  She takes care of her instrument.  The melisma style will eventually get old, and, with a little luck, McKee’s style will come back in fashion.

The concert was my wife’s Father’s Day gift to me.  I bow down to her!  We hadn’t been out together alone for awhile. We’ve been in a sort of bunker for the past few months awaiting the big news that turned out to be good news.  This was our first chance to be free, to be ourselves, to dress up a little and have fun, in a long time.  Well, Nicky looked pretty anyway.  I’m the guy who gets mistaken for Michael Moore.  Anyway.  What a performance to see on your coming-out party!  Nicky has been following Maria McKee’s career as long as I have, and is actually a more knowledgeable fan.  I only recognized about three songs, while she recognized about half of them.  On the way home, driving through the beach cities on a cool, soft night, we couldn’t stop talking about what we’d seen.  It still seems unbelievable.

The opening act, the Willard Grant Conspiracy, is worthy of another post that I’ll probably never write.  Or maybe I will after I hear their CD.  That’s how good they were: I didn’t just buy two McKee CDs on the way out, I bought the opening act’s too.  That alone is high enough praise.

Oh, and there was a celebrity sighting: Gary Shandling.  Exactly who I figured to run into!

P.S. Listening again, the Lone Justice albums and McKee’s solo records sound a lot better than I remember them.  I don’ t want to leave the impression you shouldn’t listen to them; you should.  I applied too high a standard to them when they came out.

P.P.S.  This article, a recent piece in Paste, describes McKee’s current artistic focus, and her successful collaboration with her husband Jim Akin, who accompanied her on bass.  She discloses she has “rapid-cycling bipolar disorder.”

P.P.P.S.  I just found this MySpace fan tribute page.  Some great video clips are collected here.   

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Los Angeles · Maria McKee · Music

Fourth of July Traveling Wilburys Party

Tuesday, July 3, 2007 · 1 Comment

The Traveling Wilburys were a lovely coda to the rock and roll era — a holiday from the angst and self-importance that crept into the music in the 1980s and hasn’t entirely left.  Five legendary performers (Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne) who melded into an egoless whole, creating a sound rich with humor, camaraderie and the joy of making music. 

The Traveling Wilburys were out of fashion when they arrived, and have remained so.  That’s why I love them. 

The impact of the Traveling Wilbury holiday on the careers of their members was uniformly positive.  Orbison was rediscovered by a new audience — hopefully feeling the love just before he died a few months after the first album came out.  Harrison proved he was more than “All Things Must Pass.”  Petty loosened up:  All his best music came out in the period of the Wilburys.  Lynne’s work here cast a retroactive glow on the underrated artistry of his work with ELO.  And Bob Dylan exposed his comic side, which has been a source of his late-career blossoming.

In connection with the long overdue re-release of their music, their videos are all up on YouTube.  Here they are.  Have a safe holiday.

“Handle With Care,” which started it all.  Amazing to hear a vocal passed from George Harrison, to Roy Orbison, to Bob Dylan, and on such a nice little song:

“End of the Line.”  This is most people’s favorite Wilburys tune:

“Inside Out.”  Bob Dylan sings lead.  You really get to hear the Jeff Lynne “sound” on this one:

“She’s My Baby.”  The kickoff track to their second album, entitled “Vol. 3.”  A punchy rocker.

Finally, the hilarious “Wilbury Twist.”  Here they were, in the late 80s, making fun of how old they were getting.  What would they sing about if the survivors got back together now?

(”Wilbury Twist,” was having trouble loading when I posted this. I’ll check again after the holiday.)

Categories: 1980's · Baby Boomers · Bob Dylan · Music · Traveling Wilburys · the beatles

Let Me Tell You a Story About A Little Town Called Los Angeles…*

Friday, December 1, 2006 · 1 Comment

Harold Meyerson’s Los Angeles magazine column is not on its website yet, so you’ll just have to believe me that it’s pathetic.   Called “Topsy Turvy,” it is the kickoff to a series of features under the umbrella “The Power Issue.”  I’d call Meyerson’s piece propaganda — and Meyerson more pamphleteer than journalist — except I think he believes every word of it himself.  

In the spirit of Christmas I suppose, the story Meyerson wants to tell is like the Gospel verses that purport to show the birth of Christ and his divinity were foreshadowed by the Old Testament prophets.  In Meyerson’s cathechism, the whole history of Los Angeles has been leading up to this magical moment — the ascension of Antonio Villaraigosa as mayor.  The story’s John the Baptist is the late Miguel Contreras, the man who had the vision of a “labor-Latino-liberal alliance,” and then brought it into the world — dressed I suppose in swaddling clothes.

Do I dispute the fact that Latinos, labor and liberals today dominate City Hall?  Of course not.  But how new is it?  Not very.  The trend lines bringing each of these factions into power weren’t the vision of anyone in particular, and they were clearly visible long before Contreras became head of the LA County Labor Federation in 1996.  And for all the benefits empowerment accrues to these groups, it has not shown itself to be a coalition that’s strong enough to overcome Los Angeles’ profound problems.

Meyerson has to tweak history to make it fit his mythology.  His tale includes, but minimizes and misinterprets the 20-year mayoralty of Tom Bradley, attributing his rise solely to a coalition of Jews, African-Americans and liberals.  As I understand the history, those factions got Bradley into a runoff in 1969, where he was defeated by a racist reactionary assault by incumbent Mayor Sam Yorty.  It took additional help from labor and some of the business community to get Bradley elected in 1973. 

Labor played an enormous role throughout Bradley’s reign — as strong or stronger than it does today.  Bradley’s mightiest achievement, the rebuilding of downtown, came about because of labor leaders like Bill Robertson and Jim Wood, who saw the potential for thousands of good jobs in the construction of office towers and, later, the Metro Rail.

In comparison with Los Angeles’ reputation before World War II as an anti-labor city, Meyerson makes it seem like a phenomenon of the Villaraigosa era that unions play a dominant role in choosing who sits on “more than half the seats” on the City Council.  In fact, that level of influence took hold in the 1970s.  Bill Robertson was about as big a power broker as this city has seen in the past 50 years.  The carpenters, machinists, transportation workers and several others were serious power players that at least half the council and all other elected officials had to take seriously.  The players today are different and the agendas are different, but the labor movement’s decisive strength goes back decades.

It goes almost without saying that liberals have dominated Los Angeles politics at least since Bradley’s emergence in the late 60s — back when liberals didn’t hide their philosophy behind anodyne words like “progressive,” back when liberals were much more left-wing than today’s breed.  Three of the four mayors who have served since 1973 were liberal Democrats, and the fourth, Republican Richard Riordan, was only electable in 1993 because Los Angeles was in both a deep recession and a social malaise in the aftermath of the Rodney King riots. 

Riordan, however, was the embodiment of the RINO, the Republican In Name Only — a liberal in GOP drag, who only adopts a handful of conservative ideas to maintain his party identity.  A former Bradley appointee himself, Riordan’s staff was populated by Democrats. In fact Riordan and Villaraigosa had the same chief of staff.  Riordan posed no threat to the liberal achievements of Bradley’s era.  His conservatism on law enforcement and the economy mirrored the shift in many liberals’ thinking on those subjects at the time of his election.

True, Riordan took on the unions sometimes — but so did Bradley, and so has Villaraigosa.  If you want to see a mayor who was truly obedient to labor, the only example in my lifetime was Villaraigosa’s predecessor, Jim Hahn, whose defeat was celebrated by Meyerson.

