The Dedalus Log

Sunrise doesn’t last all morning.
A cloudburst doesn’t last all day.
Seems my love is up, and has left you with no warning.
It’s not always going to be this grey.

All things must pass.
All things must pass away.

Now the darkness only stays the nighttime.
In the morning it will fade away.
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time.
It’s not always going to be this grey.

All things must pass.
All things must pass away.
(All Things Must Pass: George Harrison – 1969)

I thought I had become immune to the fearful talk and doomsday forecasts from journalists, authors, and publishers about the future of print. I was aware of the paradigm shift going on throughout the media, and how newspapers, magazines, and book publishers were struggling to find new advertising and market strategies, while competing with digital online providers like Amazon and iTunes. But I’d become satisfied just watching this contest from the sidelines, waiting for the confusion to end, the dust to settle, and a winner (or winners) being declared. The struggle reminded me a little of the brief videotape wars of the 1980’s, when VHS and Betamax battled for video supremacy, only to both become obsolete with the appearance of optical disc storage (DVD) players. Then, of course, there was the drawn out music wars that began in the 1960’s with single and long play vinyl records battling audiotapes of various types for control of the business. Eventually both formats were vanquished by the development of compact disc (CD) players in the 1980’s, which replaced them with digitized music that could be heard on many different devices – like computers, MP3 players, iPods, iPads, and Smart Phones. Yet all of these enterprises seemed lightweight and trivial when compared to the print media, because they primarily provided visual and audio entertainment, and not vital educational, intellectual, historical, and cultural content and information. I suppose I always believed that despite these constant digital incursions, nothing could ever replace the printed page. We would always need books, magazines, textbooks, and newspapers. Well this last Christmas season, I was once again slapped awake to the transitory nature of all things.

I was getting in some last minute shopping for Kathleen on Christmas Eve when I dropped by Barnes & Noble in Woodland Hills. As I walked in the wood framed, glass entrance of the bookstore, I thought I could rest there for a while with a cup of coffee to review my shopping list before searching for a gift. However, instead of the cozy embraces of the bookstore café, decorated in gentle forest colors, and surrounded with wall posters of famous authors and neat racks of glossy magazine covers, I was greeted with devastation. I had entered what appeared to be the pillaged remains of a ransacked warehouse. It was a husk of a store with half-filled shelves, strewn with books in no particular order, or piled up in the corners. Sagging, gaudy signs draped across the walls and shelves announced 50% discounts and declarations that “All Must Go!” It took me a few minutes to realize that our only local bookstore, the last surviving, big chain bookstore in Woodland Hills and Canoga Park was closing, and it would be gone by Christmas.

For a long time I hadn’t much cared for nationwide, chain bookstores like Crown, B. Dalton, Brentano’s, Borders, and Barnes & Noble. Those national conglomerates had driven practically all of the independent bookstores that once decorated the literary landscape of Los Angeles and Southern California out of business with their cutthroat shipping and pricing tactics. But book buyers are fickle and memories are short, and anger at their harsh business practices quickly faded with the ease of shopping they provided – especially as many chains adopted the people-friendly strategies of legendary bookstores like The Earthling in Santa Barbara, or Book Soup in West Hollywood. Soon Borders and Barnes & Noble Bookstores were offering cafés with coffee house environments where readers and writers could drink, chat, read, and work. Some stores even offered the extensive selections of published material that once could only be found in college bookstores, and the convenience of having music and film material in the same building made them popular with the non-readers as well. Up until two years ago, two nationwide bookstores, Borders and Barnes & Noble Booksellers serviced Woodland Hills and Canoga Park, in the West San Fernando Valley. Now there are none. So, sulking in a somewhat depressed and nostalgic mood at the end of the year, I concocted a plan as Kathleen and I talked about going someplace on New Year’s Eve. We were looking for a friendly and scenic locale where we could window-shop, meet and mingle with lots of people, and enjoy a late lunch before bidding the old year goodbye. When we decided to go to Santa Monica and walk around the 3^rd Street Promenade, I wondered if the huge, three-story Barnes & Noble on Wilshire Blvd. was still in business. If it was, I decided to make a pilgrimage to one of the last surviving chain bookstores in Southern California.

