L.A., Cittá Chiusa

Rachel M. Resnick L.A., Cittá Chiusa You're walking in LA, not far, because it's not cool to walk in LA, just from the Blue Ribbon Coin-Op Laundromat in the Lucky Plaza to LA Conversation for a cappuccino and a scone, except they're out of scones because yesterday was New Year's Day and people bought more than the bakery expected, but you remember expectations are planned disappointments so you don't lose it, you calmly order a sugary almond croissant instead and guess that you were meant to indulge in a sugar high, and you note even the Sunday "New York Times" today said fewer Americans than ever made New Year's resolutions to quit smoking or eat better, finally fed up with the healthy, acetic, fitness-crazed life they've been trying vainly to follow for the last decade and it's just made most of them madder than ever because nothing changed for them, didn't you just see a bumper sticker this morning that said: EAT HEALTHY, GET FIT, AND STILL DIE? So you, wanting to be a good American, wanting to be hip, wanting to be part of the pulse, wanting to be part of, and wanting an excuse to indulge anyway, order that sugary almond croissant and a regular double cappuccino , and you try not to think about your four loads of laundry tumbling in the washers a block away echoing your own internal misgivings about the New Year and life in general because, damnit, you've got those holiday blues, and you're wondering what the hell the point of it all is anyway, and why every time the holidays roll around you're not happy or festive or light at all, ever, the holidays are a big happy hand pressing down on your head making you want to disappear into the ground, but then you're walking back to the Blue Ribbon and you notice on your left something hanging from a clothesline stretched between the traffic light on the corner and a tree; it's not a pair ofshoes, like you see tossed over phone lines to advertise a drug deal rendezvous , no, it's smaller, and on closer inspection—because you veer off from the crosswalk and approach the clothesline—you see it's tiny wooden cross, and lo, behold that tree on the right is wrapped round with three strands of tinsel—blue and gold and silver—looking a little ragged like tinsel with mange, and there's a flattened-out card of half a Santa face, (the other half's torn off), but the greeting "Merry Christmas" is still intact, all this is taped onto the trunk; and there's more: set up on the balding grass below at the base of the tree is a tiny gift-wrapped-box, open-ended on both sides, and next to it a flattened out box that reads: 7-PC. POLYSTONE ???G??? SET, YUSHA COLLECTION , MADE IN CHINA, Sl-IOOl, ETERNAL FAITH, ETERNAL HOPE, ETERNAL LOVE, but the gift-wrapped box which is shaped 16 the minnesota review like a manger is empty of the nativity scene, hollow and dark, and there's a pile of dog shit nearby that you avoid even though in Italy stepping on dog shit is good luck and there they have spontaneous shrines on the streets, with tiny soda bottles ofcarefully arranged flowers , gilded framed icons hung or leaned just so, burnt candles waxing nostalgic over the ancient stone shelves, so you kneel down in front of this shabby urban shrine, this American antidote to anomie and apathy , this open-air answer to Macy's Christmas windows, all the more charming because it's not announced, it's not streamlined. This streetcorner makeshift Christmas shrine is the gritty, grimy soil-stained garbage-gilded Hand of the Urban God right here in front of you, and before you even know it, before your canny clever eyes-peeled urban self even gets a bead on you own brain, despite you and all your holiday funk and family junk and clankety cynicism that's weighing you down, yes, hallelujah, before you can even STOP...