Feb 14, 2009
I may pride myself on having the ability to live within my means; John Paul Getty's means had no limits. Wanting travertine marble to clad his Museum he bought 5 Italian Quarries and hired the men to carve the blocks with which the Centre is built. Even if you have no interest in art, architecture or gardening a visit to the Getty is worth it simply for the view. Today was another in which I made no attempt at photography—some things just have to be seen. The views of the Pacific, Los Angeles, and the Pacific coastline are truly panoramic. If it cost a billion dollars to build the Getty Centre there are single art works inside it that are worth 8 figures. The gardens outside are a living work of art. The mile long automated tramway that takes one up to the heights is a engineering marvel all by itself.
My day began with the thunder of planes taking off from LAX. Kind of hard for even the Pacific Ocean to compete with that. Upon leaving I found my way to Venice Beach but when I discovered the beach parking kiosk I decided it wasn't worth the cost. I've seem more than a few beaches and I doubted any self-respecting bodybuilder was out at 8:00 AM at 44º F. After a few miles of commercial strip that offered no ocean views I took the expressways to drive up to the Getty. After the Getty I drove up to Malibu and discovered that my chosen Park gave me an eagle's eye view of Dan Blocker Beach within sight and sound but not the spray of the surf.
Sunday morning I drove up to see another local icon in Simi Valley—The Ronald Regan Presidential Library. Not sure what a copy of the Magna Carta stored at Fort Knox for safe-keeping during World War II has to do with Reagan but there it is. The Library truly is a reflection of the man himself. There he is in his high school football uniform, pictured in his riding chaps, his saddles on display, his B-movie career though I didn't notice Bonzo. I gagged at a nearly life-sized Buddy-Buddy pic of he and Mulroney on the way to see Air Force One. Compared to a 747 a 707 looks tiny. One of its Pratt and Whitney Engines is on display along with the official motorcaide car, police escort vehicle, and two motorcycle outriders. The 707 cockpit looks cramped for a crew of four—the spare crew rear-ward would have been much more comfortable. The fax machine meets one on the way in. The Presidential suite and that of the First Lady come next. Two cryptographs and the 'football' are on the other side of the plane. A conference room for guests is followed by the spare crew quarters, the secret service and strategically behind them the press. One washroom forward and two back. The IBM Selectric typewriter strikes an anachronistic note. The trademark jelly beans are not omitted. The plane sits on pedestals on its landing gear—tires rated at 256 mph.
Along with all the kitsch inside are a mock-up of the oval office and signs of bragging rights as a diplomat. Outside in a quiet corner overlooking the valley is Reagan's final resting place and nearby a piece of the Berlin Wall, a ¾ sized replica of the White House Rose Garden and an F-14 Tomkat. A less cloudy, hazy day would have improved the view of Simi Valley.
For a working-class contrasting view I put in a call to the friend of a friend from the Reagan security desk—the one pay phone was out of order. The modest home on a quiet street had a substantial steel screen door and a decent backyard with 'victory garden' and fruit-laden orange tree. Inside a natural gas stove and laundry room in the garage—a thing that is possible where there are never freezing temperatures. Just how many Americans are saddled with a mortgage whose value is greater than that of their home I'd hate to contemplate. The ride back through Malibu Canyon's twisting narrow lanes in the dark made me thankful that traffic was light and the rain held off.
When I awoke to driving rain the next day and further learned of all the roads that were closed staying put seemed the prudent thing to do. Rather than catch up on my blogging I set to work at installing software on my computer.
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