I got to see the photos from his travels and talks from Turkey to Tamaulipas and received a good deal of intellectual stimulation at a low ebb. We chatted often and he plied me with articles about Che and lesser known political leaders of central America. When he came back out I asked, “Are you Peter McLaren?” Paulo Freire, socialist histories of Central America, and the academic like. The man had gone into the bathroom, and I looked at the titles of the books. For ages this guy with long white hair and leather jacket spent silent hours at a laptop. Later they’d turn out to be just the person we needed or somebody with the answer to our problems.įor instance, my ex-wife said there was this professor at UCLA I had to meet, educational philosopher Peter McLaren. Or we might not even chat, but there was an awareness of these individuals. We might chat, and nod, and for months, years, not know what they did. Uniquely at Om, there would be a regular who one saw daily. After sipping of it a while, it became clear that what one now looked for in a cafe was not sold at Starbucks.
Not only was it Hindu themed, with monumentally heavy, painfully stiff teak chairs and a day couch, and tables where many spent all day and much of the night at laptops. Community of course is a big vague word which means recognizing people for who they are in all their quirks and glory-something that so many people are starving for. There naturally emerged a sense of community among those who lived in the neighborhood and walked here. The first year of Om there was a lot of experimentation, for example, at first the hours extended to midnight and sometimes past. People who came to the laundromat could look forward to a cup of joe. It was themed around Om, in Hindu tradition, the cosmic sound for harmony.Ī lamp turned on in the neighborhood the minute Om-now spelled out in neon over the sidewalk-opened its door. It was the year before the great recession and he sank a lot of dough and vision into making the space a Starbucks manque with a twist. The dry cleaners limped on, meanwhile, Prasan Patel the brother of Nayan, my boss, older and more Indian in outlook, had a dream to transform this space into a cafe. I had failed to properly inspect it, and we lost a client. The garments came back from the plant, one shirt with a spaghetti stain on it. A producer, Thom Mount, had his suits and shirts laundered weekly. Anyhow the dry cleaners wasn’t doing so hot, and maybe I helped push it over the edge. Attending the dry cleaning is great for anybody who likes to spend time reading.
Nine years ago in this very spot I earned money for a plane ticket to Europe, when it was a dry cleaners. Often when asked for my business address I put down 7962 Fountain Ave. I heartily took part, since I am reputed to be a person who goes back to the beginning, before the beginning. UNITED STATES-The cafe next to the laundromat celebrated the first year of new ownership last month on Fountain Avenue, triggering a festival of remembrance.
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