Den Of Thieves

It is common for Hollywood to insert local Los Angeles scenes, landmarks and various other references to the local region in their projects. It was always the other side of Los Angeles, though. The side that was never a part of my Los Angeles existence.. minus the occasional gangster/ghetto flick set in Compton/South Central.
As a matter of fact, the 'local' news networks never covered anything that was local to me. We basically didn't much exist.
Out of sight, out mind, as they say.

And that is basically how the people at the business end of Los Angeles' wealth and glitter scene viewed  anything south of the wretched Imperial Highway Corridor. In actuality, once you survive passing through that corridor, things get a little cleaner... and much cleaner as you pass further toward the Palos Verdes Peninsula, with it's 2-3 million dollar homes.

The Imperial Highway Corridor intersects with what is known as the Harbor Gateway Corridor, along I-110 (known as The Harbor Freeway), ending at the Port of Los Angeles.

The region trapped against the coast by these two corridors of suckage is called The South Bay. It's a different scene, a different mix of cultures, creating a separate identity due it's cultural isolation from what most people think of as Los Angeles. Part of The South Bay also includes a few localities more culturally and politically associated with what is called South Los Angeles. The communities of South Los Angeles contain a lot of suckage.
It is in this world where I grew up, in the City of Gardena, that straddled the  nicer South Bay and less so, Harbor Gateway to the east and Imperial Corridor to the north.
On the map to the right >>> My home was located where the 'n' and the 'a' meet in 'Gardena'. (Clicking on the map makes it bigger.)

Needless to say, I, like most from Gardena, preferred to look westward when it came time to leave the house. I spent most of my life after age 15 (when I acquired motorized transportation) in the land that lay west. (you would have, also).

Never have I seen a movie that was scripted, set, and filmed almost entirely in the isolated land that I had spent the first half of my life stomping through. And this is where Den Of Thieves got my attention, in the very first scene, showing the Gardena Memorial Hospital and the Hustler Casino... both of which are 4-5 blocks from my childhood home, that my mom still occupies.

Enough background... on to the film...
Gerard Butler plays Detective Nick o'brian, who leads of rough and tough crew of street detectives monitoring a crew of well-organised and clever thieves who have been robbing banks.
They set their sights on a grand prize, the local Federal Reserve... the bank to the banks.

Several of the plot twists along the way, as some of the characters are developed, might leave one scratching their head... but all come together toward the end, as the thieves and detectives attempt to outwit each other, ending in a shootout worthy of  "Heat" while stuck in that all-to-familiar South bay phenomenom: a traffic jam where you least expect it!

Props to the creator of this film, Christian Gudegast, for making this so real. All the references to the local scene are here, from South Bay only slang terms, tattoo styles, the mix of ethnics (yes, Samoans are a real presence here), a vague reference (simply 'Harbor') to the county hospital/trauma center (where you go after you been shot), even a remark about the ethnic make-up of a high school football team vs another (from a school where I had a lot of friends from).

Go see it. It's a good movie.

Fantasy

Do any of you play Fantasy Football? This is my third year doing it and it's been a lot of fun. The league I'm in is pretty deep compared to other leagues I've seen, with 14 teams this year.
(Hat Tip: the league is managed by the  longtime commenter to this page, Robert. I don't think Robert blogs anymore.)

Due to it's depth, I think it pays to think outside the box to find talent at depth. There are only so many studs to go around at any position, after all.

Some different thinking that I've done:

The (Non) Receiver: Last year, I drafted Devin Hester at WR. I knew he wasn't going to catch any balls and was worthless as a receiver when all he did was return kicks... but return yards score the same as receiving yards. Hester was only played on 1% of the leagues last year (according to Yahoo), but he returned 1700 yards for me in fantasy, plus a TD. He produced better points than most top tier WRs.

