So sorry Mom, er, my LEGIONS of loyal readers. Your boy has been slack on the pearls this week because reality has set in, and I'm back amongst the work force. And as such, Scuba Lunch-Pail has a bit more of his time tied up now. But fear not. Just 'cause I'm workin' for the boss man every night and day (well, day), doesn't mean I'm now void of material. In fact, now my cup overfloweth.
Where to begin? My head's going to explode there's so much spinning 'round it. No place like the beginning I guess. So, my new job has me working in beautiful Redondo Beach, about 19 miles from our abode. I've commuted before plenty in my life, but this is like the first official commute I've ever had. By that I mean, locked in a car with everyone else in Los Angeles. I've had walks, subways, trains, and the worst of the worst, bus commutes before. But now it's just me and my thoughts for 45 minutes each way, every day. And you know what? I don't mind it.
My mornings now begin around 7, so as to be able to get my arse out the door by 7:30, and keep the commute manageable. I've opted to forgo seeking out the local radio morning zoo, in favor of the ol' cd player. 7:30 is a little too early for" zany" for me. No, instead, I have decided to take my commuting time as my music listening/ear training time. A time to revisit all my cd's I've been neglecting. A time to hone my ear chops, identifying 3rd inversion minor chords and such. Best of all, a chance to blast all of my music that Bubba can't stand. Bubba is "70's Rock Chick." To be fair, I'd say "'65' to '80's Rock Chick," with an emphasis on the 70's. So now, I get to play all of my wierd jazz shit without bothering a soul. Yesterday's fare featured Jaco Pastorious, (a bass player who's the feature of the music for those that don't know), and Rahsan Roland Kirk, a blind jazz musician who liked to play multiple horns and slide whistles at the same time. It's a few notches away from Bubba's Todd Rungren and such, so everyone wins this way.
Even though it's only been a week, I feel like I've mastered an efficient route to work. Like I'm already learning the spots where I can shave 30 seconds here, 45 seconds there, etc. Like my car is starting to slowly form is own groove in the roads for my customized path. As the result of my efficiency/dorkdom, I can now safely wake up at 7:06, instead of 7:00, and still be all right.
45 minutes in these parts is gonna take you through quite a bit of different scenery in L.A. I start off going down on Fairfax, through a fairly unremarkable area. Random, but particular shops line the busy street. Over here's a bad ass sneaker shop. Over here is a movie theater that ONLY shows silent films. I'm not but so awake by then anyway, so I don't really care. About 8 minutes away, I come across Johnnie's. Looks like a typical diner-y restaurant. When you inevitably are stopped at the light, you notice, "Hey, that's the restaurant from 'Pulp Fiction.'" That's kind of neat I guess. Then you look closer and notice, "Well, the lights on the sign are on, but there's no one inside." What I've learned is, it's closed, BUT, they have signs all over it saying it's available for movies. Does that really come up often? It's kind of been done, no? And done in one of the most successful movies of all-time. I don't know, if it were me, I might start serving up some flapjacks while I waited for the next call.
From there, Farifax randomly takes us to Little Ethiopia. Reminiscent of Adams Morgan in D.C., it's a neat, several blocks long stretch, filled with Ethiopian restaruants, shops, and I'm assuiming, large Ethiopian population. Does this mean that elsewhere in L.A. there are the other, what, 48 African nations represented? Where's Little Botswana? Am I going to come across Little Djibouti at some point? Why Ethiopia only?
The next 15 minutes is probably my least favorite part. Fortunately, usually by then the record of the day is in full swing. After an annoying stretch of single-lane driving, Fairfax morphs into a fugly mess of highway interchanges and fast food places. I finally get onto LaCienega, and all of a sudden, I'm thrust into like, 3-4 miles of oil fields. Just out of the blue, oil drills and refining on all sides. I grew up in North Jersey, and it makes Bayonne smell like a bouquet of roses. Still, it's got its own appeal in a strange way. It's very surreal, like I'm somewhere in the Middle East.
From there, it's onto the 405. Much to my pleasant surprise, southbound is not very populated in the morning. It's a pretty straight shot. 5 miles in like 6-7 minutes. I pass by the airport and then by El Segundo. One of the local small towns has somebody named Ganz as the mayor. I indulge this mild fantasy each time I see the sign, that it's the villian Ganz from 48 hours, probably my favorite cinematic bad guy of all time. So because I now live in the city of make-believe, I tell myself that he's seen the error of his ways, paid his debt to society, and is now prospering as the mayor of a small California town, with Billy Bear as his lieutenant.
