Thick, multilane freeways bridge the neighborhoods that used to be one great expanse of arid wilderness. Inglewood, a black enclave with middle class pride, sits on the west end of I-10, which takes us to San Gabriel Valley on the eastern border. Beige strip malls, a typical Southern Californian sight, speak a different tongue. The letters are all red and supposedly lucky. LA boasts a variegated palette of groups and subgroups. Often strange partnerships sprout from common desire—make money, live a good life.
The city might seem like it's been put together by million hands with no head, but the jenga land has been holding up pretty well. The birth of the city remains a myth. There are not that many records of its infancy. Its extraordinary metabolism led to a growth so rapid that no system or order could catch up to it. Navigating through this land is a challenge. Hence, the metallic prostheses we don every day, just to be where we need to be. Look around, and you’ll see where we wash them, fuel them, and store them overnight. They are precious. They sustain lives; they sustain the city.