Running Backs: There are only a few good, reliable, stud RB's in the top tier. After AP, Forte, Charles, McCoy and Lynch are off the boards, it doesn't really matter too much any more because whoever you choose is gonna get hurt anyway (Eddie Lacy!! LOL, who wasted a first round pick on that? see? now you know what I'm talking about...)
Better off finding that ace WR, or a second one, before pulling the lever on Lacy, or anybody else that was left. After the studs, the rest of the featured RBs are basically interchangeable in my opinion. Fill up your WR corps, or one of the less than six receiving TEs before going for your first RB (who you will have to replace due to injury anyway).

Defense/ST: I took one in the mid-rounds, locking up Seattle (guaranteed fantasy points every week), while others were looking for the next WR remnant that was going to suck anyway.

Kicker: I only carry one. On the bye week I'll plug the hole with a free agent. Same thing with D/ST.

Probably makes no sense, but I took a chance with Robert Woods. A WR with the Bills. He didn't land on anybody's radar and sits on less than 1% of the leagues (according to Yahoo). His rookie year caught for 500 yards or so, but he moves up the depth chart this season to be the #1 WR option for the Bills.
I'm thinkin he might be that 1000 yard/100 catch WR that nobody saw coming, and might provide some depth in case one of my leaders goes down in the stretch.
That... and he's from Gardena, CA.
A Homie!!!
Born and raised there, graduated from the very small (400 student) Catholic high school located in my old neighborhood, that my brother attended.
Gotta go with the homie, ya know?
Gotta go with the homie.

Grammar and Spelling Fail

I saw this yesterday, in Gardena, while visiting Mom and taking her shopping at the local Wal*Mart.

Gardena, California: "We are who you thought we were."

Lessons Learned

I apologize, AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!, for the lack of timely posting.
Just about the time when I was getting a bit of a break from the break-neck pace of household relocation the Mill Bosses decided that we needed some overtime.
I been on 11hr and 13hr days for the past two weeks.
Life consists of working, sleeping, and driving...
Oh, and the rare moments of personal drama from a week ago.
('yeah, but what about the weekend?' you say...)
My weekend was filled, thank you very much.
Had to 'leave town' so-to-speak after punching the clock Friday afternoon, and did not return til Saturday night. (actually, I had to return to Gardena. It's northern ghetto to be more precise.  WOW. What a thrill seek that was. Even heard some gunfire while waiting for my fried chicken order.   (What? Fried chicken?  Yes. Ghetto-fried chicken beats The Colonel every. damn. time.) When the local Blacks are scared, you can imagine how tentative this guy felt. This is all part of another post that may not get posted. Just rest assured... this 24 of mine beats anything you've ever experienced, including your honeymoon.)
OK?
Y'all getting that?

Drama aside...
The past week has been one of spiritual and intellectual growth.
Yes, that's right. I've learned a few things:

First, I learned that attempting to avoid a google search by personally affected parties when commenting on a story does not work when you link to that story.
I am aware of my tendency to use potentially offense terminology (like 'moron', 'idiot', 'imbecile'... or others) when sharing an experience that may involve another.
For that reason, I try to avoid google search hits so as not to cause an offense where none was intended, especially when the situation may involve  one with a personal interest in the story.
Public figures, attention whores, and politicians... these I don't give a whiff of a shit about.
It's the regular, normal everyday folks that I do.
An innocent family member goes through enough trauma/drama after a tragedy such as that. They don't need to read the sometimes impolite remarks of unimportant guys like me.
I know this, having lost my own sister rather tragically just 4 yrs ago.

Second: I've learned that when a stranger reaches out in compassion, their intent is very likely the same that mine would be should the roles be reversed. As it turned out, I had a  comforting (and valuable) conversation with a very sweet lady a continent away.
Blogging opens my world.  I am grateful for it. More specifically... grateful for those who choose to enter my world through it.
Without readers and the relationships they bring,  blogging would be a pointless bag of suckage,... times ten... multiplied again by twenty.
Yer getting my point here, right?

Third: Next time I see a car parked at the apex of an overpass, I will not hesitate. I will STOP! and interrupt what is likely to take place, because now I know.