Once I'm off the 405, it's like 10 minutes of side streets until I reach Redondo Beach. Tranquility resumes, as I make my way through this slice of suburban bliss. But that's a story for tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Food for Thought
So, I've actually come to genuinely enjoy shopping at the local Whole Foods supermarket here. I never thought I'd remotely utter such a sentiment about a historically mundane experience for me. The Whole Foods is a riot here. They've usually got fun music playing over the P.A. system for starters. Once I was in there and while I was at the checkout, they had some vintage Michael Jackson playing, and both shoppers and checkout clerks alike were singing and dancing along while going about their respective business. It was like, "'Got me workin', workin' day and night!' Do you want paper or plastic?"
I've also rationalized that everything the organic set produces is automatically healthy. Generally, that's the case in that store, but I've taken it to the extreme. "Sure, these are deep fried barbecue potato chips, but it's the 'Whole Foods' brand, so it MUST be good for me. I can't afford NOT to eat them."
Anyway, the overall vibe is so just so cool and hip. The patrons tend to be 20's and 30's, no doubt would be entertainers of one variety or another. And if not entertainers, than they're the would be entertainers agents or p.r. folk. There's also a high percentage of attractive folk, as one might guess. But even the staff is cool too. They ask how you are, and SMILE when they assist you in finding the herbal teas you can't find, but just walked right past. Then, you get over to the deli. They technically have a "take-a-number" machine, but it's really just for appearances. No one uses it, and everyone bends over backwards to be like, "are you SURE I'm up next? I could've sworn you were here before me. Just in case, why don't you just go on ahead of me. I don't need the bad karma." Meanwhile, I just read that back in the ole' Big Apple, Alec Baldwin had to call out some a-hole who decided to cut the woman in line in the wheelchair.
The hipness of the store was emphatically driven home this afternoon, when I had to make a second stop at Ralph's, a more conventional supermarket. Bubba likes to eat grits, as most people named Bubba do, but I guess they're a little too unhealthy for Whole Foods. So I hit Ralph's for the first time. Ralph's is where you go for like, Frito-Lay products, caged animal products, processed and deep fried everything, as well as any other conventional junk food you can think of. Is it wrong to deem an entire shopping population as 'ugly?' Or at least relatively so? Well, if it's wrong, so be it. The truth hurts. I felt like I'd just gone from the cool table in the high school cafeteria to the social pariah's corner. Having not been allowed at the cool tables back in the day, I broke into the cold sweats at the familiarity of it all. As a result, I've decided that I have to eat healthy out here, if for no other reason than to be able to continue to bask in the coolness.
I've also rationalized that everything the organic set produces is automatically healthy. Generally, that's the case in that store, but I've taken it to the extreme. "Sure, these are deep fried barbecue potato chips, but it's the 'Whole Foods' brand, so it MUST be good for me. I can't afford NOT to eat them."
Anyway, the overall vibe is so just so cool and hip. The patrons tend to be 20's and 30's, no doubt would be entertainers of one variety or another. And if not entertainers, than they're the would be entertainers agents or p.r. folk. There's also a high percentage of attractive folk, as one might guess. But even the staff is cool too. They ask how you are, and SMILE when they assist you in finding the herbal teas you can't find, but just walked right past. Then, you get over to the deli. They technically have a "take-a-number" machine, but it's really just for appearances. No one uses it, and everyone bends over backwards to be like, "are you SURE I'm up next? I could've sworn you were here before me. Just in case, why don't you just go on ahead of me. I don't need the bad karma." Meanwhile, I just read that back in the ole' Big Apple, Alec Baldwin had to call out some a-hole who decided to cut the woman in line in the wheelchair.
The hipness of the store was emphatically driven home this afternoon, when I had to make a second stop at Ralph's, a more conventional supermarket. Bubba likes to eat grits, as most people named Bubba do, but I guess they're a little too unhealthy for Whole Foods. So I hit Ralph's for the first time. Ralph's is where you go for like, Frito-Lay products, caged animal products, processed and deep fried everything, as well as any other conventional junk food you can think of. Is it wrong to deem an entire shopping population as 'ugly?' Or at least relatively so? Well, if it's wrong, so be it. The truth hurts. I felt like I'd just gone from the cool table in the high school cafeteria to the social pariah's corner. Having not been allowed at the cool tables back in the day, I broke into the cold sweats at the familiarity of it all. As a result, I've decided that I have to eat healthy out here, if for no other reason than to be able to continue to bask in the coolness.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Santa Barbara
So, the fates gave me a wonderful reprieve this week. Slated to go back to work Monday, my new supervisor called me Sunday night, telling me that this week is no good, and would I mind taking an extra week off? Um....no, I would not mind. It was like getting 5 snow days all at once. Every kid knows that that's the greatest feeling in the world. But since it's a little too warm and dry for snow angels and sledding, Bubba and I decided to take another road trip.