Latinos are also not new to political power in Los Angeles.  Meyerson neglects a significant success of the Latino-labor coalition:  The uphill fight to elect Edward Roybal to the City Council in 1949, a seat he held until 1962.  True, after Roybal left City Hall, Latinos couldn’t win another seat on the council until Richard Alatorre in 1985, but that was more due to the devious political genius of a Spanish-speaking Irishman, Art Snyder, whose pork-barrel politics kept him popular in East LA for two decades.  But Latinos were a part of Bradley’s grand coalition. Throughout his tenure, Bradley never had more than two deputy mayors at a time.  One of the two was always a Latino.  

What really boosted Latino political fortunes in LA was the U.S. Justice Department. In the early 90s, the department sued to force the city to redraw its council district boundaries to maximize the potential for Latinos to win two more seats, for a total of three.  There are still three Latino council members today.  There probably should be four, but for the consensus desire to avoid conflict between the fast-growing Latino population and the shrinking black population.  The 2010 census will likely cost one African-American seat, and perhaps bring about two more Latino seats.  But this is demographic destiny combined with federal enforcement of the Voting Rights Act — not anyone’s grand strategy. 

In Meyerson’s mythology, Los Angeles was dominated by business leaders for most of its history until very recently.  In fact, at least since I was old enough to vote, business has had to form or join coalitions in order to have much political influence at all.   Even developers have to adopt the protective coloration of others’ agendas to win votes for their projects.  During Bradley’s era, business joined with labor and with the African-American and Latino communities on pro-growth policies that eventually led to a backlash among affluent suburbanites pining for preservation of Brady Bunch-style neighborhoods.  The homeowner groups — who Meyerson pretty much ignores in his fable — continue to exert strong influence on councilmembers representing parts of the San Fernando Valley and the Westside.

Meyerson is correct in observing that, beginning in the 1980s, “slowly but inexorably, all of the city’s signature big businesses–its banks, oil companies, aerospace conglomerates and department stores…were sold to or enveloped by new owners who moved their headquarters out of town.”  But why did things move in that direction — out of town?  Why weren’t LA-based corporations strong enough to be the nucleus of many corporate mergers?  

That saga is where the real story is, but it’s not one Meyerson wants to tell.  The fact is, Los Angeles has an extremely hostile business climate.  It’s heavily regulated, it’s expensive, and its public services are in tatters.  The young, eager and talented coming out of the nation’s colleges don’t think of LA as a cool place to start their careers.  Married employees with kids don’t want to deal with the bad schools, the traffic or the smog. Los Angeles is also afflicted with California’s poor business climate — a double whammy. 

I was just talking to someone in Phoenix today — the growth there is phenomenal.  Las Vegas, Reno, Portland, and other cities from Boise to Dallas are growing at LA’s expense, because they offer business lower costs, lower taxes, better services and a better lifestyle for the workforce.  Businesses want to ship their good through LAX and the Ports of LA and Long Beach.  They want to sell to the region’s huge population.  But they don’t want to have their headquarters here, and they want as little of their operations here as they can get away with. It’s just too costly and too much of a hassle.

Much of the blame for LA’s anti-business image, and California’s, falls at the feet of the portion of organized labor representing public employees.  To whatever extent labor’s political clout grew in the 90s and 00s, it was due to public sector workers taking over the labor movement.  The labor leaders in Bradley’s time, like Bill Robertson, were pro-business, because business meant jobs.  The labor leaders of the Contreras era are pro-high taxes, because high taxes pay for public sector jobs and perks.

Far from being the fulfillment of an historic evolution, the current political dynamic is in fact quite volatile and unsustainable.  Eventually, high taxes depress business activity so much that raising them brings in little additional funds.  Public services suffer as more and more of the public revenues go toward salaries and extremely generous pensions — and eventually, even the most liberal voters who give government the most benefit of the doubt will notice that despite massive resources going into the government, services aren’t improving.  Those who can afford to leave, leave.  Those who can’t leave are also those who don’t have much to give the taxman — or who can hire accountants to keep the taxman at bay. 

If there is any manifest destiny in Villaraigosa’s emergence, I think it comes from qualities unique to the man himself — his energy and enthusiasm, his charisma.  He obviously makes some people feel hopeful about Los Angeles.  He also has a great network; and better relationships with the state government, the governor and the legislature, than Bradley, Riordan or Hahn had.  That helps.

But the diminishing presence of business in Los Angeles is not a good sign, and it is not good news for liberals, labor leaders or Latinos.  In the first half of the 20th century, as Meyerson points out, business had too much power, and they abused that power to suppress organized labor and minorities.  After Bradley was elected, there was a balancing of influence between business and labor, leading to a period of growth from which all communities and factions saw benefit through working together.  The equilibrium was lost in the early 1990s, and since then, Los Angeles has been in decline.  Meyerson’s pseudo-socialist ideology blinds him to the fact that his beloved labor-liberal-Latino coalition is primarily in charge of handing out ever-smaller pieces of a shrinking pie.  It’s not clear if they know how to grow it. It’s not clear whether anyone does.

*Edited 12/2/06

Categories: 1980's · 1990's · Business · California · Los Angeles · Unions

Video Out-Takes Rides Into the Sunset

Monday, September 4, 2006 · 14 Comments

 

 

video-out-takes-elvis-chucky.jpg

If you are a Quentin Tarantino fanatic, you might recognize the name Video Out-Takes as having a “who begat what” relationship with Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs.video-out-takes-001.jpg

In 1979, Tarantino’s now-estranged writing partner Roger Avary took a job at what was then a new and innovative business, a video-rental store called Video Out-Takes in Redondo Beach. Video Out-Takes was co-owned by Lance Lawson, who then broke off and founded Video Archives in Manhattan Beach, taking Avary with him. Tarantino became a loyal patron and employee of Video Archives, and a friend of Avary’s.

When VHS and Beta movies first appeared, the studios assumed people would buy them like books and LPs. By offering what were supposed to be end-consumer products for rent, the first video stores had a kind of “is this legal?” feel about them. Stores like Video Out-Takes and Video Archives provided the first opportunity for fans to see classic movies, cult movies, foreign movies, on demand in their living rooms–or in the case of Avary and Tarantino, on the TV monitor at the store when business was slow.

I never went to Video Archives, so I missed my chance to meet Tarantino in his pre-fame geekdom. However I was a Video Out-Takes customer for 25 years. My mother is a movie-lover, so she was willing to shell out what it took to buy a VHS player when the technology was still new and too expensive for me; and Video Out-Takes was her source. I lived an hour away in Los Angeles, but would sometimes come home on weekends just to rent movies and watch them in my parents’ den.

When I moved back to the South Bay in 1992, one of my first stops was to buy a discount card at Video Out-Takes. In addition to the movies I was interested in, Video Out-Takes had a great collection of Disney cartoons and obscure movies for kids — videos that had long gone out of print and could only be found there. My son and step-son loved to browse through dusty shelves full of faded clam-shell boxes to claim movies like Old Yeller, The Three Caballeros and The Best of Beany & Cecil.

Video Out-Takes was an oasis for people who loved movies of every genre — from art-house to slasher. You could tell that before you even walked in the door, from looking at the bizarre murals on the side wall: Elvis riding a pink Cadillac with Chucky…John Wayne taking E.T. for a ride. These murals as well as a faded collection of steamy lobby cards for obscure films noirs can still be seen if you visit the storefront on PCH, but probably not for much longer.

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Video Out-Takes survived competition from giant chains like Blockbuster and Hollywood Video because of the depth of its offerings (which apparently also included a large porn collection secreted behind a false wall). It made the transition to DVDs fairly seamlessly.

Perhaps Netflix delivered the coup de grace, because like Video Out-Takes, the online service provides access to a huge collection suiting many tastes. However, when I visited the store last night, I saw an announcement for a public hearing on converting the site to a “commercial condominium.” It might just be that the landlord sold the store out from under them, and the owner didn’t have the energy to relocate.

