The Truth Los Angeles


JIMBO TIMES is getting better.

This is not hyperbole. Check out the makeover for previous posts, to be sure.

In MacArthur Park is Critical to Los Angeles, what was originally just a few pictures of photo-walking through the park is now a three-hundred word personal history of the location. As such, the affinity for MacArthur which the photographs alone merely indicate becomes punctuated by intimate memories of just how the park contains L.A. Stories.

In From One Small Business to the Next, the writing is simply revised in the manner that most writing needs to have done eventually. With the writing of JT, as with any other challenge in my life, the more time and space I have from it, the better I’m able to reflect on just how I can approach it to make the necessary improvements.

Finally, In Los Angeles Is Better for Its Graffiti, I make another overdue statement regarding the content. I originally took the photographs of the post when I was not only just getting started with my Canon 5D camera and its 50 MM 1.4 lens, but at the same time that I was just getting to know Photoshop too. Therefore, the pictures are a little goofy, if you will, but I take no loss in admitting the fact of it. On the contrary, what I find most important about the photographs is that even years after first taking them, I’m still able to recount in them the ideas I wanted to convey to viewers with them.

In the days ahead, I am revising more and more of the site in this fashion in order to polish each dedication to L.A. and the people who make it go. I hope readers enjoy the process. I know I’m certainly doing so.

There is also more POC Today on the way,


Next Stop: Los Angeles

I can see myself getting closer and closer to my love, but it is not quite all a road of roses. There are moments in each day that I find myself taking more distance from many of the people who I once thought could understand this love, but now I understand that we just see it on different terms. Such a difference is nevertheless a matter of arriving. I am nearing my destination, which naturally means the distance is closing from the object of my journey at the same time that it’s growing from where and with whom I began.

This is a tragic love affair; the affinity I feel for the movement of Los Angeles is endless; I can only try to explain.

I love the bus in Los Angeles, but it’s part of a triangle, because there are days when I love the rail lines even more. They are far from world class services, and they will probably always be doomed to mediocrity, but it doesn’t matter to me. They are the first buses and rail lines I ever rode and for that I am a lifetime subscriber.

On the bus when seating is available I dash at the opportunity to sit at the best seat; that is, the one where I can see the city from the most points of view. If such seating isn’t available, however, then I just don’t sit. And there are moments when even if I’ve got the best seat, if there’s a Señorita or their toddler who could use the seat better, I take pride in handing it off to them.

I couldn’t lose even if I wanted to; it happens that I also love standing on the bus as if it were a giant board surfing through L.A.’s crumbling concrete, which also makes for a great view.

Los Angeles; Metro 04 bus heading East to DTLA

On the rail lines the seats are more critical. To some degree it depends on which line I’m on and how far I’m going that determines whether or not the seat is especially important, but even then I love standing on the rail lines, too; my feet synchronize with the swaying of the car and the line altogether. We do not fear the trafficked roads of the city. We are the bullets daring enough to make our own riveting course through the city.

And we see more of the city than the other way around.

But then, the sidewalks are the best. I’m entranced with walking through L.A.’s neglected sidewalks. I bask in standing at their corners, where I can confront the city’s movement more blithely, and I take pride in being the first to set foot on the crosswalks when the lights finally permit.

And while I am not a religious Angeleno, when I walk towards or walk past the paletero man or the little ladies with the tamales on the sidewalks I privately worship them. We don’t have to say anything to each other, I just know immediately that they came from far away places to bless me with their food and their snacks and the sweetness with which they prepare and provide these things not just to myself but also the rest of the pueblo. I am selfish, however. I’ve got to let them know I appreciate them the most and that I won’t ever stop doing so and that if there was more I could do then of course, por supuesto.

I could never care for Jacob or Matthew or James, but I could care far too quickly for Don Jose and Doña Maria and their mija la Vanessa y el hermanito el Carlitos. They are the reasons Los Angeles is not a concrete jungle; in the jungle the birds have to hunt their prey and be hunted. In Los Angeles the pajaritos simply stand with dignity before their carts and practically give the food away.

What did I do to deserve this?

God bless America for Los Angeles, y que la Santa María bendiga a México y España anterior por El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora La Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula. And may every God worshiped by every indigenous people in Los Angeles before any state claimed it bless those people still.

In each period, those who came before me just kept Los Angeles warm for me. I know this in my heart. I do not always like knowing it, and there are days when I choose to reject it. But the truth is there is no magic nor reel nor any image like the one that floats through my eyes when I take my time through Los Angeles.

It reverberates in my veins, and in each new step I take through it there is somehow more life than in the last. I don’t know quite how this is supposed to work, or just where it ends. In any case it’s too late to look back now.

We are getting closer Los Angeles.


To Every Woman,

Known to Jimbo Times, and every woman not.

I believe you.

Throughout so many days spent watching and listening to the stories of so many whose voices have gone unheard for so long, I’ve come to learn that if there’s an appropriate response from my part, that the response is made up of three simple words to begin with:

I believe you.

From there I wish I knew more about just what should be in order, that is, in order to honor the voices further and not just in the moment. But the truth is that I’m still learning.

I know very little, and I believe that might be the point of much of what I’ve come to learn, but even the little that I know may matter more than I would like to think.

The fact is that I don’t just believe I’ve been complicit in treating many of the women in my life unfairly, but that I know I’ve also been responsible in the act of silencing them.

The fact is also that it’s been incredibly easy for me to push and push again at the thought of having to come to terms with just how much these actions may have hurt them. Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that it all broke even because at one point I was hurt too, but I know now that that’s not enough.

There is another fact, and it’s that I’ve had time to reflect on my mistakes, and time to learn from them.

Now I try my best to take each day with these feelings close to me, so that I might be a better person, and so that I might even be of support for others out there.

But I can also see that it’s not just about myself anymore; it’s about the other there.

I see you.

I believe you.

And I’m thankful for you.