Fourth: a lifeless body lying on the road is/was loved by somebody.
It's more than a body.
It's a brother, a son, an uncle, a father, a step-father or husband.
Yeah, I always knew this, but sometimes it is good and righteous to be reminded of it, and keep it in mind for next time.

To Robert Rowely: though we never really met,  your death was not in vain. I have learned and grown from it.
One thing I do know is that you have positively touched the lives of many.
Such is the measure of a life worthy of remembrance and respect.
I pray to Almighty God that you have at last found the peace that you deserve.
As to my respect: It's yours.

The Glory Of Spam, A "How To"

It was a couple years ago, during the first year of this administration I think. President Obama had left D.C. to spend some recreation time in his home state of Hawaii.

Of course, the media followed him like flies on horse shit, reporting his every move.
At one point, The President had ordered some grub at a lunch counter where one of his requested items was Spam Musubi.
This was a little exotic for the press corps. By their reaction you'd think it was Romney learning about grits or something.
Buncha morons... all of them.

Begs the question: How does one rise up through the ranks after attending the better schools and still be clueless about a popular Hawaiian soul food dish?

Well, I've finally done it at home. Grabbed a press on-line, and went for it, making Spam Musubi for dinner... two nights in a row. Woo...... Hoo!
Yeah... living the good life here, yes I do.

Here's how it's done:
First, get yerself a musubi press. Try Ebay or something.
I'll wait....

Ok, you got it?
Awright, now you gotta get the ingredients.

You will need:
- One package of nori. Also called seaweed paper, seaweed wrap... or sushinori.
It comes in standard size sheets or half-sheets. In the pic are standard sheets. You will need to cut them down the middle lengthwise.
Use scissors if you want. I just pulled that stack out of the package, laid them on a cutting board and used a soduku, pressing firmly.

- Some teriyaki sauce. Not that much, maybe a 1/4 to a 1/2 cup.

- One can of Spam. Just regular 'classic' Spam. Don't waste your time on the various varieties of less-unhealthy, more-spicy, or fowl-derived Spam. Those ain't Spam. This recipe calls for Spam. The Real Thing. Just get Spam, OK?

- About 1.5 cups of uncooked rice.
Now, pay attention here. Do NOT use Uncle Ben's, Jasmine, Basmati or Minute Rice. For this you will need real Japanese-variety of rice. Either a short-grained 'sushi' rice or the medium-grained, like Cal-Rose variety.
It's gotta be sticky when cooked. Use the wrong kind (stay way from Chinese/Uncle Ben's/Vietnamese/Thai varieties) and this thing just will not work.
I'm using Cal-Rose rice today. Mainly because I always have it on hand, and it is half the price of officially labeled 'sushi rice'. It works just as well.

- One musubi press. You should know what that is by know, since you already ordered it online per my instructions.

Cook the rice per the instructions on the bag, or use a rice cooker. A rice cooker is a standard appliance for me, much like a toaster. It was the 'get the hell outta here' gift from my folks when I moved out of their house the first (and only) time.
Hey, Gardena boy here, raised around sushi take-out and taco shops ... I've said that already.

-- Next: Take the Spam loaf out of the can and slice it into eighths. About a 1/4 inch width per slice.








-- Put a splash or two of the Teriyaki Sauce in a large non-stick skillet, on medium-high heat. When the sauce is hot, arrange your Spam slices and let cook for a few minutes.

The Teriyaki Sauce will burn and blacken a bit. That's cool. It caramelizes the sugars and acts as a tasty glaze for your Spam.
Add another splash or two of sauce as it evaporates away.



-- Turn the Spam over and cook the other side.

<<< If it looks like this, yer doing fine.

When finished, leave the Spam in the pan, because grease and stuff is good for you, and you want your Spam to soak some of that up while yer working on the next step.




-- Place your Musubi mold over a sheet of rice paper. (Actually, the proper word for this paper is 'Nori'). Try to center it, OK?