What Video Out-Takes had that Netflix does not was its collection of old VHS tapes dating back to the beginning of the technology. Hundreds of titles got issued on VHS — once. These are titles that aren’t on DVD and might never be. The images and sound were starting to fade on these tapes, but at least you could see them. I was on my way to look for an out-of-print VHS title like that when I discovered the store was closed.

That was a great cinematic library: Where is it now?

video-out-takes-lobby-cards.jpg

(One buried treasure I need to mention: Lou Bunin’s Alice in Wonderland, a stop-motion animation “puppetoon” combined with live action that came out in 1950, the same year as Walt Disney’s more famous version. The Disney lawyers managed to suppress Bunin’s charming rendition of Lewis Carroll’s tale, allegedly threatening film labs and theater chains so that it barely reached U.S. screens. However, at some point in the late 70s, it was issued on VHS, and Video Out-Takes had it. I stumbled across it and thought my son might like it — and boy did he! That movie became the central focus of his life for several years, inspiring hundreds of drawings. We must have rented it 25 times, until finally we made a copy of it, fearing the rental tape might get stolen…or that something like this would happen.)

video-out-takes-out-of-business.jpg

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Hidden History · Movies · South Bay · photoblogging

“Say What??” Or: A Trip Down Memory Lane With Saturday’s LA Times

Saturday, July 22, 2006 · 1 Comment

If you’re too young to have listened to Jim Healy’s nightly sports news/comedy act during evening rush hour, too bad, and today’s column by former LA Times Sports Editor Bill Dwyre (”Journalist Bill” on Healy’s show) won’t affect you like it affected me — laughing helplessly at the recollection of how Healy mashed up real sports scoops with sound clips of various sports figures at their worst. You can listen here to some of Healy’s bits — out of context, who knows if they’ll seem funny unless you heard them when they were fresh.

Dwyre got me to raise my eyebrows when I read this part:

Healy had news flooding in from everywhere. He had a million leakers, and it became a badge of honor to be one of his snoops. Sometimes, it almost seemed as if he were clairvoyant.

Once, a decision was made about a major firing in The Times’ sports department, and Journalist Bill, who was going to do this Friday, told his wife about it Wednesday night. He told no one else. Thursday afternoon, Healy had it on the radio. Mrs. Journalist Bill has not been trusted since.

Okay….

Speaking of the LA Times, today’s front page carries a long feature by former pop music editor Robert Hilburn. Now, if you were too young to miss his long journalistic career, no worries. The story is the encapsulation of almost everything he ever wrote — Hilburn distilled, for better and for worse. Only Bruce Springsteen is missing among the cast of characters he profiles.

Despite all the caveats about Hilburn’s clunkiness and repetitiveness, I recommend the piece. He tells many stories I found (to use a Hilburn word) “affecting.” Like this one about John Lennon:

I was a fan of the Beatles. But I also wanted to know more about the man behind the 1970 album “Plastic Ono Band,” a flat-out masterpiece. It was Lennon’s first solo album and a chilling attempt to move beyond the emotional scars of being abandoned by both parents.

In the opening lines, Lennon sang about loss so painful that his voice seemed tied to a nerve deep inside: “Mother, you had me / But I never had you/ I wanted you / But you didn’t want me.”

When I finally met Lennon in 1973, he was temporarily estranged from his wife, Yoko Ono, and living in Los Angeles. Depressed about the separation and the pressure of trying to live up to his fans’ high creative expectations of him, he spent much of his time partying with friends or drinking and taking drugs on his own; sometimes drinking a bottle of vodka or half a bottle or more of brandy a day. Years later, he told me that when he had an important business meeting the next day, he’d spend the evening with me because I didn’t drink.

“I think I was suicidal on some kind of subconscious level,” he said of what he called his “lost weekend.”

“The goal was to obliterate the mind. I didn’t want to see or feel anything.”

One evening at his hotel, Lennon turned on “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson” and ordered up cornflakes and cream. I didn’t think much of it until the same thing happened another night.

“What’s up with the cornflakes?” I finally asked.

He smiled.

As a child in London during World War II, he explained, he could never get milk, so this was special. The lesson of the evening was that there are some childhood losses you can deal with through room service. For
Lennon, the harder ones could be exorcised only through his songs.

michael_jackson_scary.jpgAnd then this story, with a similar subtext, about Michael Jackson:

I got the rare chance to observe this new pop phenom at close range, before allegations of child molestation and the resulting legal actions began to rule his life. In 1984, during the “Victory” tour, I worked with him on his autobiography for Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, then an editor at Doubleday.

She wanted a formal autobiography; he wanted a picture book. One evening, I began to see how difficult a book of any sort would be. Jackson had handed me a folder with dozens of family photos. I picked out a shot of an elderly man, who turned out to be his grandfather.

“I love him very much,” Jackson said.

“OK, shall we put that in the book?”

He looked shocked. “Oh, no,” he said, “that’s too personal.”

After nearly an hour of this, he decided it was enough work for the evening. Popcorn was ordered from his personal chef, then he pulled a video from one of the huge trunks he took on tour. Slipping it into the VCR, he settled on a couch and said, “Let’s watch cartoons.” Jackson was 26.

For all his brilliant showbiz instincts, Jackson was ill-equipped to deal with many of life’s most routine matters, as if the years of childhood stardom had left him socially stunted and more than a little frightened. His world was so guarded that admission to his room was strictly by invitation only.

Part of this, most certainly, was security, but Jackson also was not good at dealing with people, especially adults. Adults could be cruel, he said.

I understand Hilburn’s working on a book. I’m sure I’ll read it, gnashing my teeth all the way through, to find nuggets like these.

Categories: 1980's · Los Angeles Times · Music · Sports · Writing · radio · the beatles

Speaking of LA Radio…

Wednesday, July 19, 2006 · Leave a Comment

It’s more than a little ironic that, according to the Spring 2006 Arbitron radio ratings released yesterday, talk-radio KFI is tied for first place with Univision’s KLVE, which programs music in Spanish. KFI’s afternoon and evening programming is now almost completely dedicated to tirades about illegal immigration, especially “The John and Ken Show,” four drive-time hours of rabble-rousing. It’s the first time an AM station has been in the top slot for nearly 20 years, so I have to assume that screaming about “closing the border” and the alleged perfidy of MEChA is a hit formula. Bummer.

———

bud-furillo-with-the-ladies.jpgAlso, Bud Furillo, R.I.P. The obituaries emphasized his role as sports editor of the Herald-Examiner, nurturing gifted columnists like Allan Malamud and Melvin Durslag, but I got to know of him through his long stint as the lead sports guy on KABC. Can you imagine, a news-talker like KABC devoted three or four hours every afternoon, during drive time no less, to sports? The best show I heard was “The Steam Room” with Bud “The Steamer” Furillo and his partner, usually Tommy Hawkins, but also Geoff Wicher or Rick Talley, which was on the air from about 1979-87.

(Furillo is pictured at right, looking kind of nervous.)

KABC had the Dodgers during that period, so my drives home during baseball season would be all about listening to Bud and Tommy set up that evening’s Dodger game.

Bud’s radio persona was that of an ever-optimistic fan. The Dodgers would win a few games, look like they might be turning a mediocre season around, and there would be Bud, imploring LA: “Are you on the bus? Are you on the bus??” He got me onto that bus many a summer.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Southern California · Sports · Trade & Immigration · radio

Mike Qualls, R.I.P.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006 · 2 Comments

My editor during part of my tenure at City News Service, Mike Qualls, died Sunday at his home in West Covina. Both the Daily News and the Times remembered him with obituaries today. From the Daily News:

Mike Qualls, a former newspaper editor and Vietnam veteran who served as communications director for former City Attorney James Hahn, died Sunday of an apparent brain hemorrhage. He was 63.

