Josh Kamensky

The Los Angeles of “Crash” is segregated and inflamed. Persian, African-American, Salvadoran-Puerto Rican and White people collide violently with one another via carjackings, service interactions, a little sex, and most of all, car crashes. Having found themselves outside their bubbles, they do what we all do in unfamiliar company: deliver candid, racist sermons about the prejudices they hold to be self-evident.

“What exactly is pop?” asks Stanley in his introduction. This was a question I’d long pondered myself. When I was six years old, an older friend tried to explain it to me, shortly after blowing my mind once by playing me “Little Red Corvette,” then again by revealing that the singer was male. “It has, like, a popping sound,” he said. This was not exactly correct, but neither was it entirely wrong.

Students have every right to object to the day they worked for being used to conduct ideological warfare. They have every right to add silly accessories to their caps or subtract underthings from their gowns rather than gird themselves for rebuttal. This year, a few of them looked at this economy of cash and prestige asked what, in each case, would our name and money have bought?

Settle this “Eastside” business once and for all. For traditionalists, it’s where the L.A. River cut off immigrant communities from access to power and influence. For hipsters, it’s where you’ll find more artisanal lotion depots and fewer Jaguars/boob jobs. A conclusive determination from City Hall will herald peace and the invention of the red velvet burrito.