-- Add some of the cooked rice to the mold, about a 1/4 cup should do.

Press down with the 'press' part of the mold.
Press down firmly. You want that rice packed and holding itself together.






-- Take a slice of Spam outta the pan and place it into the mold, on top of the packed rice layer.

Add another layer of rice on top of the Span slice, same as the first, and pack it firmly with the press.





--Holding the press handle firmly, lift the mold up and off the rice-Spam-rice stack.

Wrap the nori around, sealing the ends by smearing a few grains of the sticky rice around the edge of the nori.






--Slice into finger-sized portions and serve.

Often presented with mayonnaise or mustard as condiments, but this is not necessary. It tastes great on it's own, preferably fresh and warm.

A hint: I prefer an extra wrap of nori on top of the first.
The added crunch is pure awesomeness.

Spam

Seems most of us like it.
Hooray for us!

My usual method is served up crisp with fried eggs and toast. This I can do at home.
What I grew up with, back in Gardena with all those Japanese walking around, was a sort of sushi called Spam Musubi, and served warm.
It's a classic Hawaiian treat.

It's still a regular side order for me when I hit the ramen shops back in that town I do not call 'home' when visiting Mom.

If given the chance, try it. The salty sweet of teriyaki-marinated Spam compliments very well with the sticky-style rice wrapped in a crisp and savory seaweed paper.

Someday, I'll make it at home. The idea has been on my bucket list for years.
It's a workable portable snack that travels as well as a sandwich.

Misses, Elles and Chiennes

Hitler in drag, with a streak of vanity that dwarfed her Cadillac El Dorado...
Wrists jingled with gold bangles that matched the large dangly things hanging from her ears...
Half the Neiman-Marcus cosmetics counter resided on her face, while her perfume occupied half of Gardena for thirty minutes after she passed through...
"Bitch On Wheels" is not an overstatement...

Picture a Filipina Dolly Parton with perpetual PMS who took no shit from nobody, and you got a good image of Miss Cortez.

The only teacher I ever had who I can honestly say hated me. It was personal, and I gave it right back. That just made hate burn brighter, but I survived seventh grade despite it all... And the many visits to the principal's office, and a couple meetings with the Pastor... (In catholic school, the parish pastor was Lord of All, Master of the Realm, far up the food chain, and only got involved in school issues when all else failed. Instances as such were rare to non-existent. Such describes the situation that concerned me. Fortunately, he was a 'student advocate', dedicated to the cause of Catholic education*... and he liked me.)

That said, she was also one of the better teachers I ever had, wholly dedicated to her ministery. I learned a lot under her lash, though much of it wasn't in the lesson plan...

Given who and what level of respect she commanded, often times others would address her as Ms. Cortez.
This was a mistake only made once. She was a Miss, and insisted on it. She hated feminism, feminists, and all they stood for. She expected her doors opened, her chair pulled out/pushed in, her cigarette lit, her dinner paid for...

As she explained to the class: 'Miss' meant a lady was young, fresh and available to suitors. Only a stupid broad (her term) would use 'Ms', and risk not drawing the attention of her future Prince Charming. (She found him that year: The math nerd who taught the class next door; got hitched and dropped several babies over a seemingly short period of time.)

This 'lesson' would come full circle soon enough.
My freshman math teacher was Ms S- (and kinda cute for a 30-something). One student made the goof of addressing her as 'Miss' and was promptly corrected "It's Ms S-".
The student then asked "why Ms and what's the difference?"
I shot out: Cause she don't want a man. Haven't you learned anything from Miss Cortez?
Ms S-, taken a back, stared straight at me... "And what makes you say that?"
The class erupted, the turmoil allowing myself and Ms S- to avoid any further delving into the topic.