Qualls, who also had worked as political editor for the now-defunct Los Angeles Herald-Examiner and as managing editor of City News Service, was discovered by his wife, Debra, when she returned from work to their West Covina home.

Qualls was remembered Monday for his professionalism in all his jobs as well as his easygoing manner and wry humor.

"He was a man of depth, quiet but a hard worker," said Public Works Commissioner Valerie Lynn Shaw.

Qualls was a graduate of the University of Missouri School of Journalism and worked more than 20 years as a newsman in Los Angeles.

When the Herald-Examiner closed, Qualls went to work for Hahn, heading up his communications office for 16 years. After Hahn was elected mayor, Qualls moved over to the Board of Public Works where he oversaw its public information office.

Actually, that last paragraph is inaccurate. Qualls left the Her-Ex to manage City News at least seven years before that fabled newspaper folded in 1989. I don't recall when Mike joined City Attorney Hahn's staff; my impression was that he came in with Hahn's election to the post in 1985, but maybe it was later.

At the Her-Ex, Qualls and Joe Scott often shared the byline on a three-dot style political column that downtown City/County types like me pounced on each Monday morning in the early 80s. I was excited when he became my boss at CNS, and enjoyed working for him. When most of the journalistic priesthood tried to talk me out of moving out of reporting and into a flack post with Supervisor Ed Edelman in 1983, Mike was supportive. We ran into each other frequently at City Hall, but didn't really stay in touch. He seemed contented with his shift to "the other side," but to me, the journalistic profession lost a classic, old-style newshound when he left it. Qualls was tough, terse, funny and wise.

Qualls covered campaigns, and the one story I remember him telling was from the campaign trail. He was assigned to Jerry Brown in either 1976 or 1980. He was somewhere in Wisconsin, asleep in a motel room. He woke up in the middle of the night in a disoriented panic, and called his editor in Los Angeles to ask, "Where am I??" Since it was the middle of the night, the editor wasn't sure, so they stayed on the phone talking until they figured it out.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · City Hall Los Angeles · Media & Journalism · News Media · Politics · Public Relations · R.I.P.

Steve Howe, R.I.P.

Saturday, April 29, 2006 · 1 Comment

steve_howe_autograph.jpgSteve Howe, who died this week in an early-morning traffic accident, was one of the most memorable Dodgers, and one of the most frustrating and tragic. The Dodgers didn't have a bad 1980s — they were the only baseball team to win two World Championships in that decade — but I'll bet they would have been much more successful if this great lefthanded closer could have stayed sober.

Rookie of the Year in 1980, key to the 1981 team's triumph, Howe entered drug rehab after the near-miss of the 1982 season, was suspended several times in 1983 (but still managed to earn 18 saves with an ERA of 1.44), missed 1984 entirely after the baseball commissioner suspended him, returned in 1985 but was dumped in July after failing to show up for a couple of games.

After bouncing around the minor leagues and a few false starts with major league teams from 1985-91, Howe had a renaissance with the New York Yankees in the 1990s, but only after enduring another cocaine-related suspension in 1992. Substance abuse continued to give him serious problems even after his baseball career was over. Howe's was a case that traditional rehab methods could not cure — although I have no knowledge of whether he was still a user at the time of his death.

Losing Howe in 1983 forced the Dodgers to scramble to replace him, left-handed relievers of that quality being rare beasts. Before the 1984 season, they traded a promising starter, Sid Fernandez, to the Mets for left-handed reliever Carlos Diaz. Diaz was a flop, while Fernandez had a good career, and helped pitch the Mets into the 1986 World Series. Before the 1986 season they traded catcher Steve Yeager — admittedly an old coot by this time — for lefty reliever Ed Vande Berg, but Vande Berg wasn't the answer either, and was released after one season.

Bullpen failures plagued the Dodgers in the post-season throughout the 80s, most notably in 1985, when Howe's replacement as closer, Tom Neidenfeuer, gave up two game-winning home runs in consecutive games against the Cardinals, costing LA another World Series shot. Howe, who played with a combination of nervous energy and steely focus, might have fared better in these high-pressure situations. But it was not to be.

To me, Steve Howe was an emblematic figure of the early 1980s as I experienced them. Everywhere I went, all I heard about was cocaine. I know cocaine played a factor in the thwarted careers and busted families of some talented people I worked with. I can think of other friends who got themselves into very stupid and dangerous situations thanks to cocaine, and are lucky to be alive today. Almost without exception, cocaine made people act like jerks. Was anything more boring than being forced to listen to someone prattle on as if they were a genius, when in fact they were just high on coke? I was no Nancy Reagan, but I hated what cocaine was doing to Los Angeles.

Robin Williams' famous line of the era was "Cocaine is God's way of saying you're making too much money," but the people I knew who got involved with cocaine didn't have Robin Williams' income to fall back on. A lot of heartbreak in the 1980s thanks to cocaine. Maybe Steve Howe's Dodger career is only a small heartbreak in the grand scheme of things, but I took it personally. I wish his talent had given him a better, happier life.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Baseball · Dodgers & Baseball · Health · R.I.P. · Southern California

Still Speaking Up for John Lennon

Wednesday, March 22, 2006 · Leave a Comment

John Lennon.jpgPublicist and former local radio personality Elliot Mintz was moved to speak on behalf of his friend and former client John Lennon today, attacking two productions that seem to wallow in the same kinds of morbid fantasies about the singer that motivated his killer to murder him in the first place.

The pay-per-view outfit IN DEMAND has announced plans for a pay-per-view seance to contact Lennon, which will "show psychics travelling to sites of significance to the former Beatle, including the Dakota apartment building and a town in India where he went on a spiritual retreat. The show will culminate as psychics, colleagues and confidantes sit at a seance table for 30 minutes surrounded by infra-red cameras that can capture any 'presence' or spirit that enters the room."

Meanwhile, Peace Arch Entertainment Group is in production on a film called "Chapter 27," which is based on the life of Lennon's deranged murderer, Mark David Chapman, who is to be portrayed by Jared Leto. The film is due to be released next year.

Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono, has issued no comment on the seance, so Mintz spoke for himself. From the BBC website:

"John Lennon was an amazing communicator of heart, mind and spirit," Mr Mintz said. "He still speaks to those who choose to listen to his recordings. That was the medium he chose to speak with us."

The programme was "another example of the misuse of John's affirmation of life as opposed to the preoccupation of his death", he said. "The proposed show strikes me as being tasteless, tacky and exploitative."

And from Reuters, this reaction to the Leto film:

"The producers of the film will be granting an assassin's dream. It will also send out a message to other disturbed people that there is a fast track to international fame," said Mintz….

Paul Sharrat, producer of the pay-per-view seance thinks what he's doing is okay because "Lennon was very interested in the spiritual world." The producer of such probing documentaries as "Unlocking Da Vinci's Code," and "The Secret KGB UFO Files," Sharrat had previously produced a lucrative pay-per-view seance to contact Princess Diana — which, alas, failed to find the doomed lady in the ether. But, Sharratt apparently figures, since he can get millions to pay for it, why not try again with John? He said he is "making a serious attempt to do something that many millions of people around the world think is possible."

Students, that last sentence is a good example of bad spin. How hard was it to notice that Sharrat didn't specifically include himself among the "millions?" So if you are a believer in talking to the dead, what Sharrat really did was insult all of you while plotting to take your money.