Barnes and Noble remains the largest bookseller in the United States. The company still has 18 viable stores in the Southern California area – from Santa Ana, in Orange County, to Calabasas, near the border of Ventura County. Rather than sitting idly by, waiting for obsolescence, Barnes & Noble has boldly charged into the digital publishing arena and the e-reader battles against Amazon and Apple. According to David Carnoy of CNET, Barnes & Noble currently controls 25% of the e-book market, and looking to expand it. I own a Nook e-reader myself, and I’m planning on buying an Apple iPad Mini in the near future. I love the convenience of the e-reader and its immediate access to literature. Instead of having to travel to a brick and mortar store to buy a book, I can download one on any impulse or whimsy (as long as I have a Wi-Fi connection). I can read a review or an article about an interesting book or author, and immediately download the book on a trial basis. I can explore earlier works by an author I discover, or trace other writers of the same genre. My e-reader actually stimulates more reading and purchasing than when I went to bookstores. And yet I love bookstores. I loved browsing the shelves, scanning the titles and authors, handling a book, and paging through its leaves. Every time I find myself in a bookstore, I reconnect with memories of other times, in other places, and in other parts of the city when I was young with lots of time on my hands and very little money. I remember my dad taking me to explore the used bookstores around McArthur Park in Los Angeles, and the area around Sawtelle and Santa Monica Blvd in West L.A. He would give me a couple of bucks to spend and leave me to the wonderfully tireless task of choosing, eliminating, and buying my own novels. I remember when my Uncle Charlie first took me to Pickwick Bookshop on Hollywood Blvd to buy Christmas gifts when I was in high school. I recall spending hours roaming through the seemingly endless bookshelves of Martindale’s Books in Santa Monica when I was in college, and visiting Dutton’s in North Hollywood with Kathleen when we were dating. With those memories in mind, I entered the only remaining bookstore on the 3^rd Street Promenade on December 31, 2012.

As I walked around the store I was immediately attracted to enticing displays of fabulous books and memories of times spent reading them. Two tables held the works of J.R.R. Tolkien and George Martin, highlighting the books that were the current inspiration for movie and television screenplays (The Hobbit, and The Game of Thrones). A turntable rack hung with bookmarks of all styles and genres caught my amused attention with their depictions of superheroes, cartoon figures, and fairy tales. How much longer would bookmarks be practical? I asked myself, thinking how necessary they seemed when I was a child. The store abounded with classical literature. There were paperback works by Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and Charlotte Bronte on sale, at 50% off their listed prices. Even leather bound versions of To Kill a Mockingbird, The Sun Also Rises, and Huckleberry Finn were marked down. The store also offered a music and video department on the 2^nd Floor that was tastefully decorated with poster-sized prints of iconic musicians and artists. The last section I inspected were the shelves dedicated to Literature Studies and Poetry. This was the place where one could spend hours pulling books and reading portions of essays and poems. After a while I couldn’t take any more. I wasn’t going to buy anything. I was still trying to get rid of the countless books I’d collected over the years, trying to free up more space on my bookshelves and cabinets. I didn’t need one more volume added to the multitude I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. At this point in my life new books would have to fit in the digital library of my e-book, and not on a shelf. Luckily it was about that time that my daughter Teresa arrived with her husband and daughter Sarah to join us for lunch. Sarah’s boundless energy for watching and mimicking street performers, and touching everything she saw in stores, quickly dispelled all thoughts of bookstores and print. Shepherding her around the promenade and mall kept us all busy for the rest of the day.

At the end of our visit to Santa Monica, in the fading light of day, we walked by one store that caught everyone’s notice. A huge, white apple glowed from a three-story, glass façade, and it seemed to beckon all to enter. Beyond that crystal entrance laid a vast enclosure of electronic and digital wonders, enticing people to walk in and peruse the treasures. Within that gleaming cavern lay the future. Paper publishing and print media will go the way of cuneiform, hieroglyphics, and papyrus. Those methods of communication, learning, and entertainment will soon wither, become archaic, and die. We are at such a turning point in our culture right now, and we are watching the slow death of the old giving way to the new. It is sad but inevitable, because all thing pass.