At the suggestion of my big sis, who used to live out here, we drove on up to Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara is about 90 miles or so from Hollywood, right on the coast. So, we skip out Tuesday afternoon, down our now trusty, Santa Monica Blvd. This time though, before we get to the coast, I come across Bundy drive. Now, I'm no afficianado about the O.J. trial, but I certainly paid attention. Enough to recognize Bundy drive, anyway. We drive up the street that Nicole was killed on, and lo' and behold, we come up on Rockingham Drive: O.J's old street. Holy moley. BEA-UTIFUL houses, lacking only moats to complete the effect. Now I know how the other half lives. Now I know why O.J. was just scraping by on his $30k/month football pension. I didn't see his house per se (it's been razed), but it didn't matter. I got it. This would be the proverbial, "RIGHT side of the tracks." (Actually, you NEVER hear about the right side, only the wrong side).
So, after our little side-trip, we got back on the PCH, heading North towards Santa Barbara. We've made the Malibu drive a few times by now, so it's almost old hat. Still, with the sun presiding over a cloudless sky, it doesn't get tired. Virtually the entire ride up the coast is, Pacific Ocean to your immediate left, mountains to your right. There's a brief interlude of the splendor in Oxnard, when the PCH ends, and you have to transfer to the 101, but basically, it's a coastal trip. I also discovered that that area could be considered the avocado district. Who knew? It's like some of the random pockets one would come up on back in NYC. Like, for real, we used to live in the fancy carpet district. Or, I used to work in the upscale women's lingerie district.
Anyway, once we passed guacamole central, the spectacular scenery resumed. I couldn't even say why, but somehow, the ocean and the mountains as you get closer to Santa Barbara seem even prettier than they do earlier in the trip. So we finally get to Santa Barbara proper, and it's just a wonderful town. I guess you'd say it's a small city more than a town, because there's like 90,000 residents, but it feels like a town. We park the car, and make our way to State Street, which is where all of the shops, restaurants, and requistie Scientology Center are. There's all kinds of clothing stores, new age spirituality shops, and a great farmers market filled with organic veggies and stuff. There's also a large contingent of street musicians and apparent homeless actually. Like, Vietnam vets and young folks reeking of patchouli. I enjoyed taking it all in, but I also kept flashing to Reggie Hammond in "48 Hours," when he went to the redneck bar and quipped, "Not a very popular spot with the Brothas." This was punctuated by the fact that there was a restaurant called Sambos, right there on the main ocean drive. South Central, this ain't.
After a lovely dinner, we opted to crash at a motel for the night. We got up the next day and figured we'd tool around for a few more hours. After a late breakfast, we hit the beach for a bit. Bubba has a soft spot for all of God's creatures, so she procured the leftover complementary muffins from breakfast to bestow upon the beach bird denizens. All she had to do was pull a muffin out of the bag, and a flock of seagulls was upon us like Hitchcock's "Birds." Unbelievable. Determined to complete her mission of food mercy, we retreated to base camp to figure out Plan B. Spotting a sole seagull, as opposed to the swarm, perhaps a seagull outcast like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, she figured she could safely dispense the goodies upon him. Wrong. They swooped down like the flying monkeys in "The Wizard of Oz," seeking chocolate chip muffins instead of Toto.
While enamored with this paradise, I couldn't get past a few thoughts. At 1 o'clock on Wednesday, literally the middle of the work week, there's all these folks rollerblading, biking, playing volleyball, and just having a grand old time. I kept thinking, "What do you people DO? How are you able to live like this?" Then I got all philosophical on myself. I asked myself, "if most people work their whole lives to be able to live in a paradise like this, once there, THEN what? Where can you go from paradise? What's your motivation in the morning? How much beach volleyball can you play? Does one need a perpetual carrot dangling in front of them to force perpetual motion, or does the peace and tranquility in itself provide the inspiration for greatness?" For now, my status in life dictates I'll have to pursue the "Dangling Carrot" theory for a while.
At the suggestion of my big sis, who used to live out here, we drove on up to Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara is about 90 miles or so from Hollywood, right on the coast. So, we skip out Tuesday afternoon, down our now trusty, Santa Monica Blvd. This time though, before we get to the coast, I come across Bundy drive. Now, I'm no afficianado about the O.J. trial, but I certainly paid attention. Enough to recognize Bundy drive, anyway. We drive up the street that Nicole was killed on, and lo' and behold, we come up on Rockingham Drive: O.J's old street. Holy moley. BEA-UTIFUL houses, lacking only moats to complete the effect. Now I know how the other half lives. Now I know why O.J. was just scraping by on his $30k/month football pension. I didn't see his house per se (it's been razed), but it didn't matter. I got it. This would be the proverbial, "RIGHT side of the tracks." (Actually, you NEVER hear about the right side, only the wrong side).