Categories: 1980's · American History · Elliot Mintz · Music · Television · the beatles

Out With the Old, In With the New

Tuesday, March 21, 2006 · 3 Comments

In the coverage I saw about the Los Angeles’ new deal with BFI’s Sunshine Canyon and Councilman Greig Smith’s plan to guide the city to “zero waste,” in part through converting trash to energy, one word I missed was: LANCER. Am I the only person in LA who remembers LANCER?

When I joined Mayor Bradley’s office in 1986, the City Council was in the process of authorizing the project, a plant at 41st and Alameda that would burn trash at high temperatures and convert it into electricity. Bradley’s appointees to Public Works were championing the project, the late Councilman Gil Lindsey wanted it in his district, and it seemed as if the mayor was behind it, too. (Although, at a later point, he reminded me that he’d hadn’t taken a position on it yet. He was canny that way.)

When I got reassigned in early 1987 from his press office to the position of Senior Advisor for environmental policy, LANCER was one of the issues I had to figure out. The mayor was coming off a landslide defeat in his second try for governor, and some of George Deukmejian’s surrogates had made hay with the city’s leaky wastewater system spilling raw sewage into Santa Monica Bay. This not only hurt Bradley’s chances to rally the Democratic troops against the incumbent, but it also created an opening for Bradley to be challenged in 1989 from the left, by a candidate who would promise a more environmental administration. That candidate looked to be then-Councilman, now-Supervisor Zev Yaroslavsky.

My new assignment led to a Charlie Brown moment. I was playing softball at Will Rogers Park with a group that included a bunch of local Democratic operatives and activists. I didn’t know all of them. When a friend introduced me as “the guy whose job is to make Tom Bradley look like a good environmentalist,” the team’s reaction was: Haaa-haaaa-haaaa-haaaa!

That can get a guy motivated. After the game, I went home and started reading EIRs. What is this environment thing? How does it work? And, I delved deeply into LANCER. The mainstream environmental groups were quiet about it. The Sierra Club, more influential locally then than now, was officially neutral. But one outlier group, Citizens for a Better Environment (now Communities for a Better Environment) and a then-new group, Concerned Citizens of South-Central Los Angeles, had gotten organized and were starting to raise the issue of how a trash-burning plant in South-Central would affect the health of nearby residents. They pointed out that no one was talking about building a plant like this in West LA or the Valley. Why should South-Central take anyone’s word that LANCER was safe if the rest of the city didn’t want it in their backyard?

Juanita Tate.jpgThe fight against LANCER was one of the first “environmental justice” campaigns. Concerned Citizens was an outstanding example of grassroots organizing. It was led by three of the most dynamic people I met during my City Hall years: Juanita Tate, and the Cannon sisters, Robin and Sheila. Juanita Tate passed away in July 2004, too young at 66, having developed Concerned Citizens into a powerful force not only for activism, but economic development. I loved meeting with Juanita. She was fierce but never angry, and she greeted everyone like a friend, even her foes. She reminded me of Tip O’Neill, except with longer fingernails.

It was so long ago, I can’t remember the precise sequence of events — the loud protests, the quiet meetings, the disasterous public hearings — but in the end, my conclusion was the Mayor should oppose LANCER and in its place call for a citywide recycling program. At that time, the only curbside recycling going on in LA was a pilot program in Pacific Palisades that seemed designed to prove only that recycling was expensive. Until Los Angeles was recycling as much as it could, I believed the public would halt every other waste disposal idea — whether it was waste-to-energy or new landfills. I also didn’t see how the city would be able to follow through on the plan of building a dozen waste-to-energy plants because of the cumulative air emissions. But building only one didn’t make sense, because its impact on trash diversion would be so minimal.

Bradley did not want to simply kill the LANCER project without announcing recycling as an alternative, so I needed to get the Bureau of Sanitation to agree that a citywide recycling program was feasible, or at least to agree not to shoot it down. At first they resisted, and tried to “educate” me out of citywide recycling. But to give credit where it’s due, after they realized recycling was their future, they embraced it, and over the next few years established the largest municipal curbside recycling program in the nation. It was Del Biagi, the bureau’s director, who said, “Why don’t we commit to recycling 50 percent of our waste?” And that became our goal. AB 939, the state law that mandated 50 percent recycling statewide, came later, its authors clearly empowered by Los Angeles’ ambitious target.

Things have moved quickly. Councilman’s Smith’s RENEW LA plan sets a goal of 100 percent recycling — zero waste. But it also talks about “harnessing the energy potential of ‘waste’ by utilizing new technology to convert the material directly into green fuel, gas and/or electricity.” Of course, that was the fine idea behind LANCER.

Sunshine Canyon.jpgDon’t get me wrong. That was then, and this is now. I’ve read over some of Councilman Smith’s plan and it is clearly about as comprehensive as one could hope for. Greig Smith got elected knowing the Sunshine Canyon landfill was his albatross, so he made himself an expert on all the recycling and reuse options out there. And he’s right on the money when he compares the costs of recycling and reuse with the anticipated future cost of the only other option — hauling the trash hundreds of miles away to distant mega-landfills via train or truck. However much waste the City can divert from that expensive, polluting parade, all to the good.

I don’t know anything about the state-of-the-art in waste-to-energy nowadays, but even in 1987, we were told that someday, this technology would come back. The fun will start when they try to decide on the first site.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · City Hall Los Angeles · Energy · Environment · Southern California · Trash

Mas Fukai, R.I.P.

Tuesday, March 7, 2006 · Leave a Comment

fukai park.jpgMas Fukai, a 28-year veteran of the Gardena City Council and a longtime deputy to the late Supervisor Kenneth Hahn has died. His passing made Page One in the Daily Breeze today:

Fukai was born in Gardena on Jan. 2, 1927, attended local schools and worked on his family’s farm until World War II, when they were relocated to an internment camp in Gila, Ariz.

He then joined the Army, where he made the rank of corporal, and returned to Gardena in 1947. He then attended Los Angeles Trade Tech College and ran his own auto repair shop for 13 years. He then went back to school, attending the California School of Insurance and later becoming successful in the insurance industry.

Before he was elected to the City Council, Fukai created an organization for Asian youth to encourage their participation in sports, she said. Part of the focus of the group was to divert teens from drug use.

It was this program that sparked Fukai’s long and illustrious career in politics as it got the attention of then-county Supervisor Kenneth Hahn, who named Fukai to his anti-drug commission.

In his first run for council in 1974, Fukai unseated an incumbent and beat his closest competitor by nearly 50 percentage points. A year later, Hahn hired him as a deputy.

And:

Fukai leaves behind a lasting legacy in Gardena, particularly among residents of Japanese descent, Tanaka said. As a young and overwhelmed Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy looking for a room in Gardena to host a recruitment fair, (Mayor Paul Tanaka) vividly remembers the first time he met Fukai.

“Not only did he arrange the room at no cost, he showed up on a Saturday to see if everything was fine. He was the first person I met in an important position. He made such an impression on me.”

Using his standing as a city councilman and position as Hahn’s chief of staff, Fukai opened doors for Japanese-Americans interested in government, former state Assemblyman George Nakano said.

Tough-talking and dedicated, Fukai was a leader who simply got things done, Councilman Steve Bradford said.

“Mas was the politician’s politician,” Bradford said. “It really best summed him up.”

James Cragin, a former councilman, said Fukai would never hesitate to speak his mind.

When a naysayer once mouthed off at a City Council meeting, “Mas Fukai told him, ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, you jerk,’ ” Cragin said. “Then he went down and chased him out. … He put his fist where his mouth was.”

Fukai was also an avid golfer and his name graces a park in the center of town.