While writing this elegy about bookstores I started a list of neighborhood shops that have closed or disappeared. I’d invite you to share your own favorite old bookstore, new or used, and where it was located. I remembered the following:

• Martindale’s on 3^rd Street, Santa Monica
• Pickwick Bookshop on Hollywood Blvd, Hollywood
• Campbell’s Bookstore on Westwood Blvd, Westwood.
• Dutton’s on Laurel Canyon Blvd, North Hollywood, and one in Brentwood
• Either/Or Bookstore on Pier Ave, Hermosa Beach
• Midnight Express on 3rd Street, Santa Monica
• Papa Bach on Santa Monica Blvd, West Los Angeles.
• Acres of Books in Long Beach
• The Earthling Bookstore on State Street in Santa Barbara

Gently floating on its charming risings,
On the river’s current
On the shining waves,
One hand reaches,
Reaches for the bank,
Where the spring sleeps,
And the bird, the bird sings.
(The Flower Duet, from Lakme, by Delibes)

“I’m sorry sir,” the young man in white shirt and black tie said. “The lot is full. We are re-directing cars to the Santa Monica Public Library parking garage on 7^th Street. A shuttle will drive you back here”. He said it so quickly and politely that it took a moment to register.
“You mean I can’t park here?” I said, pointing at two empty spaces in front of me.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, with a winsome smile that belied the bad news. “Parking is limited here, and those spaces are reserved for patrons”.
“What the f---!” I muttered under my breath as I turned the steering wheel sharply to the left to negotiate a quick U-turn around the parking attendant. “This is really crazy!” I mumbled, seeing two more open spaces in the lot. I could feel the dark storm clouds of anger billowing up inside me as I stopped at the sidewalk.
“Screw this!” I decided, turning right onto Santa Monica Boulevard. “I’ll just find a place on the street.” With all my pent up frustration waiting to explode, I figured I would benefit from walking a block or two after parking the car on a nearby street. I turned on 10^th and drove slowly down the residential street searching for some open curb space. I passed Wilshire Boulevard, California Avenue, Washington Ave, and Idaho Ave. By the time I reached Montana without seeing a single, open parking space, my black mood started churning again.
“There must be at least ONE open space around here,” I growled, doubling back along 9^th Street, where more apartments and condos lined the street. Hopefully more apartments meant more parking. I re-crossed Wilshire and finally spotted an open area between two cars on the other side of the street. I made a quick T-turn into a driveway and parallel parked in front of a residential home. “There,” I said to myself, “it’s done, and I only have a block or two to walk”. I looked around to get my bearings and noticed there were an abundance of multiple layered parking signs everywhere along the street. “NO PARKING, 9AM – 12 NOON, Street Cleaning Friday,” one sign read. That wasn’t a problem! I was walking away, feeling that my car was safely ensconced among so many others, when another sign caught my eye. It made no sense, as I read, “NO PARKING, 8AM-6PM, Except SAT & SUN”. How was that possible, I thought, looking at all the cars already parked along the curb during that time frame? Then I saw the small script at the bottom of the message: “Vehicles with District No. 12 Permits exempted”.
“Crack and BOOM,” went the thunderheads in my mind. “I don’t f---ing believe this!” I fumed. “There is no public street parking in Santa Monica!” Every inch of this street was reserved for Santa Monica residents with special parking decals on their cars. I couldn’t believe it. In a bolt of pique I was tempted to leave my car there anyway and dare the city to cite me. But in the momentary lull between thought and action, I reconsidered. “That would be stupid,” I said to myself. In this depressed economy, cities were salivating over parking and traffic violations and the income they generated from penalties and fines. There was no sense rewarding the city of Saint Monica for their stinginess. I got back into my car and peeled away from the curb.
“I should just drive home,” I said spitefully, stopping for a red light at an intersection. “If this city can’t provide public parking on its streets, I shouldn’t be spending my time and money here”. At that moment my cell phone started vibrating and I picked it up.
“Tony where are you?” exclaimed my brother Eddie in a worried voice. “We didn’t find you at the Will Call”.
“Yeah,” I said disgustedly, “there was no parking in the lot so they sent me to the Library on 7^th Street. I’m heading there now. I don’t know when I’ll meet up with you”.
“There’s no hurry,” Eddie assured me. “Just relax! We dropped Tamsen off backstage, so we’ll just wait for you at the Box Office. Take your time.”
“Okay Ed,” I finished. “I’ll see you there”. The phone call had calmed me and committed me to a reasonable course of action. There was no sense getting angry with Eddie, or pouting about Santa Monica’s curbside miserliness. The important thing now was to get back to the Broad Stage Theatre before the performance began.