So, after our little side-trip, we got back on the PCH, heading North towards Santa Barbara. We've made the Malibu drive a few times by now, so it's almost old hat. Still, with the sun presiding over a cloudless sky, it doesn't get tired. Virtually the entire ride up the coast is, Pacific Ocean to your immediate left, mountains to your right. There's a brief interlude of the splendor in Oxnard, when the PCH ends, and you have to transfer to the 101, but basically, it's a coastal trip. I also discovered that that area could be considered the avocado district. Who knew? It's like some of the random pockets one would come up on back in NYC. Like, for real, we used to live in the fancy carpet district. Or, I used to work in the upscale women's lingerie district.
Anyway, once we passed guacamole central, the spectacular scenery resumed. I couldn't even say why, but somehow, the ocean and the mountains as you get closer to Santa Barbara seem even prettier than they do earlier in the trip. So we finally get to Santa Barbara proper, and it's just a wonderful town. I guess you'd say it's a small city more than a town, because there's like 90,000 residents, but it feels like a town. We park the car, and make our way to State Street, which is where all of the shops, restaurants, and requistie Scientology Center are. There's all kinds of clothing stores, new age spirituality shops, and a great farmers market filled with organic veggies and stuff. There's also a large contingent of street musicians and apparent homeless actually. Like, Vietnam vets and young folks reeking of patchouli. I enjoyed taking it all in, but I also kept flashing to Reggie Hammond in "48 Hours," when he went to the redneck bar and quipped, "Not a very popular spot with the Brothas." This was punctuated by the fact that there was a restaurant called Sambos, right there on the main ocean drive. South Central, this ain't.
After a lovely dinner, we opted to crash at a motel for the night. We got up the next day and figured we'd tool around for a few more hours. After a late breakfast, we hit the beach for a bit. Bubba has a soft spot for all of God's creatures, so she procured the leftover complementary muffins from breakfast to bestow upon the beach bird denizens. All she had to do was pull a muffin out of the bag, and a flock of seagulls was upon us like Hitchcock's "Birds." Unbelievable. Determined to complete her mission of food mercy, we retreated to base camp to figure out Plan B. Spotting a sole seagull, as opposed to the swarm, perhaps a seagull outcast like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, she figured she could safely dispense the goodies upon him. Wrong. They swooped down like the flying monkeys in "The Wizard of Oz," seeking chocolate chip muffins instead of Toto.
While enamored with this paradise, I couldn't get past a few thoughts. At 1 o'clock on Wednesday, literally the middle of the work week, there's all these folks rollerblading, biking, playing volleyball, and just having a grand old time. I kept thinking, "What do you people DO? How are you able to live like this?" Then I got all philosophical on myself. I asked myself, "if most people work their whole lives to be able to live in a paradise like this, once there, THEN what? Where can you go from paradise? What's your motivation in the morning? How much beach volleyball can you play? Does one need a perpetual carrot dangling in front of them to force perpetual motion, or does the peace and tranquility in itself provide the inspiration for greatness?" For now, my status in life dictates I'll have to pursue the "Dangling Carrot" theory for a while.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Back in the Saddle
So, today marks the end of my respite from the work world. A month and a half away from the rat race, as Bubba and I got settled in our new home. Tomorrow I get my first dose of "official" rush hour traffic. Whatever it's like though, I don't think I'll miss being crammed inside of a smelly subway car, being physically intimate with total strangers in a sort of clothed orgy. I'll have the luxury of listenting to the radio, or better yet, spending some quality time with my jazz records, the ones that Bubba doesn't really care for or "get." The ones that sound like a toddler just mashing his hands on the keyboard with no apparent rhyme or reason.
I also look forward to seeing what it's like to work outside of the New York City cauldron of hyperactivity. I don't think ANYONE out here is "go, go, go!" like they are back east. In New York, if you're LUCKY, you have time enough to dash outside to get food to bring back to your desk to eat while you work. Sometimes I think the corporations would just as soon install troths if the labor laws would allow it.
Anyway, I was hoping to "find myself" a bit during my break. The only things I've "found" are that I REALLY miss having easy access to good pizza and good bagels. I'd always heard that the pickin's were slim out here in that regard, but really, it makes no sense. You're talking about various combinations of dough, ovens, sauce, toppings, etc. Nothing that's like, exclusive to the east. Surely SOME master craftsman of pizza or bagels, at SOME point in time said, "I think I want to move out west, and take my cooking skills with me." Apparently not.