The obit is, appropriately enough, Gardena-focused. But to the dozens of political staffers who worked on the 8th floor of the LA County Hall of Administration during the long reign of Supervisor Hahn, Mas Fukai had another, slightly different persona.

Hahn (father of the former mayor) was one of the most personable politicians in Los Angeles history. He glad-handed, told stories, spoke from the gut and spread a kind of creative chaos wherever he went. Hahn was the opposite of methodical.

For many years, Mas Fukai was Supervisor Hahn’s balance-wheel. Quiet, low-key, unexcitable, the Mas Fukai of my recollection always stood silently near near Kenny to make notes, preparing for the inevitable follow-up work to fulfill the many promises with which Hahn littered his path. Hahn didn’t have much patience for details; Fukai was all about details.

As a young deputy to Supervisor Ed Edelman in the mid-80s, I worked with Fukai on many issues, and respected him tremendously. He was tough, smart and loyal.  His concept of loyalty to his boss was to not say much. Other supervisors and their staffs had their own impressions of Kenny, whose maverick, populist ways annoyed all his colleagues at one time or another. Many questions came to Fukai in this form: “Can’t you get your boss to….?” Fukai never rose to the bait. A little smile might creep across his face for a moment, but that’s all he was going to give you.

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Categories: 1980's · About Me · Politics · R.I.P. · Southern California

Kirby Puckett, R.I.P.

Monday, March 6, 2006 · Leave a Comment

kirby puckett.jpgI’ve missed watching Kirby Puckett play ball since he retired in 1996 due to the sudden onset of glaucoma. The classic overachiever, a 5′8″ guy who could track a ball in the outfield like a falcon and instantly fire it back to the infield to nail a runner; who could swing his little bat like a whip and knock singles or home runs, even off bad pitches, almost to order.

Guys like me who still love baseball, long after we probably should’ve moved on to something less juvenile, were continually renewed in our love for the sport by players like Puckett, who died today at 45, one day after suffering a stroke in his Arizona home.

The Minneapolis Star-Tribune’s online obit captures the feeling of Puckett, and recounts some of his great exploits. Here are a few bites:

Puckett had been raised in the Robert Taylor Homes, a south Chicago housing project. He received no college scholarship offers, so he went to work after high school on an assembly line for Ford Motor Co.

“I never forgot where I came from,” Puckett said when he was elected to the Hall of Fame.

The Twins drafted him in 1982, and he reached the big leagues on May 8, 1984. He celebrated his arrival by getting four hits against the team then called the California Angels.

Puckett lore piled up quickly in 1987, when he led the Twins in hits as they rallied from a 3-2 deficit against the St. Louis Cardinals in the best-of-seven series and won their first World Series title. He now had unqualified success to go with his uninhibited style.

“A 7- or 8-year-old kid watching the game would pick him out, and he just looked different,” sportscaster Bob Costas said. “He had an affection for the game, and there was a kind of energy about it that was fun.

“I’m sure he took it seriously. You have to take it seriously in order to be a great player, but there was nothing grim about the way he went about it.”

In 1991, the Twins again found themselves trailing in the World Series 3-2, this time to the Atlanta Braves.

But Puckett went around telling teammates to hop on his back for Game 6, that he would carry them to victory. Then he delivered two signature moments.

First, he made a leaping catch against the Metrodome’s outfield Plexiglas in the third inning and robbed Ron Gant of an extra-base hit, potentially saving a run from scoring. Then, in the 11th inning, Puckett became the ninth player in major league history to win a World Series game with a home run, hitting a changeup from Charlie Leibrandt over the outfield wall and pumping his arms in celebration as he rounded the bases.

“You couldn’t hear yourself think in the ballpark,” former Twins hitting coach Terry Crowley said Monday from Baltimore Orioles camp. “Kirby was on deck. The manager went to the mound, and Kirby said to me, ‘If they leave this guy in the game, the game is over.’

“Sure enough, they left [Leibrandt] in the game. Puckett hit a home run, rounded the bases, and as I went to shake hands with him, he gave me a bear hug and said, ‘Crow, I told you!’ That will stay in my mind forever.”

The obit also covers his personal downfall, the allegations that he violently abused women. He was acquitted in his only trial on the charges, but they took their toll:

After a nine-day trial, a jury ruled Puckett not guilty of false imprisonment, fifth-degree criminal sexual conduct and fifth-degree assault.

“I just want to go home,” Puckett said that day, when the verdicts were released.

He relinquished his role as Twins executive vice president. The team, which retired Puckett’s jersey in 1997, tried maintaining ties to him, but he continued to withdraw.

When friends saw him, they grew increasingly concerned about the weight he was putting on his short frame, with estimates that he was well beyond 300 pounds.

But for those who saw him in Arizona at Harmon Killebrew’s charity golf tournament in November, there was renewed hope. Puckett had spoken of taking better care of himself. Recently, there was news that he planned to remarry in June.

I always wondered what it would be like to be someone like Puckett after retirement, knowing the greatest moments of your life were behind you. The compensation would be all the people who would come up to you to share memories of watching you play. Not just the famous World Series exploits, but the mid-season games no one would remember unless they were in the stands. Games you might not even remember yourself. “Damn, I did that?”

Kirby Puckett deserved many more years to hear the replays through the voices of his fans.

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Categories: 1980's · Baseball · R.I.P.

Otis Chandler, R.I.P.

Monday, February 27, 2006 · 3 Comments

Otis Chandler.jpgLA Observed and, naturally, the Los Angeles Timeswebsite are the primary places to go for the obituaries and other links to remembrances of Otis Chandler, the most consequential publisher the LA Times ever had.

History will probably say the last great era of newspapers was the 1960s and 70s. If that turns out to be right, history will say the era was dominated by the Washington Post’s Katherine Graham and Otis Chandler, two unlikely characters — a widow and an heir who were initially dismissed as lightweights — who carved out a new role for newspaper journalism in the face of the “new media” challenge of their era, television.

In 1960, major cities had as many as half a dozen daily newspapers engaged in cutthroat circulation battles, using sensationalized news coverage as the bait. But nothing was more sensational than seeing news happen right in front of you, something newspapers could not offer but TV could. For that and many other reasons, newspapers began dying off and the industry’s future was most uncertain.

In the face of that threat, both Chandler and Graham got creative. They developed new models for their respective newspapers, giving readers in-depth coverage, investigative reporting and analysis that TV could seldom provide. You can’t say it was innovative, because the New York Times was already doing something similar. But don’t forget, it was not possible for people in Los Angeles to read the New York Times back then unless they got it mailed to them. (I know because when my parents moved us in 1968 from a New York suburb to a L.A. suburb, they got one of those by-mail subscriptions. I can still see the big white envelopes that used to jam our mailbox.) Treating Los Angeles newspaper readers with respect was an entirely new phenomenon.

With his radical remake of the LA Times, Chandler proved a city other than New York would support a newspaper aimed at discerning readers. His vision of a quality newspaper was no New York Times clone. Chandler created a paper distinctly reflective of Los Angeles’ suburban lifestyle — less stuffy, more colorful, a paper that emphasized stylish writing over tight editing, that understood its readers to be active people who spent their weekends at the beach, in the garden or on hiking trails.

In the tradition of his family, Chandler unashamedly used his newspaper to boost Los Angeles. Chandler’s boosterism, however, was more about culture than real estate (although he certainly could not have been unhappy to watch LA’s suburbs grow, with a potential new subscriber in each new split-level.) He embodied the LA intelligentsia’s inferiority complex; but he didn’t just fret about it, as it was fashionable to do back then. He addressed it. Nowadays, I don’t think LA is seen as a culturally backward city, lacking in venues for serious music and fine art. That’s a big change and Otis Chandler had a lot to do with it.