As is his custom when his wife Tamsen, a violinist in the Los Angeles Opera Orchestra, is performing, Eddie called to invite me to the production. He explained that Plácido Domingo, the famed tenor and director of the L.A. Opera, was conducting the orchestra in a “zarzuela concert” at the Broad Stage in Santa Monica. I said yes, even though I had no clue what “zarzuelas” were. I liked classical music. I enjoyed hearing Tamsen play, and loved getting together with Ed. He added that my mom and sister were also coming and he’d make arrangements for the tickets and dinner before the performance. Since he was handling everything, I simply reserved the date and thought no more about it. The night before the performance, Eddie sent me an email stating the time and location for dinner at the Bistro. The restaurant was on Santa Monica Boulevard, about eleven blocks away from the Broad Stage. The evening started out well enough. I left home at 4:00 and enjoyed a leisurely and speedy trip through Topanga Canyon to the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. From there it was a scenic ride into Santa Monica and the Bistro. I passed the Broad Stage Theatre on the way and was amused by its jutting abstract architecture. After a delicious dinner of light Italian cuisine, Eddie and I drove to the theatre in separate cars. The Broad Stage website had mentioned that “the neighborhood is protected by a preferential parking district that prohibits parking by non-residents” but I failed to truly appreciate what that meant.

Still spiraling in my tempest of annoyance, I drove into the Library parking lot and took a ticket from the automated dispenser. Parking was ample and I was quickly directed to a waiting shuttle bus nearby. On the ride to the theatre, I continued wallowing in my anger over the exclusive parking rights of residents, and started compiling of list of snarky observations about the city of Santa Monica:
1) Santa Monica has become a pretentious, boutique village that can only sustain the parking needs of its own residents.
2) Santa Monica’s nasty, emigration policy is plastered all over its streets – no illegal cars wanted. No permit, no parking.
3) A city that can’t provide parking for cars that come to its well-publicized stores, theatres, and tourist attractions, shouldn’t call itself a city. Let’s call it an exclusive, un-gated community on the Westside of Los Angeles.
The brevity of the shuttle ride from the Library to the Stage only gave me time to jot three comments, but I dreaded what lay ahead. There would surely be annoying lines and extended delays after the performance. I tried shrugging off my irascible mood when I spotted Eddie with my mom and sister, but I was not having much success.

The Broad Stage is part of a performing arts building, which also includes the Second Space theatres. The complex is a satellite campus of Santa Monica College, and was designed by Santa Monica architect Renzo Zecchetto. It looked like an architectural collage of different shapes, figures, and outcroppings all fused together. Its different surfaces seemed to change colors with the various hues of the coastal sky and the setting sun. It was physically impressive from the outside, and yet it generated a close and intimate feeling when you entered. The Stage seated an audience of 499, and it was inspired by the “horseshoe” shape of old Italian opera houses, which allowed eye contact with the actors and musicians onstage from any seat in the house. That detail was immediately apparent when we spotted Tamsen in the row of first violinists. She seemed only an arm-length distant for our own seats. I reasoned that this proximity would be a great help when listening to classical music. Even though I loved them, symphonies, concertos, and chamber music could sometimes relax me to the point of dozing off. “Zarzuelas” sounded Spanish, so I was hoping for a short program of Mediterranean, or well-heeled flamenco music to keep me alert. As we adjusted ourselves in the seats, I began paging through the oversized Notes included in the program. The first thing I noticed was the time.
“Oh no,” I moaned to myself, regressing into my former depression. “The first part is 45 minutes long!” This was going to be a 90-minute musical program with a 20 to 30-minute intermission thrown in. I wouldn’t be leaving Santa Monica until after 10 o’clock. I closed the program and sunk dejectedly into my seat. This evening was just getting worse and worse.

