The Passing of the Bungalows, and: Close to Home, and: Ballade of Hank's Bar
- The Passing of the Bungalows, and: Close to Home, and: Ballade of Hank's Bar
THE PASSING OF THE BUNGALOWS
The bungalow courts extended at least a touch of 'casual California living' even to the poor.
—Robert Winter, The California Bungalow
They held their courts from here to Pasadena,not in regalia but in plainer clothes,withholding judgment on our misdemeanors,warm, down-to-earth, arrayed in close-knit rows—no hint of hauteur to these Swiss chalets,these beaming Tudors, Spanish hideawaysthat dignified us with lagniappes of style:crown molding, copper awning, clinker tile.Fair bungalows, now your dominion comesto closure. I watch swaths of you demolishedin favor of the featureless and polishedplutocracy of condominiums.Your bold agaves, fierce, protective aloeslay down their spears beside the realtors' gallows. [End Page 11]
CLOSE TO HOME
The dingbat typifies Los Angeles apartment building architecture at its worst.
—Leonard and Dale Pitt, Los Angeles A to Z
Some years ago I learned they call them "dingbats,"these proud but shambly veterans at rest,who lean on carport columns as on muskets,one tarnished decoration on each chest—a rust-red star or an abraded crest.
An ugly name. It makes me feel indignanton their behalf: Haven't they done their bestto serve with honor? Can they not be trustedto guard the tempest-tossed, the dispossessed,the migratory species of the West?
Their rooms, unfurnished, furnish everything thatwe birds of paradise require for a nest.So what if half the cabinets are busted,the front door warped, the carpeting distressed?Fly free. They will not hold you. You're their guest. [End Page 12]
BALLADE OF HANK'S BAR
The narrow bar—a few booths and 14 stools—is attached to the 80-year-old Stillwell Hotel.
—Los Angeles Times
Remember the wobbly barstool? The pleatheras red as the sore on what's-her-name's lip?And how she would curl that lip wheneveryou'd slide her a couple of coins for a tip?Where is the tumbler of bourbon you'd sip?Where's its amigo, the Mexican beer—Pacifico, wasn't it? Down with the ship…Sunk are the dives of yesteryear.
Where are the Stillwell's transient residents?The gap-toothed cook, ready to brawl?The queenly lush? We'd watch her hesitantsteps through the lobby, afraid she'd falland just as afraid she'd outlive us all…Who'll nurse her sherry, turn a deaf earto bangs and whimpers, even last call?Sunk are the dives of yesteryear.
Where are their faces of "Silly Putty"?Their exhalations of acetone?And where are you, my boozy buddy—hanged or banished, like poor Villon?Too far gone to pick up the phone?I always knew you would disappear,leave me to settle the tab alone…Sunk are the dives of yesteryear. [End Page 13]
Somewhere, somewhere the bars are openand cheap as dirt, or so I hear…You feeling no pain? Here's hoping…But sunk are the dives of yesteryear. [End Page 14]
boris dralyuk is editor in chief of the Los Angeles Review of Books and translator of Isaac Babel, Mikhail Zoshchenko, and other authors. His poems have appeared in The New York Review of Books, The Hopkins Review, The New Criterion, and elsewhere. His collection My Hollywood and Other Poems is forthcoming in April 2022.