Chandler enjoyed a long retirement, but he emerged from it like Marley’s Ghost in the aftermath of the damaging LA Times scandal involving Staples Center — a scandal bad enough in itself, but also a symbol of the Times’ slow-and-then -rapid decline in the 20 years after Chandler left.

I happened to attend a USC Annenberg School fundraiser in 2000 where Otis Chandler was one of the honorees. It was one of the most dramatic events I’ve ever attended. The room was full of Times reporters, most of whom paid their own way to see their spiritual leader, whose legacy was now in the hands of the wrong kind of people. The new Times’ management initially didn’t want to support the event, but they capitulated and bought a table under pressure from staff veterans.

The Times’ table was directly underneath the podium in some kind of makeshift ballroom on the 20th Century Fox backlot — if I recall correctly. While the Times’ reporters filled seats near the back, then-publisher Kathryn Downing sat up front with other executives. To cheers from the gallery, Chandler let them have it with both barrels, addressing Downing directly, pointing a finger at her, holding her personally responsible for the damage the Times’ reputation had suffered.

Chandler was justly proud of the edifice he’d built. What we all saw that night was the rage of a man who’d been forced to endure its decay — the rage of a king. It was a powerful coda to one of the great Los Angeles stories.

Four months later, the Chandler family sold the Times to the Tribune Company. Otis Chander said the family didn’t even tell him about their plans until two days before the sale was consummated.

I was at a meeting this morning when I saw the news of his death on my laptop. I passed the info along to others at the meeting — people younger than me — and got blank stares. Of course, how would anyone know what Otis Chandler accomplished if they were schoolchildren when he retired? Yesterday’s newspapers wrap flowers. Newspapers from 30 years ago barely exist at all. But a great newspaper has consequences, and if you’re in LA today, your daily life is in part a consequence of Otis Chandler’s determined vision of a better newspaper and a greater city.

(Update 2/28/06.  A little more about Chandler and the John Birch Society above.)

Categories: 1980's · About Me · American History · Media & Journalism · R.I.P. · Southern California

Is it Something About LA?

Monday, February 13, 2006 · 7 Comments

LA Observed links to a Crain’s Chicago Business piece documenting the latest outburst of investor negativity toward the Los Angeles Times and its dragging effect on the Tribune Company. A few pertinent grafs:

“They’ve been throwing anything they can think of at that paper and nothing seems to work,” says media analyst Edward J. Atorino of New York-based Benchmark & Co. “Wall Street likes the company, and we love Dennis, but if results don’t start improving . . . it’s going to be merciless.”

For Tribune executives, the Los Angeles problem is “critical, and it’s the most troubling kink in the turnaround story,” says Eric McKissack, CEO of Chicago-based Channing Capital Management LLC, which holds more than 600,000 Tribune shares. “It’ll be very difficult to turn the company around without turning the Times around….”

“When Tribune bought the Times, there was a sense that it was an underachieving paper that could be turned around with the right management,” says James Goss, an analyst with Barrington Research Associates Inc. in Chicago. “Well, it’s six years later, and I think they’re beginning to understand why Times Mirror couldn’t figure it out.”…

I don’t even have to look. Patterico, Hugh Hewitt, Michelle Malkin…Crain’s just made their day. The Times is getting its just desserts, that liberal, out-of-touch bastion of political bias. I’m sure they’re dancing across their laptops tonight.

But, just to be contrarian, let me propose something that the Times-bashers in the blog world might not have considered. Could it be the problem is not some failing at the Times — not its quality, not its politics, not its ad rates?

Could it be… Los Angeles?

What is the Los Angeles economy about, nowadays?

  • International trade, an amorphous global enterprise that happens to transit through LA’s sea-and-airports, barely stopping long enough to add significant value to the local economy. The professionals engaged in international trade are perhaps more interested in the Asian Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times of London. As long as the ships, planes, trains and trucks keep moving, that’s all they need to know about Los Angeles.
  • Real estate, which is all about hot neighborhoods and new “edge city” developments, not the city as a whole.
  • Tourism, which is about generating feature stories outside the LA market to draw visitors in. Tourism is also not a source of high-wage jobs.
  • Entertainment media, for which the Los Angeles Times will never be most important source of news. Arguably this is a failing of the newspaper’s editors over the decades who looked down at “Tinseltown,” while the New York Times and Wall Street Journal assigned top reporters to the beat. Now entertainment news is so ubiquitous, the Times has no leverage to grab the lead it should never have relinquished in the first place.

Add in the fact that Los Angeles has some of the highest rates of illiteracy — in any language — in the nation. That’s no good for selling newspapers.

We’ve got people who buy things. Los Angeles is at the center of one of the two biggest markets in the nation. That should be the good news, and is probably the basis for the high ad rates the Times tries to charge. But now we’ve got an exceedingly diverse population, not the broad, general interest market for which the Los Angeles Times was designed.

When the Times was so thick that comedians joked about the Sunday Times causing hernias, those pages were mostly filled with mid-market department store ads, placed by stores that, like the Times, tried to appeal to everyone. Most of those stores are out of business now.

But that’s not all of it. Something’s gone out of Los Angeles — confidence, a sense of identity, a belief in the future. A thriving newspaper is, at some level, a product of boosterism. Los Angeles has a lot of paid advocates, but few boosters. That’s a big change, historically.

Way back in about 1989 or so, my friend Joel Bellman wrote an op-ed for the now-defunct Herald-Examiner, in which he said (as I recall) 1984 was Los Angeles’ “last good year.” At the time, I worked for Mayor Tom Bradley, so of course I challenged his implication that the mayor wasn’t a boon to the city anymore, and saw political danger in it. But I’ve thought of that essay many times since it ran.

Los Angeles has had a tough couple of decades since the triumph of the 1984 Olympic Games. Once upon a time, we accepted progress as a given. Nowadays, we accept decline and the intractability of our problems. Schools, traffic, housing costs, the environment — who is telling us these things can get better? Well, sure, lots of people say so, especially when there’s an election coming up. But who really believes?

For many Angelenos, it’s just a matter of how much longer they can hang in there, or how well they can insulate themselves from what everyone else seems to be suffering from. People who feel that way really don’t really want to read the newspaper. Opening it up each morning is too depressing. They want to keep their world nice and small, and manageable. A cocoon.

The Times does almost nothing to build this community’s confidence in itself. Maybe that’s too much to ask of it. Probably, most reporters and editors would quit if their publisher told them boosting Los Angeles’ future was now their job description. But I don’t see the Times recovering until Los Angeles recovers a sense of itself as special; and if the Times wants to play a role in that, it would certainly be in the institution’s self-interest.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Business · Media & Journalism · Mindshare: PR, Ads, and WOM · Southern California · Trade & Immigration

Salute to Richard Thompson

Saturday, February 11, 2006 · 3 Comments

Richard-Thompson1.jpgThe upcoming issue of Newsweek spotlights singer/songwriter/blazing guitarist Richard Thompson, promoting his five-disk box set, The Life and Music of Richard Thompson. Writer Malcolm Jones makes a bold claim for Thompson:

Nothing here—and the song list runs to about 80 songs—sounds dated. There is no disco period to live down, no glam rock to wince at, no electronica era to omit. Instead, the material has a consistency of intent and execution that puts it totally at odds with the faddish history of most other pop music. One has to look to the likes of Dylan to find someone who has written this many good songs over the same length of time.

Someone comparable to Bob Dylan you’d think might be as famous as Bob Dylan. But if you’re unfamiliar with Thompson, that’s not surprising. I don’t think his music was ever played on commercial radio — possibly excepting when he was a member of Fairport Convention in the late 60s, when pretty much anything got played on FM rock stations.  Otherwise, you would have had to read about him.