I also look forward to seeing what it's like to work outside of the New York City cauldron of hyperactivity. I don't think ANYONE out here is "go, go, go!" like they are back east. In New York, if you're LUCKY, you have time enough to dash outside to get food to bring back to your desk to eat while you work. Sometimes I think the corporations would just as soon install troths if the labor laws would allow it.
Anyway, I was hoping to "find myself" a bit during my break. The only things I've "found" are that I REALLY miss having easy access to good pizza and good bagels. I'd always heard that the pickin's were slim out here in that regard, but really, it makes no sense. You're talking about various combinations of dough, ovens, sauce, toppings, etc. Nothing that's like, exclusive to the east. Surely SOME master craftsman of pizza or bagels, at SOME point in time said, "I think I want to move out west, and take my cooking skills with me." Apparently not.
Monday, January 15, 2007
"And the Winner is..."
So, last night was Golden Globes night here in Hollywood. Apparently it's quite a big to do 'round here. Where I lived in New York, we were about a mile from the U.N., so I got used to severe traffic snarls in the name of the President, and all of the other international peacekeepers invading the borough for three or four days. Now, I've got my traffic patterns upset by Borat.
Personally, I don't know where the Globes fall in the hierarchy of glad-handing ceremonies. Is it less than the Emmy's, but bigger than the People's Choice? What about Oscar? ESPY's? Obie's? American Music Awards? You get the idea. I just can't get with the whole thing. Just a big lovefest, and I've got no love to give. No hate either, mind you. Just indifference.
The problem is, now that I'm a local, I feel I'm SUPPOSED to start getting with the program more. You know, "when in Rome...." Does a next day, 30 minute recap on E.T. count as support? That's about all I've got to give to the cause right now.
I imagine if down the road, if Bubba is fortunate enough to ever be considered for such honors with her acting, or myself with my music, my tune might change (pun intended). Maybe rather than cynically criticizing, I should start taking notes? You know, practice the smile, the wave, the proper angle at which to stand so my ass looks JUST right, as well as come up with air-tight "spontaneous" banter. "It's just an honor to be even nominated amongst such distinguished company. We're ALL winners here, Mary Hart. What probably WOULD happen would be that I'd start out like that, and inevitably, my conscience would take over and it'd be like, "It's just an honor to be even nominated amongst such distinguished company. I mean, obviously Fergie spurned a social life to lock herself in her room for years so she could properly resolve altered dominant 11th chords, followed by years of playing in dank clubs to three people the same way I did. We're ALL winners here, Mary Hart." Nah. I'm too young to be bitter. Maybe if I'M ever on the mic, for "Best Resolution of an Altered Dominant 11th," I'll go the Rasheed Wallace route. For those that don't know, he's a controversial basketball player who kept getting in trouble for speaking his mind. So finally he resolved to answer all questions by saying, "both teams played hard." Brilliant. Short. To the point. Non-confrontational.
Awards are fine enough, I guess. I just don't need a panel of "experts" to confirm for me when I've made a dope resolution of an altered dominant 11th chord.
Personally, I don't know where the Globes fall in the hierarchy of glad-handing ceremonies. Is it less than the Emmy's, but bigger than the People's Choice? What about Oscar? ESPY's? Obie's? American Music Awards? You get the idea. I just can't get with the whole thing. Just a big lovefest, and I've got no love to give. No hate either, mind you. Just indifference.
The problem is, now that I'm a local, I feel I'm SUPPOSED to start getting with the program more. You know, "when in Rome...." Does a next day, 30 minute recap on E.T. count as support? That's about all I've got to give to the cause right now.
I imagine if down the road, if Bubba is fortunate enough to ever be considered for such honors with her acting, or myself with my music, my tune might change (pun intended). Maybe rather than cynically criticizing, I should start taking notes? You know, practice the smile, the wave, the proper angle at which to stand so my ass looks JUST right, as well as come up with air-tight "spontaneous" banter. "It's just an honor to be even nominated amongst such distinguished company. We're ALL winners here, Mary Hart. What probably WOULD happen would be that I'd start out like that, and inevitably, my conscience would take over and it'd be like, "It's just an honor to be even nominated amongst such distinguished company. I mean, obviously Fergie spurned a social life to lock herself in her room for years so she could properly resolve altered dominant 11th chords, followed by years of playing in dank clubs to three people the same way I did. We're ALL winners here, Mary Hart." Nah. I'm too young to be bitter. Maybe if I'M ever on the mic, for "Best Resolution of an Altered Dominant 11th," I'll go the Rasheed Wallace route. For those that don't know, he's a controversial basketball player who kept getting in trouble for speaking his mind. So finally he resolved to answer all questions by saying, "both teams played hard." Brilliant. Short. To the point. Non-confrontational.
