A TRIP HOME . . . sort of

Yesterday afternoon at 3:00 pm, LOST and the fam piled into the non descript, semi-Green family truckster, and departed from Dukester land, on the way to the Staples Center for some Pac-10 basketball. Yes, at least half of the crew had a heavy heart, as the fabled Bruins came out flat Thursday, got serious far too late and from too far back, yet still tied and fleetingly led a young and supposedly overmatched Cal team before chunking it in overtime. Our punishment was that the tickets were bought, we hadn't been to any games all season, and none of us had ever visited Staples before. Under the circumstances, you gotta go, so off we went.

Visiting the LA area is like a dash of sad nostalgia. After being out of there for almost as many years as LOST spent there growing up, there's enough recognizable about the place to seem familiar, but there's much more new, and not all that exciting about the place, too. The traffic on Friday afternoon is incredibly heavy, and it starts up before clearing Camp Pendleton. A brief respite is provided by the toll road, and one starts to think that, hell, with gas at almost 3.25 a gallon overnight, this extra 8.00 on top of that for a little commute sanity is singeing even bigger holes in the wallets of hapless commuters. Within 10 minutes give or take, we're back on the 405, however, and it crawls to the 605 at a once thought to be the exclusive province of arthritic snails on Summer holiday in Vegas.

By this time, our electronic umbilical with San Diego has been cut, and we're forced to tune into LA radio. Holy crap, the time travel feeling has begun in earnest. Not only is KLOS still on the air, but that's "Joe Benson" on the DJ mike, and yep, every frigging song is at least 20 years old plus. Somebody still plays Robin Trower and Led Zeppelin back to back. Do they need to use LPs for that?

We reach the 605 N, and at this point at least 405 has loosened a tad, so that the decision is not easy. Lost goes for familiarity and opts for the first freeway ever driven on, in large part because the passengers have spoken up about a potty break, and LOST knows where the best spots to "rest" can be found. At least LOST thought so.

The 605 corridor - for years - was flanked on the west side by a miles long regional park facility. A beautifully surreal place full of green belts, sidewalks, young but growing trees offering a variety of rec opportunities to those packed tightly into their tract life existence. The park is either completely gone or greatly diminshed, replaced with mid and larger box store malls and signposted with equally gaudy stucco and electric logos shouting out locations indiscriminately to all passersby. LOST doesn't need to pee, but and Advil would feel good about now, two hours ten into the trip, and not quite to Cerritos, the hoped for pee stop.

South Street doesn't disappoint - much. It has more development - built all the way to road's edge, but there's a Carls Jr. Home of the big *ss sodas and 1,100 calorie "six dollar burger." We stop for drinks and for the rest break. The drinks are really a ruse for covering in case there's a coin box on the pay toilet.
There wasn't. Maybe there should have been.

The rest room is a study in graffiti etching. Virtually every non-tile surface has carved, gothic style and barely legible graffiti lettering (are those words) carved into it. The room does not smell bad, nor does it have mildew or any of the other tell-tale signs of fast food neglect, but the graffiti level is stupefying. LOST then ventures out to fill the big *ss soda cup, and takes a good look around. Nearly every patron in the place - and half the staff behind the counter - are grossly overweight. Think of every circular metaphor that comes to mind, they're all represented. Some are young couples with little kids. This is their Friday night outing. LOST spies an upscale looking Asian eatery across South Street. There's were the "haves" are going to dinner in this neck tonight.

Back in the car, and only 45 minutes to tip off. TIme should not be a problem, 'cause its less than 20 miles from here, right? The first sign of trouble is that Joe Benson comes on the air to report a grave tragedy for lovers of Rock everywhere. Brad Delp, the girly throated lead singer of "Boston," a group so old it takes 10 minutes of the commute to explain to the little LOSTs who they were/are, has died of "an accident." The traffic slows to a crawl as if in sponaneous expression of grief. What's next? Will Foreigner and Styx join Scientology and quit touring the Tribal casino circuit? LOST shudders.

