Languages in LA

I love the Coffee Bean on Robertson and Beverly. This is the juiciest part of West Hollywood. To get there, I stroll from my apartment down to Robertson and window shop for three blocks till I get to the corner. It’s sort of a foreplay activity before my coffee.

I pass the interior décor boutiques, lush with satins and brass, or clean and spare with white leather and chrome. All have shocking prices. An embroidered pillow for $100. A tiny oil painting for $495. The plate glass windows are smeared with my drool.

 
At the Coffee Bean, I perch on a stool, sip my vanilla latte and surf the internet. Normally. But yesterday, as I was surfing I glanced out the window and lo, there was an attractive young man dressed only in a plush taupe housecoat and flipflops standing out by one of the tables.

 
This was odd. I sat up straighter and looked around, finding a pretty blonde girl near him, also in taupe housecoat. After a moment, I realized there were about six people out there, all young and pretty, all in plush taupe housecoats.

 
I was not the only patron staring out in bemusement. Finally, when the blonde came in, we asked her if she was in a cult. She smiled and said no, that they were promoting the opening of some new condos nearby. She offered a napkin printed with www.therobclark.com and a brief description of the “swanky” new condos for sale.

 
I have not seen the word swanky used without irony since 1975. But then, anyone who would pay people to stand around in bathrobes outside Coffee Bean in Weho is probably not terribly sensitive to irony.

While driving down Sunset Blvd today, I encountered a massive ad on the side of a building. It was a huge, shiny black SUV (don’t ask me what kind, cars all look alike to me) and the slogan above it was Bye Bye Black Sheep.

 
Now, obviously this is Baa Baa Black Sheep and Bye Bye Blackbird put together. But I’m wondering if the average American recognizes either phrase anymore. I mean, I know them because I was raised by my grandparents. My cultural influences span the entire 20^th century. My Grandpa used to actually shuffle around the house singing negro spirituals to himself, despite the fact that he was white, and racist as Archie Bunker. Whenever Grandma called him to dinner. He’d sing, “I’m coming… my head is bending low….” I think that was a rather sarcastic commentary on Grandma being the obvious power source of the house, but nevertheless. My grandmother sang Bye Bye Blackbird to me, and Mom recited the nursery rhyme Baa Baa Black Sheep.

But I tend to assume that what is true for me is probably not true for most people. Heck, even the neighbors thought we were weird. How can something that is so familiar to my dirt-road Michigan upbringing crop up on the side of a skyscraper in Hollywood?

Are these things really part of the American collective unconscious? Does anyone under 50 besides me recognize these references? Or is this a very expensive car, probably being marketed for wealthy 50 year olds, and it wouldn’t matter if every 20 year old in LA glanced up and thought, “Whoa, is that a racial remark?”

I wish I knew what drives ad executives.

One can’t live in Hollywood and ignore the writers’ strike. When I was working as an extra, the shuttle bus carried me every morning from the massive parking garage off the Avenue of the Stars deep into the land of Fox Studios, and past pockets of picketing penmen. (Sorry, couldn’t resist the urge to try to wring one more word out of that alliteration opportunity.)

They are wearing red, mostly, and carrying signs. A crew member on the set of The Journeyman commented that some of those writers are earning up to $12,000 per weekly episode, and it seemed to him that with a little judicious budgeting, one could live on that pretty well even in Beverly Hills. But many people, such as Michael Cieply of The New York Times, sympathize with the writers,  noting that the bulk of the money tends to go to top actors, directors, and producers.

“It all begins with a script,” is the phrase I’ve heard often here in Hollywood as I, too, try to get doors to open. Such phrases are lip service, however. Jokes are more revealing. One common joke is that of a starlet telling her friend that she’s sure to land the lead in such-n-such film because “I’m sleeping with the writer!” (Insert guffaw here, because when the process actually begins, the writer is apparently only one notch above the girl who makes the coffee.)

 
It’s hard for me to pick a side. I am a writer myself. But I’ve seen what passes for writing on some of these TV shows and I have to say, $12,000 seems a little steep for exchanges that require a laughtrack.