Awards are fine enough, I guess. I just don't need a panel of "experts" to confirm for me when I've made a dope resolution of an altered dominant 11th chord.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Road Trip
So, Bubba and I have stretched out a couple of times recently, taking in two notorious regions, both the complete opposite of each other. Last Friday, we had to do a little shopping, so we set out to the Century City Mall, just west of Beverly Hills. It's sad to admit, but after working in the corporate offices of first Liz Claiborne, and now Estee Lauder over the last 10 years, I get a little bit of a kick out of coming across the malls I've encountered on various sales reports and whatnot over the years. "Hey, it's Century City Mall!" I don't know what that says about me. I don't WANT to know what that says about me. Anyway, we got done quickly enough, so feeling adventurous, we figured we'd keep heading west.
One of the hidden challenges of moving from New York to L.A. is going from NEVER being behind the wheel to ALWAYS being behind the wheel. Over the years, I'd still drive enough from time to time to keep my chops up, but for all intents and purposes, Bubba hadn't been driving for years. So she took the helm, allowing me the opportunity to soak in the splendor in those moments I wasn't gripped with fear. We shoot on up the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) like Chuck Berry, playin' our radio with no particular place to go.
We drove maybe 30-40 minutes, right up the coast. Past the Jimmy Buffet looking night spots, the seafood shacks, and of course, past the multi-million dollar residences. A lot of the houses themselves seemed at least, relatively unspectacular. Certainly not enough to warrant their hefty pricetags, but I guess that zip code and all the cache that go with it, costs. I don't know if it's the post-9/11 paranoia talking, or just a general New York cynicism, but all I could think about as I looked at these places was, "This is just a mudslide waiting to happen! How do these people sleep at night? It's a FOREGONE conclusion that sooner or later, an earthquake, a hard rain, a severe ocean storm, SOMETHING is going to fell these houses. Especially the ones built on stilts." Sure enough, like 2 days later, a wicked fire, possibly started by something as small as a tossed roadside cigarrette butt, completely took out 6 houses, including Suzanne Sommers'. Let it be known that when my ship comes in, you shan't see Chez Scuba out on the PCH.
Our second lil' trip took us in the completely opposite direction, out to what they call Simi Valley. From where we are in W. Hollywood, it's about maybe 8 miles over, another 20 minutes up the 405 like O.J., past Brentwood, the San Fernando Valley, and Van Nuys, and then another 15 miles further west on the Ronald Reagan Freeway (the 118). It's a lovely drive really. Once you get over the hills, the backdrop becomes a magnificent mountain vista. The 118, leading up to Simi Valley, is really quite different than anything I'd seen. It's literally like driving to Mars. The hills are just short of a Martian red, and the terrain is very rocky and sparce. Then you come upon a town on the downside of the mountain, nestled in the crook of some hills, and I swear, it's the living embodiement of all of the film strips they'd show us in grade school about the future, and people living on Mars. Just a bizarre little space community. The landscape is fantastic, but it really strikes me as a surreal place to love. It truly felt otherwordly.
We get to Simi Valley and I start cracking up because even though it's completely different than anywhere I've ever been, it's also EXACTLY the same. From the highway I see a Bed, Bath and Beyond, a Denny's, a Home Deopt, and any other chain store you can think of. The only difference is, they've slapped some kind of Tex-Mex, southwestern style roofs on the buildings. Other than that, it's Anytown, USA. What was that phrase from "Buckaroo Banzai," "wherever you go, there you are." Truer words were never spoken. 3000 miles away and it's like I never left home.
One side note. I don't aim for this to be a particularly political column, but I have to comment on one aspect that I encountered. All I previously knew about Simi Valley was that it was where they held the trials for the cops in the Rodney King case. Now I REALLY know why everyone was so pissed. I did a little research, and found that the population there is 1% black, and SIX percent American Indian. I've never heard of anywhere in America where American Indians outnumber ANYONE, short of an Indian reservation. Of course, my real point has nothing to do with American Indians, merely the insanity of moving such a racially charged set of trials to a place that was SO non-black. The powers that be got what they deserved with all of the subswquent mayhem that was caused for invoking such a jackass tactic. I know this isn't exactly timely, but hey, I just moved here and saw it with my own eyes.
One of the hidden challenges of moving from New York to L.A. is going from NEVER being behind the wheel to ALWAYS being behind the wheel. Over the years, I'd still drive enough from time to time to keep my chops up, but for all intents and purposes, Bubba hadn't been driving for years. So she took the helm, allowing me the opportunity to soak in the splendor in those moments I wasn't gripped with fear. We shoot on up the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway) like Chuck Berry, playin' our radio with no particular place to go.
