Christopher Farnsworth's Blog, page 12

Weapons-Grade Nostalgia, Cont.

In college, I thought of myself as an environmentalist. I gave money to Greenpeace, subscribed to the Earth First! newsletter, organized rallies, wrote letters, all the usual crap. Then, while I was reading Edward Abbey's Monkey Wrench Gang for the seventh or eighth time, I got to the parts where he talked about the blight of hotel signs and billboards across the Arizona desert.

I had an uncomfortable realization that the signs Abbey wanted torn down were, in fact, some of my favorite things. The mid-century designs, the bold fonts and crisp, sharp lines embodied, for me, a spirit of endless optimism, faith in progress and atomic power and science. I knew enough to know that none of it was really true — I don't think anyone would argue that napalm is the way to make the world more beautiful, or that radiation from Chernobyl was a healthy additive to children's milk — but it was an ideal I loved, born of science fiction and comic books and a belief in the future. I still wanted the jetpacks and steak-in-a-pill and flying cars. All environmentalism promised was gathering weeds for dinner while wearing hemp.

I thought about this when I saw those signs Abbey hated at Modern Phoenix, which documents how far Van Buren Street has fallen since the days of the Space Race and the New Frontier. Back then, it was a modern miracle that people could enjoy air conditioning in the Arizona summer.

By the 70s, the interstate had passed Van Buren by, and Van Buren became synonymous with hookers, drug dealers and a limited life expectancy, a reputation it still enjoys today. When I wrote for Phoenix New Times, I covered the story of a man who'd killed a motel clerk on Van Buren in 1974, only to become a preacher before being dragged back to face what he'd done.

Still, it's possible to look at the artifacts from those long-ago days on Van Buren and see a better world, even if it was just a mirage.

For a long time, I've defined nostalgia as having fond memories of a time that never existed. It can be dangerous: it's like a drug that clouds the mind and blinds the user to the real world, an injection of metaphor that cocoons its addicts in illusion. But it can also reveal our dreams: those hopes that once sustained us and built cities in the middle of blistering desert heat.

Maybe we cannot live in that future, but we can still dream of it. And maybe that dream can inspire us to build something better where the crack houses and cheap motels have colonized the sites of our old tomorrows.

(All photos from Modern Phoenix. Found via BoingBoing.)

Weapons-Grade Nostalgia

My stepfather must throw some things away. I've just never actually seen it happen. Sometimes this is bad — when I first visited  his cabin in McCall, my brother and I found condiments in the fridge from the 70s. And sometimes it's actually wonderful: we also found his antique hi-fi system, which had a dial-a-record system built into the fake-wood-paneling complete with Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights.

So, now that my parents have the dismantled the bar in their home, it's no surprise that there are plenty of hidden treasures falling out of its dusty corners. Case in point:

Tahiti Joe Pomegranate Grenadine Syrup, a product from the good people at the Tahiti Joe Company of Los Angeles, California. No date on this, but the $1.39 price tag puts it several decades back. I love the cool couple in their Hawaiian outfits enjoying their drinks.

But this was the real find:

My stepfather's dad owned an airport in Pacoima, back in the day. Which included a stadium and race track. These bottle toppers were plastic and custom-made for the bottles at the airport bar. Click on the larger version and you'll see how the car spells out "Whiteman Stadium."

My stepfather, as a young pilot, used to shuttle movie stars — real movie stars, like John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, not the low-grade imitations we're stuck with today — in and out of the airport for his dad. I like to imagine they would knock back a pre-flight cocktail or two, maybe with Tahiti Joe's syrup if they noticed the unusual label. And off came the tiny little bottle caps with the gold logo, and the drinking began.

I literally cannot imagine anyone today spending that kind of time and effort on what is, admittedly, pointless background detail. And it's our loss.

Some Losses

Sometimes the holidays can seem a little dark. Maybe it's the long nights catching up to all of us, but I think it has more to do with the contrasts. We put such great pressure on these days to be so bright and perfect that the regular blemishes of our lives stand out even more.

As a result, the genuine losses can seem so much deeper and more painful in this context. I am lucky, this year as always, that I've been given a respite from such pains, that I'm surrounded by so much. It seems worth mentioning the inspirations I've lost, along with the rest of the world, in the past few days. More importantly, it's worth remembering the brightness each life carries, so that we can use it to keep ourselves warm in the cold places.

Christopher Hitchens was a man who could enrage me and entertain me, often at the same time. The Web is crawling with eulogies from those who knew him and those who didn't. (In Hitchens' spirit of argument, I offer one from his friend Christopher Buckley, and one from his former friend Alexander Cockburn.) I can only say I am sad that I will never again get to read a new Hitchens piece.  He was one of the best writers we had.

While Hitchens was a great writer, Vaclav Havel truly changed the world. He proved that a man could win against the grinding and crushing gears of a totalitarian regime armed with little more than grace and poetry. When everyone my age wanted to go to Prague, this was the guy we wanted to be. I have this same dog-eared copy of Esquire, and I read it from time to time when I need advice. Havel's is especially powerful: "Never hope against hope."

Joe Simon helped create Captain America. 'Nuff said.

And Eduardo Barreto, a great artist who drew the hell out of a lot of comics, passed last week as well.

I didn't know any of these men. But I will miss them all.

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