It is now 5:50, downtown's skyline has been glimpsed from the Harbor northbound a couple of times - letting us know it's painfully close, and yet we'll never make the tip off. Joe Benson has launched into a "tribute" to Boston's Delp, playing all of the songs that we all played in High School so many times that we wore white streaks into the LPs. We're astride U$C now, and its apparent that it's recently-opened Galen Center has taken the school literally to the edge of the Harbor Freeway. The building's facade is beautiful - it looks like it could be beamed over to the Southern Strip, and dropped in neatly between Luxor and Mandalay Bay and not have a hair out of place. Still, it stares persistently toward the east side of the freeway, and its blighted, old, bleach-white warehouses and former hubs of commerce which seem lifeless. Good a time as any to re-acquaint the little LOSTs with LA's demographic - drive one or two blocks in any direction and you'll encounter great affluence nestled next to extreme poverty.

We exit on Adams and drive Figueroa to the Staples grounds. Its beyond twilight now, and at this darkening hour even South downtown looks a bit charming. The neon purple and red glow of Staples beckons like some "Gentlemen's Club" mecca in the wasteland; still it takes a couple of circumnavigations to find an entrance into a parking lot. LOST opts for the only open one accessible, 30 bucks with a short walk across the street to the arena. We're in, and its only 4 minutes into the ball game. That's okay, because 3 thousand of our closest friends are still filing in as well - decked out in their maroon and yellow togs.

Staples is beautiful as arenas go. Clean beyond its 7 - 8 year existence. expansive. Generally comfortable, yet all the while a study in the economic stratification that the country has become. One "end zone" section is dominated by what appears to be an opulent dining experience. The twin floors of dimly lit "bordello suites" whisper tauntingly to the proletarians in the crowd, "you're not worthy." Even the concession stands have an air of sorts about them. Its not from the people working behind the counters, they're very friendly, and they're keeping the lines moving. As seems so typical any more, these workers are, aside from the participants on the game floor, among the most deeply pigmented in the facility. Considering where the arena is located, the crowd watching is overwhelmingly causcasian, and LOST cannot help notice how many are overwhlemingly tanked. Then it hits - the Concession-air is reflected in the menu board. This many young white kids (okay, Mrs. LOST is right, guys) are smashed off their asses, and they're drinking beers that cost them 9 - 10 bucks a throw. Each one of these damn beers costs more than an hour of wage time for the work force behind the counter. Something's out of round there, right?

Well the games go the way one might expect. The plucky Cal Bears - the team that did in the beloved Bruins, have made it close a couple of times, but have demonstrated that basketball is not a game where even young men can keep their game intensity for 3 nights in a row. They bow to the Oregon Ducks and their 5-6 point guard in the opener. We spend the game sitting with friends who have made the trip we did, but who did so in grand fashion. Staying downtown, tickets for the whole tournament, but stunned by the opening round blunder of the Bruins. Still they're basketball fans and they're studying the games, watching and learning and marveling from the display on the court. We must excuse ourselves and slink back upstairs, as the late arriving Trojan crowd - - too important to be bothered by the indignity of watching the opening game, have started to arrive and demand their courtside seats.

The hated Trojans, playing a few blocks away from home, are energized by this and spend 35 minutes toying with a slower, more methodical but clearly overmatched Cougar team from Washington State. We're up and joining that traditional LA spectator sport - leaving early. We've made it to the last minute though, so bully for us. A quick pit stop in the mens room (oops, next time pick a stall where the last occupant wasn't hurriedly striving to give back all that he consumed here tonight) and we're off to the friendly confines.

The trip home is easy on the freeway (Mrs. LOST was paranoid about the trek down San Pedro Street, and admittedly breathing easier once we were on 10 East) smooth and once again surreal. For at 11:30 pm, it finally hits LOST that the smoky-deep, nasally, ancient voice on the radio is that of Jim Ladd, the once and future king of FM radio in Los Angeles - whom LOST thought of as old in the mid 1970s. Jim Ladd is on KLOS and taking requests off of "My Space." Same old voice, new technology, same old Bob Seger.