We drove maybe 30-40 minutes, right up the coast. Past the Jimmy Buffet looking night spots, the seafood shacks, and of course, past the multi-million dollar residences. A lot of the houses themselves seemed at least, relatively unspectacular. Certainly not enough to warrant their hefty pricetags, but I guess that zip code and all the cache that go with it, costs. I don't know if it's the post-9/11 paranoia talking, or just a general New York cynicism, but all I could think about as I looked at these places was, "This is just a mudslide waiting to happen! How do these people sleep at night? It's a FOREGONE conclusion that sooner or later, an earthquake, a hard rain, a severe ocean storm, SOMETHING is going to fell these houses. Especially the ones built on stilts." Sure enough, like 2 days later, a wicked fire, possibly started by something as small as a tossed roadside cigarrette butt, completely took out 6 houses, including Suzanne Sommers'. Let it be known that when my ship comes in, you shan't see Chez Scuba out on the PCH.
Our second lil' trip took us in the completely opposite direction, out to what they call Simi Valley. From where we are in W. Hollywood, it's about maybe 8 miles over, another 20 minutes up the 405 like O.J., past Brentwood, the San Fernando Valley, and Van Nuys, and then another 15 miles further west on the Ronald Reagan Freeway (the 118). It's a lovely drive really. Once you get over the hills, the backdrop becomes a magnificent mountain vista. The 118, leading up to Simi Valley, is really quite different than anything I'd seen. It's literally like driving to Mars. The hills are just short of a Martian red, and the terrain is very rocky and sparce. Then you come upon a town on the downside of the mountain, nestled in the crook of some hills, and I swear, it's the living embodiement of all of the film strips they'd show us in grade school about the future, and people living on Mars. Just a bizarre little space community. The landscape is fantastic, but it really strikes me as a surreal place to love. It truly felt otherwordly.
We get to Simi Valley and I start cracking up because even though it's completely different than anywhere I've ever been, it's also EXACTLY the same. From the highway I see a Bed, Bath and Beyond, a Denny's, a Home Deopt, and any other chain store you can think of. The only difference is, they've slapped some kind of Tex-Mex, southwestern style roofs on the buildings. Other than that, it's Anytown, USA. What was that phrase from "Buckaroo Banzai," "wherever you go, there you are." Truer words were never spoken. 3000 miles away and it's like I never left home.
One side note. I don't aim for this to be a particularly political column, but I have to comment on one aspect that I encountered. All I previously knew about Simi Valley was that it was where they held the trials for the cops in the Rodney King case. Now I REALLY know why everyone was so pissed. I did a little research, and found that the population there is 1% black, and SIX percent American Indian. I've never heard of anywhere in America where American Indians outnumber ANYONE, short of an Indian reservation. Of course, my real point has nothing to do with American Indians, merely the insanity of moving such a racially charged set of trials to a place that was SO non-black. The powers that be got what they deserved with all of the subswquent mayhem that was caused for invoking such a jackass tactic. I know this isn't exactly timely, but hey, I just moved here and saw it with my own eyes.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Well, Now You're Just Being Silly
I promise this won't regularly be a blog about fast food, but I HAVE to comment on something. As I eluded to at the outset of this blog, L.A. is TEEMING with burger joints. Anyway, this one in particular, Carl's Jr., has flown too close to the burger sun. They've been running this ad out here non-stop, for this new burger. I shouldn't even call this a burger. It's a monstrosity. It's a "Philly-Cheesesteak Cheeseburger." What that means is that they literally have a whole Philly-Cheesesteak, complete with onions and peppers, on top of a whole like, quarter-pound cheeseburger. The worst part is, in this commercial, these two putzes are talking about it, while one of them stuffs his fat face, and keeps talking in this "cabbie speak," with a mouth full of "cow" as they put it ('that's a nice cow,"), the whole time. Disgusting.
Lord knows I've been known to partake of a burger or two in my day. Hell, I drink my coffee out of my trusty White Castle mug, in a subtle hommage to the slider kings every day. But this is ridiculous. A line has to be drawn. The burger one-upsmanship out here is crazy. Burger King has I think a FIVE patty burger. You name it, they slap it on out here in the name of More Meat.
Anyway, I think this will only be of interest to one J. Wise up in Boston (you know who you are), but I just had to get it off my chest.
I also owe a brief apology to all of my "loyal readers." The Felz correctly pointed out my misspelling of "Schwarz" in FAO Schwarz, completely undermining my cosmopolitan credibility, as I spelled it like a tourist.
