Loving LA

Unbidden Bits—June 12, 2025

William TimbermanLeave a comment

Checking my web links this morning, I find that J.D. Vance has also been demanding that Governor Newsom do his job. Unfortunately he thinks that a governor’s job is to lick President Trump’s boots, express contrition for not doing it earlier, and to look the other way while the President conducts a Nazi-style armed invasion of his state, sends the most vulnerable of his people to concentration camps outside the country, and gets his propaganda minister to brag about it on Fox News.

No, J.D., that’s not Governor Newsom’s job, that’s not any state governor’s job. As Trump’s Vice-President, that’s your job. You’re the Toady-In-Chief. My advice to you is to stick to your knitting, and let Governor Newsom get on with the job of defending his people against the sociopath you work for.

Near Miss

William Timberman

In search of Lost Angeles, February 8, 2025

A view of some buildings and cars on the road.

It was maybe an hour after dark one Friday evening early in 1976 as my wife and I headed east on the Santa Ana Freeway, bound for a weekend visit to my in-law’s house in Corona. I was in front, behind the wheel of our brand new, rallye-yellow VW Dasher. My wife was in the back, tending to our nearly year-old daughter in her bucket-shaped car seat.

Traffic was surprisingly moderate for the beginning of a weekend. I was cruising in the left lane at just over seventy miles an hour as we approached the Los Angeles River on our way to the San Bernardino freeway junction. Suddenly an enormous Oldsmobile station wagon with its lights out appeared crosswise in the lane ahead of us, with four or five young people seemingly trying with little success to push it out of the way of oncoming traffic.

Terrified, I instinctively hauled the steering wheel as far to the right as I could, feeling the car flex and go up on three wheels as I did. Once safely past the moment of imminent collision, and fearful of what might be approaching from behind us in the lane I’d just blindly swerved into, I hauled the steering wheel back sharply to the left and felt the uplifted rear wheel thump back down on the pavement behind me as we swept past the iconic sheds and storage tanks of the defunct Brew 102 brewery to our right. A little more than an hour later we’d arrived safely at our destination, and my daughter’s grandparents got to fawn over their granddaughter again without even the slightest inkling of how near the angel of death had come to visiting all of us that evening.

Years later I read in some auto magazine that the intentionally flexible unibody construction of the VW Dasher and its Audi 80 stablemate allowed them to recover surprisingly reliably from abrupt steering inputs like those I’d been forced to make use of that evening. German engineering may no longer be what it once was, and the iconic Brew 102 brewery complex has long since been demolished, but as Los Angeles memories go, it would be hard to come up with one more emblematic of the ambiguities of life in the post-war Southern California capital of la dolce vita. The living was certainly easy enough—jobs were plentiful, the sun reliable, the beaches close-by. The fact that sudden death in a river of steel was also only a couple of miles or so from the door of every suburban garage seemed comically irrelevant, at least until you experienced your first genuinely near miss.

In Search of Lost Angeles—December 27, 2024

William Timberman

58 years ago a twenty year-old Mike Davis taught me to love LA. Even then he was a sharply critical lover of that magical place, so I’m not sure how it was that, despite his tutelage, my love for LA came to be so much less critical than his. Like Randy Newman, I loved LA without reservation, and kept loving it even when, roughly 25 years after I last saw Mike, I found myself reading my library’s copy of City of Quartz and nodding along in agreement as I followed his historical analysis of what I’d long since thought of as his city far more legitimately than it had been mine.

These days, I live in Arizona, feeling much more exile than expatriate, even on my good days, for reasons anyone who’s spent any time in Dogtown will understand. I’ve long wanted to thank Mike publicly for his exuberant gift to my younger self, but not having the patience to write memoirs, and being temperamentally unsuited to the writing of eulogies, I never got around to it while he was alive, and couldn’t bring myself to commit to it in the days after he passed, as surfing on his hard-earned fame as a public intellectual seemed a rotten way to honor his memory.

So let me do this instead: For anyone who lives in LA for any length of time, and responds to it as I did, memory becomes a sort of protean creature, one which with or without their consent claims a small but significant share of their consciousness. One can never tell for sure whether what one remembers is something lived in the flesh, experienced vicariously in a darkened movie theater, or simply appears unbidden as an inexplicably alchemical fusing of the two.

This, then, is the introduction to a series of small, but haunted Los Angeles memories that have affected me more deeply over time than I had any reason to expect when they first came to me. They’re personal, of course, not necessarily having any significance for anyone but me, but I offer them here for any others who may find them resonant—you’ll know who you are. Above all, though, they’re my thanks to the Mike I still remember from those long ago days when we were both impossibly young, who long before he had any thought of leaving the life he lived so furiously, gifted me with this oddly Southern California capacity for double vision that I’ve treasured ever since.