A few years later, a close family member met Ms S- at a birthday party for a mutual friend (all lesbians in attendance). She asked me if I remembered a Sharon S-. Well, yes I did, and fondly so.
'Did you know she was...?'
I had my suspicions, and explained the story. Didn't matter none to me. She was cool, and her and I got along fine.
Whatever it was, but I think she felt 'outted' by my outburst.
For the next three years she remembered me in the halls (out of hundreds of former math students), and took the time to say 'Hi' and chat a bit. Like she was trying to be 'OK' with me.
Ms S- liked me. And I liked her in return. It was personal.
A dramatic reversal of the 'Miss' just a few short years earlier.

This was the late 70s, early 80s. Attitudes were not as they are today.
Personally, it really, really didn't matter to me.
But the under-current of fear, especially working in a Catholic high school... I can see now why she treated me as she did (with extreme kindness).
And why, out of potentially thousands of former students, she remembered me.
I could have cost her her job. I feel bad about that.
No, seriously.

These memories and lessons came to mind recently after reading this article at MailOnline.

France is bidding adieu to the term ‘mademoiselle’ – on the grounds that it is ‘sexist’.
The Gallic equivalent of ‘Miss’ will be abolished from all Government documents because it suggests that a woman is available.

Kinda funny that with all of it's economic problems the French politicians love these important, republic threatening cultural diversions as much American politicians do.

Prime minister Francois Fillon has also banned the phrase ‘nom de jeune fille’, meaning ‘maiden name’, from official paperwork because it is ‘archaic’ and has ‘connotations of virginity’.

God forbid anybody thinks there might be a virgin in France. Cant have that, now.

To the delight of feminist campaigners, an order issued to all ministries and regional authorities on Tuesday said ‘mademoiselle’ must be replaced with ‘madame’ and should be not interpreted as an indication of marital status.

I studied French in high school, and always thought 'mademoiselle' had certain musical charm to it. Too bad they want to ditch it.

'Mademoiselle harks back to the term 'oiselle', which means "virgin" or "simpleton".'

I call bullshit there. 'Mademoiselle' means 'Chick'. Even I know that.

Whatever, it's their country, their language. They can do what they want with it.
As for me, I will continue on as I always have and call "Miss", "Ms" and "Ma'am" as I see fit.
It goes like this:
Younger than me, like in her 20's, she's a "Miss".
My waitress is almost always a "Miss".
Unless she's older than that, then she's "Ma'am".
Any woman older than I is "Ma'am".
Unless she's clearly trying to hard to look younger, then I call her "Miss" and watch her face light up. (Some gals are silly that way.)
Position of authority over me is always a "Ma'am".
Unless she serving me beer, then she's a "Miss".
Heavily tatted, peirced, dike-looking serving me coffee and omlets in Portland is a "Ma'am" (Sorry, I just can't call "Miss" on that.)

This is the way it is. If the PC police don't like it, they can kiss my ass.



* That every Catholic child, whenever possible, be able to recieve a solid education infused with Christian values so as to provide a sturdy foundation for good citizenship and sucess in life.

The Real Scandal

You see that picture to the right??? What does it show?
I'll tell ya: that is the USS Arizona blowing up in Pearl Harbor.
You know who is on that ship?
1,177 American Sailors and Marines, trapped below decks, dying at the very moment this photo is taken.

These are not just servicemen. Every serviceman is more than just a disposable tool of United States foreign policy, to be 'remembered' on certain days out of a sense of respect.

Because before they were tools of disposal they were the beloved sons of parents, the beloved brothers of American sisters. They were fathers, nephews and uncles.
My grade school principal, Sister Maureen, lost a brother on the Arizona. His name is etched on the walls on the memorial. When I saw it for myself the whole thing suddenly became real... it was then that I really started to understand why our daily nun-led prayers began with a prayer for peace, first and foremost before all other things were mentioned or asked for.
These nuns saw the other side of peace and lived to teach about it, Sister Maureen especially.

This "Day of Infamy" lies large in the collective American memory, and for good reason. Very few of us 'remember Pearl Harbor'. But everyone of us remembers that we were taught to do so. So we do, because we want to be good Americans.