Lord knows I've been known to partake of a burger or two in my day. Hell, I drink my coffee out of my trusty White Castle mug, in a subtle hommage to the slider kings every day. But this is ridiculous. A line has to be drawn. The burger one-upsmanship out here is crazy. Burger King has I think a FIVE patty burger. You name it, they slap it on out here in the name of More Meat.
Anyway, I think this will only be of interest to one J. Wise up in Boston (you know who you are), but I just had to get it off my chest.
I also owe a brief apology to all of my "loyal readers." The Felz correctly pointed out my misspelling of "Schwarz" in FAO Schwarz, completely undermining my cosmopolitan credibility, as I spelled it like a tourist.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Iconography
Back east, Bubba and I lived in mid-town Manhattan, on the east side. We were spitting distance from a host of NYC landmarks. The 59th street bridge was practically our front driveway. The Plaza. FAO Schwartz. Bloomingdales. Central Park. Lincoln Center. All in walking distance, let alone the rest of the city, 30 minutes or less on the subway. L.A., for as big as it is, is SORELY lacking so far. At least on a per square mile basis. No classic architecture. No magnificent infrastructure. Not one skyscraper of note. No, the landmarks here are more like this. I live a stone's throw from Sunset Blvd. THAT'S where the landmarks are. On one of our initial cruises it was, "There's the Viper Room. Isn't that where River Phoenix died?" Or, "There's the big fat donut from the 'I Love L.A.' video." Or my personal favorite, "Hey, that's the comedy club where Kramer lost his shit!"
I guess in L.A., the stars are the stars (as well as the stars in the sky, which are quite refreshing to see again on a nightly basis). In New York, the sheer density of humanity in such a compact space seems to render folks virtually irrelevant day to day. Literal blurs on the street, that pass like the way the stars do when you go into hyperspace in any good sci-fi movie. Here, you get ample opportunity to take in everyone you want to, as much as you want to. I think that's how they like it. I'm feeling more and more that it's my local civic responsibility to maintain my aesthetics when I'm out and about. Akin to like, not painting your house pink so as not to devalue all of the neighborhood properties.
I would be remiss though, if I failed to highlight the truly spectacular NATURAL scenery out here. When I stretch my legs running to the 7-11 two blocks away (my only regular walking so far), the backdrop is the Hollywood Hills. Just about anywhere you go, there's SOMETHING pretty to look at, even if it's just a pretty girl ("I wish...they...all...could be Caaaaalifornia..."). One thing I've yet to figure out is, how is it so lush out here when it never rains? Lord knows I'm no botanist remotely, but I DO seem to recall something about plants needing water to live.
So what you end up with is, an insane buffet of elements that seemingly have no business together. Beautiful mountains/trees/water combined with the absolute extremes of low brow human commercialism and gluttony. Bizarre. (all right. I'm bummed. I was all set to insert my first picture. I have a great pic of the Randy's Donuts, 30 ft. high donut sign, juxtaposed with the clearest, bluest sky you've ever seen, except that you see it every day here. Alas, while I've figured out the camera, I haven't figured out how to insert pix yet).
I guess in L.A., the stars are the stars (as well as the stars in the sky, which are quite refreshing to see again on a nightly basis). In New York, the sheer density of humanity in such a compact space seems to render folks virtually irrelevant day to day. Literal blurs on the street, that pass like the way the stars do when you go into hyperspace in any good sci-fi movie. Here, you get ample opportunity to take in everyone you want to, as much as you want to. I think that's how they like it. I'm feeling more and more that it's my local civic responsibility to maintain my aesthetics when I'm out and about. Akin to like, not painting your house pink so as not to devalue all of the neighborhood properties.
I would be remiss though, if I failed to highlight the truly spectacular NATURAL scenery out here. When I stretch my legs running to the 7-11 two blocks away (my only regular walking so far), the backdrop is the Hollywood Hills. Just about anywhere you go, there's SOMETHING pretty to look at, even if it's just a pretty girl ("I wish...they...all...could be Caaaaalifornia..."). One thing I've yet to figure out is, how is it so lush out here when it never rains? Lord knows I'm no botanist remotely, but I DO seem to recall something about plants needing water to live.
So what you end up with is, an insane buffet of elements that seemingly have no business together. Beautiful mountains/trees/water combined with the absolute extremes of low brow human commercialism and gluttony. Bizarre. (all right. I'm bummed. I was all set to insert my first picture. I have a great pic of the Randy's Donuts, 30 ft. high donut sign, juxtaposed with the clearest, bluest sky you've ever seen, except that you see it every day here. Alas, while I've figured out the camera, I haven't figured out how to insert pix yet).
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