I have to admit, what originally got me interested in Thompson was gossip.  For several years in the 70s, Thompson was teamed with his wife, Linda, a gorgeous singer. Their final album together, Shoot Out the Lights, coincided with their breakup. 

The press glommed onto the juicy discomfort of their plight.  Here they were, already split, touring in support of an album of songs documenting the betrayals, paranoia and resentment they were both experiencing at that moment.  Sure, I’ll check that out. The songs were amazing, with titles like “Did She Jump or Was She Pushed,” “Don’t Renege on Our Love,” and the utterly beautiful, painful, “Walking on a Wire.”

An even greater revelation was Thompson’s guitar-work. His electric guitar solos are as piercing as Neil Young’s — except with much more technique (sorry, Neil.) His acoustic playing is not only virtuoso-level, it demonstrates a thorough knowledge of English and American folk styles.  His melodies are rooted in the modal sounds of folk music, even when the backing sound is conventional rock (with perhaps a button accordion mixed in.)  

His lyrics alternate from sorrowful to scornful, and this is probably why his gifts haven’t gotten the recognition they deserve. Thompson has many uptempo songs, but not upbeat. His outlook is a bit on the bleak side, though never lacking compassion. 

One of my favorite Thompson songs is “Al Bowlly’s in Heaven,” in which, over a dirge-like beat, a disabled beggar recalls his glory days during World War Two.

We were heroes them, and the girls were all pretty
And a uniform was a lucky charm
Bought you the key to the city
We used to dance the whole night through
While Al Bowlly sang, ‘The Very Thought of You’
Al Bowlly’s in Heaven, and I’m in limbo now

I gave my youth to King and country
But what’s my country done for me
But sentenced me to misery
I traded my helmet and my parachute
For a pair of crutches and a de-mob suit
Al Bowlly’s in Heaven, and I’m in limbo now

Hard Times, hard hard times
Hostels and missions and dosser’s soup lines
Can’t close me eyes on a bench or a bed
For the sound of some battle raging in my head

Old friends, You lose so many
You get run around all over town
The wear and the tear of it just drag you down
St. Mungo’s with its dirty old sheets
Beats standing all day down on Scarborough Street
Al Bowlly’s in Heaven, and I’m in limbo now

Can’t stay here, got to foot slog
Once in a blue moon, you might find a job
Sleep in the rain, sleep in the snow
When the beds are all taken, you’ve got nowehere to go

I can see me now, back there on the dance-floor
With a blond on me arm, red head to spare
spit on me shoes and shine in me hair
And there’s Al Bowlly, up on the stand
That was a voice, and that was a band
Al Bowlly’s in Heaven, and I’m in limbo now

There are few more eloquent anti-war songs. In fact, I don’t think it’s an anti-war song so much as a song about war’s tragedy. I love the specificity of the character’s memories: Al Bowlly was a beloved British pop singer of the times; a de-mob suit was the outfit British soldiers were given when they re-entered civilian life.

Thompson’s written dozens of songs as good as “Al Bowlly’s in Heaven,” and has recorded guitar solos every bit as thrilling as Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page or U2’s the Edge.  He’s been successful enough to keep making records and touring into his mid-50s. So this isn’t a sad story about a neglected artist. It’s a sad story about the millions of people whose lives would be enriched by hearing Richard Thompson’s music, but who haven’t heard of him.

If you’re into iTunes, Yahoo! Music or Rhapsody, here are some additional songs (some with Linda Thompson) you might want to download if you can:

1952 Vincent Black Lightening; Beeswing; When the Spell is Broken; Walking on a Wire; Shoot Out the Lights; Tear Stained Letter; How Will I Ever Be Simple Again; Turning of the Tide; Waltzing’s for Dreamers; I Misunderstood; I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight; For Shame of Doing Wrong; Down Where the Drunkards Roll; Dimming of the Day; She Twists the Knife Again…. and I’d better stop there.

Harder to find is a 2003 live disk called, 1000 Years of Popular Music. Somehow Thompson takes us from “Sumer is Icumen in,” through “Shenandoah,” to Hoagy Carmichael’s “Old Rocking Chair’s Got Me,” then songs by the Who, the Beatles, ABBA, Prince and Britney Spears’ “Oops, I Did it Again.” Yep. In his hands, it’s a pretty good song.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Music · radio

Tuna Carpaccio Days are Here Again!

Sunday, February 5, 2006 · 4 Comments

Jay McInerney is most famous for his first novel, “Bright Lights, Big City,” a skillfully-written but vapid portrait of a self-pitying young man’s excursions through Manhattan’s cocaine-charged 1980s night life. It was obviously a roman a clef, but he billed it as a novel; so if he’d wanted to make things up, unlike James Frey, he could have. That it was such a boring, obvious narrative can, therefore, only be blamed on McInerney’s underdeveloped imagination. (In your opinion, my grandmother would hasten me to add.)

“Bright Lights, Big City” captured the zeitgeist of the New York media crowd, who recognized themselves or their offspring in it, so it got lots of publicity, sold lots of copies and was eventually made into a meandering movie, for which McInerney wrote the screenplay. I resented McInerney at the time for many reasons — some having to do with envy, but also because he misappropriated the name of a great Jimmy Reed song.

Since then, McInerney wrote other novels that failed to capture any special zeitgeist, but he’s still deemed worth profiling in major media whenever a new one gets published. In this morning’s New York Times Sunday Styles section, we get the usual rehash of dates, drugs, marriages, divorces, depression, recovery and fashion. However, McInerney and one of his ex-wives make a couple of comments I found significant (emphasis added by me):

Mr. McInerney and Ms. Hanson broke up in 1991, and soon after he asked out Ms. Bransford, a jewelry designer from Tennessee. Three months later they married at the Municipal Building in Manhattan. Mr. McInerney published “Brightness Falls” in 1993, and they moved to a farm they bought outside Nashville. The idea was to put New York behind him, but that proved harder than he anticipated.

“I couldn’t quite handle it full time,” he said. “I need to be around Democrats sometimes. I need to get my fix of tuna carpaccio.”

Between Mr. McInerney’s frequent trips back to New York the couple tried unsuccessfully to have children. But in 1994, with donated eggs and a surrogate mother, they had twins just before Mr. McInerney turned 40, a development that, Ms. Bransford said, came as a shock to him.

“He just didn’t know who to be,” she said.

Doesn’t that just sum up why the Democratic party is in such a mess right now?

Democratic rhetoric continues to evoke the time when the party and its ideals reflected the aspirations of the working men and women, the members of industrial unions, the people whose upward mobility was tied to the overall prosperity of the nation. If the day ever came when tuna carpaccio was savored by a Democrat, it would be at a picnic where everybody got to have some, because hard work had made our country rich; not at a restaurant that only trust-funders and lottery winners could afford.

Today, the Democratic party gets associated with the concerns of the cultural elite — fetishists of haute cuisine, riders on the lifestyle tour of America. McInerney’s a perfect symbol. Messy, betrayal-filled love life, abandoned kids, a sudden identity shift from sleek urbanite to farm boy, who then starts to whine about missing those tuna-carpaccio-gulping nights with his Democrat friends. A man secure in the knowledge he can overcome mistakes and changes of heart by carpet-bombing his problems with money — money earned primarily through talking about himself in the media.

There are plenty of Americans whose lives reflect McInerney’s angst about “who to be.” Just not enough of them to elect a president or take over Congress.

Categories: 1980's · About Me · Democratic Party Tough Love · Literature · Media & Journalism