A Grove Full of Bad Apples

When a neighborhood or location starts to rot, you can actually see it happening. I watched it happen to my hometown of Mount Vernon, New York, where the powers-that-be turned a blind eye to an influx of "negative" types and then wondered years later why their beloved city of homes was nothing more than a bunch of dilipated shacks. It is going against the grain to say the words, but we ALL think them, regardless of how liberal and accommodating we can be as human beings. There is race and ethnicity that become factors in such a downgrading. I did not invent the concept. It was created centuries ago. I am not proud thinking so. But, I cannot argue with the facts that are validated over and over and over again.

Such is the case with the Grove at the Farmer's Market in Los Angeles. Even out-of-towners know about the legendary Farmer's Market which was built in the 30s---a wonderful open air collection of nifty shops and food stands sporting cuisine from every possible country imaginable. When I have walked through there during the day, you'll see older and younger people all hunched over breakfast. And you just have this sense that these folks show up there for waffles and bacon every single day. I am always amazed at how communal it all is.

But, of course, in this world of constant modernization from the "Can't Leave Well Enough Alone" department, half of the market was razed for the construction of what is now known as an entertainment center called the Grove. Ironically, it was named after the orchard that once stood on the property. When this was erected a few years back, most denizens of the environs were appalled at the notion. The traffic, both car and foot, would be significantly increased in the neighborhood. The market itself should not be touched as it was a landmark. Etc., etc., etc.. Nevertheless, the hue and cry went down as fast as the orchard trees and most people took the result to heart.

And so did I. Indeed, the Grove even became a must-see stop on all the tours I gave to visiting friends. The place is a bunch of stores, anchored by Nordstroms, which is one of the last civilized department outlets around. You get a host of chain restaurants, a big multiplex theater, and a Barnes and Noble for browsing. There is a big dancing fountain in the middle of it all with a courtyard for musical concerts. A trolley runs from one end of the complex to the other. It is all made to look like Main Street at Disneyland. The only ones missing are Goofy and Pluto. At Christmastime, there is a huge tree and regular eruptions of "snow." While every one of my subsequent visits makes me see the artificiality of it all more and more, it still has always been a nice place to spend an evening.

Until last Saturday night.

It should be all so simple. Going to eat and then seeing "The Mist." I got the eerie sense as soon as I pulled into the parking garage. The drivers seemed to be a bit more brazen as they searched for the rare parking space. An aura of ugliness was apparent there and in the elevator down to the ground floor. It looked like an open call for the Fairfax HS production of "West Side Story." And "Flower Drum Song." And "Porgy and Bess." More importantly, there were a lot of younger folks there and they looked to be up to no good. It was almost gang-like, except, in lieu of knives, they would be attacking each other with their WiFi equipment.

Into the theater went the same element. Talking through the movie. Cell phones ringing. Black Berry screens shining out from row to row. It was one of the worst nights I ever spent in a cinema. And, given some of my college dating experiences, that's going some. I looked around outside for any evidences of increased security. The only one I could find was the old guy who was clanging the bell of the trolley.

This is what happened to the Westwood-UCLA area in the 80s when a gang fight resulted in murder and people stayed away for years. This is what happened to the Beverly Center shopping mall which was ruined by busloads of folks from the outer areas of LA who regularly conducted master classes in shoplifting and robbery.

I feel like somewhere there is a newsletter that goes out to troublemakers. They list the latest places that nice, well-meaning people like to frequent. And that is the open engraved invitation for them to come and ruin it for everybody.

Reluctantly, I now cross off the Grove as one of the places I can freely enjoy. Ironically, Saturday night was one of those chilly Southern California nights where the previous day's rain had rendered the skies around as crystal clear. The view from the eighth floor of the parking garage encompassed Los Angeles in all its tinsely glory. I reveled in it one more time.

With a nagging sense of finality.

Dinner last night: Grilled bratwurst sandwich.