Anyway...
At first glance, it does seem kinda humorous how the private school the Obama Daughters attend has chosen to serve Japanese food on Pearl Harbor Day.
It's non-starter, and should not have even been written about for what somebody might want you to think it is, for there is no scandel here.

Let us look at the menu offerings:

Asian Mushroom Soup: the only time I've seen something like this was at a Chinese restaurant.
Oriental Noodle Salad: an American invention
Classic Spinach Salad: never seen this at a Jap joint either
Teriyaki Marinated Chicken Strips: ever been to Hawaii? this is about as native there as fried chicken in Georgia, and likely enjoyed regularly by our *African-born president while growing up.
Szechuan Tofu & Veggies: 'Szechuan' refers to a regional/culinary style in China. Duh.
Garlic Roasted Edamame: I ate this growing up in the All-American city of Gardena
Vegetable Fried Rice: Again, China.
Fortune Cookies: another American thing.

Looks to me like America and it's China ally are well represented on this most patriotic day of remembrance.

Now, let us pause for a moment to remember Pearl harbor, those who were sacrificed there, and in it's aftermath...
...
...
...
...
..
..
.
.
OK, the moment is over.
You done yet?
Next, I want you think long and hard about whether we need to continue in a foreign policy brain fart that makes such things required.
Are your children and grandchildren worth it?
Mine aren't.








*NO! I do not believe our president was born in Africa. It was a lame joke, ok????

What Did The Dormouse Say?

Three years ago, Doctor sent me home with a vicodin prescription: a whole bottle, maybe a pint, of purple syrup. Heavenly stuff that took effect soon after injection. With refill!

I can't say enough how good that stuff was. I was no longer in any real pain type of pain, but still sore, having a lot of trouble just getting some simple rest. I was easily agitated, cranky, couldn't sleep and frustrated to the point of tears.
This is where the vicodin came in handy.
I would load up the syringe, inject, and go lay down. Within ten minutes I would feel my whole body relax all at once, as if somebody let the air out. Muscles dissolved and bones turned to jello, eyes closed in bliss I'd float away...
It was how I got some needed rest.

This time I was given a bottle of hydrocodone w/ acetaminophen. Supposedly, it's in the same family of narcotics, I think. Only this stuff is somehow different.
Instead of a complete and total physical relaxation, I get some loosening up before I drift off slowly...
And then the show starts.

Not sure if maybe I'm not sleeping soundly enough or what, but I've been having very realistic and vivid dreams.
Dreams so real that I find myself waking up where I am not, unawares that I am at home, in my own bed. It takes a several minutes to reaclimate.

This morning I woke up in the wrong part of Gardena and couldn't find my car.

No more of this hydrocodone shit for me.
Gonna give it a day to wear off and break out the stuff I can handle, like bourbon.

Going Home?

Earlier in the week, a longtime friend that I'd grown up with (actually, best friend of my sister) had listed Gardena, CA as her hometown on Facebook. In typical fashion, I commented "ha!, not me baby, no way", after which she went on to remind me that "Yes, You did grow up there. I saw it myself."

Thus began a bit of an 'off the wall' exchange concerning 'hometown', how it's defined, and what qualifies. After some thought, I have come to the conclusion that I have yet to come to a conclusion on the matter.

I was 3 years old when my family relocated from Chicago and settled in Gardena. So, yeah, while I am technically from Chicago (Cicero, to be precise) it's not something that I claim on any personal level. I'm not part of the culture there, nor have I shared in the Chicago-dwellers experience... ergo..there is no way I can claim Chicago as a hometown unless I was to be joking about it. Or lying.

Gardena was my city of residence until I was 24. I grew up there. I know it like the back of my hand after having spent my youth and younger adulthood roaming the streets and back alleys. I know all of it's secrets and treasures, where the bodies are buried, what blocks to avoid, and where the good eats can be found.
I knew most of the city council as well as those gang members whose friendship mattered. My mom still lives there, in the same house I grew up in. She is the only reason why I still end up in the old 'hood once a month because if I had my option, I'd just as soon forget as remember that I'd ever lived there.

