Parking Day

Last week, we built a park in a parking space on Santa Monica Blvd. We set up for the second year in a row across from the Cahuenga Branch Library -- in front of the East Hollywood Light Yard -- to make a point about the lack of parks in the neighborhood. Fifty-three thousand people and no park. None. There I was at eight in the morning sweeping Santa Monica Boulevard before laying down my carpet of astroturf and setting up my backyard swing.

Put a quarter in the meter and you've got a park.

A reporter from the LA Weekly stopped by. I told him it was a crime against humanity for poor kids to have to kick soccer balls against razor wire fences and ride their bikes up and down their driveways. He asked if I felt guilty about taking up valuable parking space. What do you have to say to people who say you're slowing down traffic and making it harder to park, harder to get around and get things done?

Well, I said, it's a pretty serious issue. A crisis, really. I pointed to the library and said the City has decided to close them down for two days out of every week. The schools are a mess. There's no jobs, no parks, nothing for a kid to do except watch the traffic go by. Everyone here -- working hard to create a tiny, temporary space for the people in the neighborhood -- is volunteering his or her time. It's inconvenient for us too -- but it's kind of important.

The people who walked or rode their bikes past us seemed to get it. They smiled, they stopped, maybe sat down for a few minutes and had some food or a drink. If you build it, they'll come. Right?

The reaction from people in their cars was just the opposite. Anger, frustration, rage -- murderous rage -- because we slowed them down for .78 seconds on their rush to get where they're headed. I swear, they would have run us over if they thought they could get away with it. But like FDR used to say about the ugly rich -- I welcome their hatred. I mock them from my picnic table, a greasy tamale in one hand, my blackberry in the other. Sending messages to other troublemakers and traffic impediments.

I fill up with rage every day thinking about this town. How selfish, how cruel it is. Everything ugly about America is here and cranked up to full volume. This City is like Marilyn Monroe: crazy and cheap and flashy -- but beautiful and sad and fantastic. I love LA and I always will -- just like I grew up loving Marylin.

Still ... I'm not sure I can take it for the rest of my life. I'm not sure I can stay so angry all the time.

But for now, that's what gets me out into the streets -- that and love. Love. LA -- they've got you all wrong. Sure, you're dark and heartless -- but they don't know you like I do. All they can see are your stretchmarks and your stripmalls -- they don't know you like I do.