Venice Under Siege

Coming back to Venice on a bus from Santa Monica, where I had just finished hanging my photographs at the 17th Cafe, had taken an ugly turn. The traffic began to bind up, nothing was moving, and I decided it might be faster to walk. Getting back to Breeze Ave. took some time, and not until I turned on the tube, did I understand the cause. This all had started as I was out in the Southwest, insulated from the happenings in my City. Myself and Rip, had been attending the Action Committee meetings regularly, and had gotten to know some of the Police who worked the beach. As I returned to town, I ran into Kelly Shea, the lead sergeant for the Ocean Front. It seemed, as I was off drifting around the desert, there had been a beating. Kelly was upset, she felt all her hard work, helping the poor, the homeless of this town, was in vain. She had worked hard to build trust with everyone on the beach, and it had all gone out the door. Kelly was not your Common Cop, not one to hassle the locals, she had empathy for the down and out. Often I had wondered why she was so sensitive to the plight of the people on this beach front. She knew everything had changed! On the news, I watched, as a man was pulled from his truck and beaten in the streets of South LA. It was on, an answer to what had taken place almost a year and two months before. This was the beginning of what would lock down an entire city. That Wednesday night, the city burned. By Friday, the National Guard deployed there forces, in the “Pit of Death”, the old Pavilion in Venice, on the beach. The Pavilion got its name, not so much from any murders, that may or may not of taken place, but because of a Community Mural Project, that was tagged extensively the night before it was to be dedicated. After George and I wrapped up our time in the Southwest in “91″, he had come back with me to Venice. When he saw this Pavilion, his first question was who designed this eyesore? Did they bring the man out who designed the New York Subways? He couldn’t understand why anyone would build something that so completely blocked the ocean view. Attempts were made, over the years to remove this monstrosity, but they always fell short. Any attempt marked certain Political death for any Politico involved. Alcohol had been a problem on the Ocean Front. We had an old guy in Venice, a man who had lived here for years. He had been sick with cancer, had surgery, and was given a bag. I remember Debbie, A very caring woman, was trying to provide a good end to this mans life. This man Bob, liked to drink, he liked it a lot. Debbie would always be there for him, to pick him up, but when he wanted to be drunk, she could do nothing. He would get a little bit bitter, a little bit mean, and would send it all in her direction. He would set a chair, centered on the Boardwalk at Brooks, and get hammered on his drink of choice, “Tangerine Cisco”. With that bag, the police wanted nothing to do with him. By this time, Kelly had left the beach. The Cops didn’t want him in there cars, they didn’t want him in there jail. Debbie could do nothing with him when he got his groove on, and the Cops just left him to do his thing. He became more and more out of control, I believe just screaming for some help. It was so sad, he was dying a slow death, with little dignity. The Police came up with a plan, they did care what was to become of him. They moved him to the South side of the Pavilion by there Sub Station, gave him an LAPD baseball cap, told him now he was one of them. They gave him some purpose for the end of his life. They got him off the booze, provided him some care, they rescued his pride. It was an amazing thing, when the Army came to town. There was Bob, front and center, directing the whole operation. The Solders had arrived on Friday, mid morning, and by Saturday morning, there backs were to the sea. The city had been burning for a couple of days, and they were not going to let anyone burn down the sand. This seemed really strange, they shut down everything, from the boardwalk, (actually asphalt) to the sea. The Troops, even thought this was very strange, as there was nothing to burn here, told us they had to follow orders. They were very uncomfortable with holding guns on there own people, and they told us so. A throw back to the Sixties, girls were stuffing flowers in there barrels, we saw Soldiers feeding pigeons. These men were brought in from up north, mostly country boys. It was Saturday, and Venice, is Venice, always a party on the weekend. Always a resilient community, the party moved to Speedway, the alley that ran behind the shops on the Ocean Front. Thousands of people that weekend came to town, everyone wanting a break from the tension that had its grip on the city. No different from any other weekend, but for the lack of an ocean view. There was no swimming in Venice, but anyone who had any sense, didn’t swim in Venice anyhow. If you wanted to swim in the ocean, you could walk North on Speedway, passing by the Vendors set up in the alley, to the Santa Monica line. At the border, across the beach, Soldiers stood, shoulder to shoulder, rifles in hand, guarding the Sands of Venice