In my advanced age I have lost the urge to venture far from my abode. Indeed, as far as the country of my birth is concerned I have yet to explore farther west than the Mississippi, choosing instead to traipse up, and occasionally down, the East Coast. Much of it has to do with climate, both in terms of weather and social temperament. Indoctrinated as I am to the curt, succinct interpersonal interaction of the Northeast, the lands to the west appear to my mind as a fetid morass where individuals languorously loiter on the street, holding court in a fashion that runs contrary to a matter of the utmost importance, i.e. arriving at my intended destination. I am in a rush people; I have no time for your greetings and salutations.

Yet, as of late, I have found myself looking towards California with something disturbingly not unlike longing. Last Saturday in Los Angeles, Coilhouse held a soiree for the launch of their magazine. Fortunately, my disappointment from missing that event was mitigated somewhat by the fact that I had, some time ago, fashioned cardboard standees of Zoe, Meredith, and Nadya. We had a wonderful evening. There was punch, chips, and three different kinds of dip. Don’t you judge me.

If that wasn’t bad enough only now I’m finding out that Dave McKean has had an exhibition at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery since July 19th, and it is ending this Saturday. Those of you who have chosen to settle in or near this fetid metropolis may want to check it out. I would utter a curse upon L.A. but that would be like kicking a two legged puppy; it has it bad enough without any assistance from me.

Dave McKean: Persistence of Vision [Merry Karnowsky Gallery] : Suzanne G.

Now to be fair I’ve never even been to Los Angeles, the subject of this photograph taken by David Maisel. A lung condition — for which I never imagined I’d be grateful — precludes me from spending prolonged periods of time in the chemical mists that hang over the city. But regardless of your stance on the conglomeration of sun-baked suburban tracts that make up L.A., Maisel’s imagery speaks for itself.

While the photographer may have been attempting to underscore the sense of oblivion one feels when swallowed by a system so massive it can’t help but be apathetic to the vagaries of its component parts; the photos themselves aren’t overbearing in their attempts to lead the viewer to particular conclusion. All we’re left with in the viewing is an image and a choice. Is this what you want the future to look like?

Oblivion [Lens Culture]

Driving the I-5 into the Los Angeles basin means a gradual immersion into a sort of toxic dustbath. All the exposed skin on your body becomes damp with the heat, and gritty with the particulate of one million belching tailpipes. No desert wind dips into the dugout city, only skims the pudding-skin off the smog as it passes by overhead.

Toxins in a biome cause mass extinction, sickness, mutation. The vast majority of the Los Angelan population is what’s left when everyone vulnerable, everyone who can be poisoned or infected, has died or crawled away. The remaining residents suck in their soot with relish, their brains going mineral with coal buildup.

These people, the ones who actually like it there, stay in LA to be with their own kind. They go to Pinkberry in their slouchy boots and sideswept hair, sucking down frozen yogurt and gibbering about MySpace. They shop at American Apparel, “study” at Starbucks. They are hell’s own furies, and you will never see them spend a dime in a place as otherworldly as the Nova Express.

Nova glowed and pulsated with the galaxy of alien artifacts gathered within. It was open late, very late, and stood facing the far more staid Canter’s Deli across Fairfax. It was a blacklight beacon in the cold vacuum of the city, attracting its own kind of alien moths from out of the void. Nova was sincere in its playfulness. It had no schtick, no target demographic, no bullshit. Its theme was true. The giant Cthulhian fursuit, the holographic collages, the lava lamps and blobby tables: all authentic, somehow, amidst the creeping urban styrofoam that surrounded it.

Nova’s children were the tiny knot of undefeated survivors in the apocalypse, still maintaining sanity and hope, scattered throughout the Angelan dustbowl. I spent hours there on every visit, dipping myself into this ultraviolet recovery tank, seeking relief.

Stickypig, nee’ Jhonen Vasquez, is one of the Few. Sheltering from the zombie horde, and occasionally making forays into the wilderness for daifuku buns and tea. His thoughts on the closing of a favorite spot ring horribly true.

For each one of these places that goes down, twenty Starbucks open up, and there will always be hoards of people that pile into them with their laptops and homework, not knowing any other world but this faceless, personality free zone of comfort, inhabiting these monstrous places like the bacteria that will grow in even the most hostile of places, boiling ocean vents or supposedly clean rooms in space stations, perfectly willing to feed off the soulless atmosphere of it all. Fuck, I’d rather have a nice cup of tea while burning to death on the lip of a boiling ocean vent than have to listen to that guy did the Curious George soundtrack sing a happy tune at a Starbucks. No offense, Jack Johnson, my venom is not directed at you.