It's not that I think Gardena was/is a bad place. I'd put it about in the middle when compared to neighboring cities within the concrete jungle of Los Angeles.
I can't deny that much of what I am and what I know was formed while living within it's embrace. At the same time, I don't get those warm feelings of familiarity whenever I 'return home' as some would call it. It's not home. I don't feel that way towards it. For every sweet happy memory of growing up, there is a bitter angry one to temper it.
How can a place like that be Home? It's not home.
It is history.
And nothing more.

That said... if you feel like chiming in, tell me what you think a 'hometown' should be.

Gooks In The Wire

The Gardena I grew up in was about as diverse a population as you could find, with roughly equal representations of Blacks, Whites, Asians and Hispanics. Generally, an OK place to live; a well run city that for the most part did a decent job at keeping things in check, with a responsible and respectable police force that knew how to drop the hammer, as well as when not to.

No, it was not all unicorns and butterflies.
There were some neighborhoods that a wiser man of lighter complexion would fear to tread. Gardena was bordered on two sides by less desirable regions belonging to the City of Los Angeles, with is subsequential ethnic/cultural run-off.

We lived the heavily Asian central region; same neighborhood as city hall, the library and police/fire departments. Asians, in this case, meant Japanese (Nisei and Sansei). They could be irritatingly cliquish at times, but they knew how to behave themselves personally as well as socially, holding many leadership/political positions in the city. For the outsider, their influence is readily noticeable in the city's architecture and landscaping. (For what it's worth... every stereotype about these people is true. I'll just say that now,OK?)

A few blocks to the south, things got 'browner'. Lots of Mexicans of varying social classes. Safety wasn't too big of a problem. An occasional fight/stabbing among the Cholo class here and there. Or a wedding. It was often hard to tell the difference. (No, I'm not joking.)
Many families from this part of town had been settled since the 1910's or 20's, and had become, in a sense, social clans. Five to eight kids to a family, and after three generations, you got a real tribe forming, ya know? Good people, active in the Church, Little Leagues and local VFW.
It was into this neighborhood that my family first settled in 1967. Relationships formed here among the Cholos kept me in good standing when a situation in 'the streets' threatened to get sticky. (I personally knew Spider, Guido, Droopy, and Gato when they were little kids without tattoos and rap sheets.)

The north end (known as Holly Park) was considerably darker. Black, to be specific. Not too unlike any other working class Black neighborhood with all of it's economic issues and social misbehavior. Most people here were getting by the best they could, hoping eventually to move on to Whiter pastures. But still, where there are Blacks, there are issues. This made the north Gardena the 'other' Gardena, and more dangerous. This is where the strip clubs, hookers, and muggings became the social fabric, especially along the unincorporated county corridor. I had some friends from school (private and Catholic) who lived there , and my folks used to always worry about me going to hang with them.
They much preferred to host at our place, but it didn't usually work out that way. I went where I wanted, wherever my bike or skateboard would take me.

Gardena took great pains to limit the cultural run off of our bad neighbor, the City of Los Angeles. (Now, do you see where my deeply rooted bias against anything "L.A." comes from?) From extensive 'take-no-shit' policing, to neighborhood activism, various programs and what not...

The local high school was always in a battle against the various pressures. Trying to keep the place as safe and decent as it could while obligated to house the darker elements of it's student population. There were always issues, but nothing rising to the inner city level. As for me, I went on to the Catholic high school across town, to the west. Everything 'west' was nicer than Gardena, and is where I spent the majority of my teen years.

Self propagation is the nature of social decay. The city's efforts, and those of it's namesake high school, have been more successful than not considering the mixed bag of trash deposited in it's yard. I always said it was just a matter of time before Gardena could no longer hold it's perimeter.

It appears that time has come:
Shooting at Gardena High School Injures 2