Yesterday, I talked a little bit about downtown L.A. It borders on weird, because of the architecture and the schizophrenic quality of it. And everything seems weirder when the sun is blazing down–the balmy weather somehow backfires in L.A., and gives everything a slightly dystopian feel. At least to my grumpy New York eyes. But some things are stranger than others.
That honor is reserved for the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I first read about this place in 1994, in a fabulously disorienting article in Harper’s by Lawrence Weschler; it still stands out as one of the best pieces of art criticism I’ve read. (I will violate all kinds of copyright laws by posting it here, until someone tells me not to. Really, you should read it.) I’ve loved Weschler ever since, and of course hankered to visit the museum.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t recreate Weschler’s experience, of walking into the place cold–I know too much. But I was surprised at just how much the exhibits could pull me in, even though I know their conceit. I spent an hour believing/not believing, and could have spent hours more.
Last fall, I saw David Wilson speak, and he presented a couple of the newer exhibits at the museum. At the time, I fell asleep. But in the context of the museum, with Wilson fully out of the way (behind some curtain somewhere, most likely), the strange Soviet science business and the ponderous films actually all worked together, and I was properly mesmerized.
Alas, I did not have time to enjoy tea and cookies in the salon upstairs. If you go, have some for me.
We also stopped by Watts Towers, which I somehow have never seen. I thought they were bigger. The fact that they’re kind of small makes them all the odder. And I didn’t realize how intricate the metal structures were. Nor that the guy had skipped town and never came back to revisit the place, even when the city got to arguing about the towers’ fate, before he even died.
In other weirdness, I much enjoyed the fact that the counter ladies at the China Cafe in the Grand Central Market (another downtown attraction) all spoke Spanish, and that the bulk-chile-and-beans vendors all seemed to be Chinese.
While I was snapping photos, some guys chatted me up (with the flawless opening line, “Take a picture of this guy–he’s a criminal!”) and made me realize how much I miss hearing the northern Mexican accent in New York. We have Mexicans now, and some of them even live in Astoria, but even they don’t really speak with that same just-over-the-border cadence. Raul and Martin congratulated me for taking the time to slow down and talk to them, even though I was one of those fast-moving New Yorkers. Then I actually had to say, “Gotta go–I hear my mom calling!”
I’ll get into the L.A. food stuff in the next post…