My mood lifted a bit when the orchestra finished tuning up and Plácido Domingo finally walked onto the stage to a rousing ovation. I had seen him on television many years ago, when he, José Carreras, and Luciano Pavarotti, performed as The Three Tenors. Of the three, Plácido always looked, and I thought sounded, the best. Despite his age, and recent ill health, he still looked impressive. Sporting a leonine mane and a trimmed grey beard, Plácido appeared every bit the pre-eminent “maestro” and Director of the L.A. Opera. Bowing to the audience, he then turned to greet the orchestra. The program began with a spirited version of Mozart’s “Overture” to Don Giovanni. Then, as I was settling back to enjoy more of the musical entertainment, an elegantly gowned young woman walked onto the stage and began singing “Einsam in Truben Tagen” from Wagner’s Lohengrin. I quickly reopened the program on my lap and carefully started reading the notes in the dim auditorium lighting. For the first time I realized that this was not an orchestral performance, but a vocal presentation of Opera Highlights and Zarzuela. “Of course,” I said to myself, mentally slapping my forehead. “This is the Los Angeles Opera Orchestra, being conducted by one of the world’s greatest tenors. I should have known!” I had always entertained the idea of hearing a live opera, and even asked Tamsen and Eddie to recommend one for me, but never followed through. Now here I was getting an incredible sampler. I settled down to listen and learn, glancing, occasionally, at the program notes to identify the songs and the operas.

Eddie always claimed that opera was “transformational.” Well the evening’s performance certainly had that effect on me. When mezzo-soprano, Erica Brookhyser, and soprano Valerie Vinzant sang “The Flower Duet”, from Lakmé by Delibes, I was transported out of my anger to a new place. The tender, lilting sounds of their intertwining voices made their words inconsequential, and my spirit soared with the music. I traveled with those blissful voices and imagined myself gazing at the becalmed Indus River, and the beautiful white jasmine and roses that flowered along its banks. I was emptied of all my wasteful annoyances and frustrations, because there was no room to harbor those dark thoughts while listening to that wondrous music. The First Act ended too soon, and intermission barely gave me enough time to devour the program and notes in preparation for the second. I learned that the vocal ensemble performing that evening were culminating students from the Domingo-Thornton Young Artists School, so the evening was a graduation of sorts. In the Second Part of the performance, I discovered that zarzuelas are the Spanish-language operas of Spain and Latin America and they differ from the Italian style and sound. Of the 11 songs performed, I especially enjoyed the “Romanza de Maria la O”, from Maria la O by Ernesto Lecuona. It had a swaying Spanish rhythm that I found enchanting and mysterious.

At the conclusion of a thunderous ovation and encore, I said goodbye to my family and walked the two short blocks to the Library parking lot. In the brisk, evening coolness of Santa Monica, buoyed by the lingering echoes of music and songs, I practically floated to my parking space, completely unaware of the events at the theatre. I learned later from Eddie, that after the concert, Tamsen took them backstage to meet the conductor. Even though my mother was a huge fan, she was not over-awed or speechless with her introduction to Plácido. In fact, she took advantage of the moment to grasp his hand and speak to him in Spanish, telling him how much she loved the performance. She also told him of an evening long ago when as a girl she heard a performance by his mother and father, who were singers. They had fled Spain during the Civil War, and together with Plácido, lived in Mexico City for many years. I like to think that my mom’s remarks enhanced the significance of the evening’s performance by reminding both the maestro and my mom of their youth in Mexico, and the wonderful connections they had with music.

Despite not having met Plácido Domingo, the evening was equally memorable for me, but for different reasons. It proved to be a classic example of how people allow their reaction to random events to govern their moods, and it demonstrated the power of opera to return us to our default spirit of bliss and wonderment. The Broad Stage parking lot being full was a fact. The restricted residential parking in Santa Monica was another. As was the shuttle parking at the Santa Monica Library, and the length of the musical program. All of these facts created delays and momentary barriers, but THEY did not have the power to direct my feelings or moods. Only I had the power to do that, and I CHOSE to be annoyed, then frustrated, then angry, and finally depressed. I could just as easily have let those inconveniences go and concentrated on the simple solutions to the factual problems at hand. Instead I empowered those facts to direct my moods and poison my feelings. I was captive to those spiraling feelings until I was rebooted by the saving sounds of human voices in song. I will never again mock Eddie’s belief in the transformative power of opera. The evening’s music saved me by seducing me from my depression, and reminding me that self-deception and despair cannot occupy the same space as beauty and truth. Anger and frustration could not co-exist with the joy created by “The Flower Duet”, “Maria la O”, and the other arias performed that night. I’ll have to meet Plácido on another occasion.