So, I've been working in Redondo Beach for like 6 weeks now. I have to say, I'm fascinated and down right flummoxed as to what to make of the child culture around here. When it's all said and done, I'll probably sound like a jerk for some of my possible grievances, but hey, I'm a California free spirit now. Don't fence me in!
One the one hand, I would describe the enviornment as idyllic for a child. Truly. The sun shines every day. There are wonderful athletic facilities (baseball diamonds, baskeball courts, soccer fields). No milk crate basketball hoops out here. The little leagues (to me, little league baseball is THE best, most wholesome thing a child can do) have well manicured fields, lights, the whole magilla. (I pass this one "stadium" that is for little league, but rivals a minor league ball park, complete with like, a proper concession stand I think). Most importantly, one gets the sense that the parents really care. Every day, I see SO many parents just on the streets, interacting with the kids. The soccer moms in full force, the dads playing catch, etc. And equally as important, you get the sense that it's safe here.
All of that is fantastic. Truly wonderful stuff. This is what 99% of the world WISHES for. And make no mistake, any gripes I have do not stem from what you would call sour grapes. I have no complaints about my childhood at all. My childhood was very similar to what I've described. "Cosbyesque" if you will. But there is one HUGE difference: Our Pro-Keds and Toughskins managed to touch the ground and get scuffed up once in a while.
Mind you, no one is ever going to get me confused with Mike Tyson. I'm far from the biggest, baddest, mf'er on the block ('lessin' you're referring to my old band in New York, Miller's Farm www.millersfarm.net). I'm a diplomatic pacifist if you will. That said, a little conflict, a little dirt under the fingernails, a little scraped up skin is not the worst thing in the world from time to time. I bring this up because it has become apparent to me that these west coast beach dandies are absolutely coddled out here. Just babied beyond belief. And I think the end result will be that these kids will grow up to be SOFT.
Just a few examples of what I'm talking about. When I was a kid, I never owned a bike helmet. Never owned elbow or knee pads. In fact, not only did I/we ride au naturale, I also got bullied and harrassed on my bike often, AND lived with the spectre of the "Newark Kids" coming to steal our bikes, as the urban legend went. And it was O.K. I got threw it just fine, thanks. Here, I see every kid (and parent) riding with a helmet and pads. But this goes beyond just when you're riding like Quicksilver through the "mean streets" of Redondo (I, unscientifically have counted an average of say, 1 car/10 minutes to be "dodged"). I saw a kid with the requisite safety gear......in his driveway.....with freakin' training wheels on. I almost pushed the kid off his bike just on spiteful principle. May as well pack him in bubble wrap at that point. And please, no one comment, "well it's now the law." I don't care.
Exhibit B - In South Orange (again, this is not Camden, NJ, this is lil' South Orange, NJ), we had a big ol' park right across the street from my house. But sometimes, we just felt like playing street football. Just because. We'd all assemble on Irving avenue, and set up shop in between the parked cars and such. And every third or fifth play, someone would yell, "car!" Everyone moves out of the way, life goes on. Here, I was driving home the other day, and I come up on some kids playing street hockey. "Hey, great! Nice game to put some hair on their chests." Then as I get closer, I see this store bought, cautionary like, traffic sign, that made me sick. It was like a bigger "Baby On Board" kind of thing, but placed in the street, so as to protect the cherubs from the likes of big, bad, me. "Caution: Children at Play" or something. Again, I almost ran the sign over out of spiteful principle.
Exhibit C - Really, this sums it all up better than anything. Back east, it was quite common to see a pair of kicks dangling from the phone lines, laces tied together. Some kid would get caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and get beaten up for his sneakers, and there they'd be, dangling for all to see. Last week, honest to God, I saw a similar sight out here. Difference was, it wasn't a fresh pair of Jordan's hanging. No, it was two pine cones. PINE CONES. Like, I can picture three third graders after school. "All right Bobby. Drop the paste, and give up the cones!" I swear, I'm looking at South Orange now like it was Fort Apache - The Bronx relative to this.
Is it me? Am I nuts here? I mean, I learned valuable life lessons as a kid through the periodic childhood "tragedy" that these kids are being shielded from. 'Don't dive on the concrete (Dave W.)'. 'Don't believe it when the kids threaten to blackmail you to the cops for something you didn't do (true story)'. 'I canNOT bunnyhop a Mongoose bike over two of my friends laying side by side.' 'If "Moonhead" Rhoulac asks you to "borrow" a quarter, he actually has no intention of paying you back, lest you make the mistake of asking him for it.' Etc. Practical life lessons that have replayed themselves in the adult world.
Maybe this is how life truly can be? Maybe, if everyone adopted this stance, the world would be a better place, and kids everywhere COULD live in such edens, in childhood and beyond? Hey, I'm not yet a parent (unless you count my pig and cat). I'm just going from instinct. I think you have to get knocked down early a few times, to know you can get back up. Life doesn't come with elbow pads and a helmet.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Hard to ReL.A.X.
My daily commute takes me by right by LAX on the 405. Not by the terminal, which features an interesting light display, as well as a 70's relic restaurant from the "not too distant future," that looks like it may even spin, but by the runways. Over the past month or so, I've been developing an uncomfortable fixation on it, particularly on the evening commute home. See, the planes that are arriving fly RIGHT over the highway. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing that the runway is no more than a half-mile from the road. What I find particularly odd is, the geniuses at city planning decided to line up the runway perpendicularly to the freeway so as to create this awkward cohabitation between commuter planes and commuter cars. I almost get the impression that back in the day, some eccentric billionaire like Mr. Burns was in charge of the whole thing, and, playing pin the tail on the donkey with a local map, decided, "I want the airport to be right THERE!" "But sir, don't you think that's perilously close to the roads?" "No. Right there. Just make it happen."
So the net result is, you get these planes coming in, flying literally maybe 80 feet above the road (I used some modest office buildings in the vicinity for scale). Worse yet, there are TWO runways parallel to each other. Sometimes the planes are staggered, but sometimes they come in in tandem, like they're drag racing. Unlike any other city I've experienced, L.A. offers HUGE panoramic vistas. On days when the smog is in remission, I swear you can see like 80 miles east, mountains lining the entire backdrop. There are no skyscrapers obstructing the view like I'm accustomed to. You can trail these planes from about the time the pilot instructs you to put your tray up and return your seat to the upright position, if one is so inclined.
Again, I'm increasingly fascinated/disturbed by this routine that's developing for me. As I make my way hoe amongst the other Joe Lunch Pails, I find myself watching the planes in, probably to the point of being dangerous to my driving. I was in Manhattan on 9/11. I miraculously lost no one I know, and at no time was I ever directly in harms way. That said, I WAS in the city (actually in transit on the subway at the time the first plane hit), and obviously I've been affected. Ever since, I've had a borderline unhealthy preoccupation with some of the footage (I watch it on the internet more often than I care to admit), simply because it represented the starkest, most dramatic event of my life, and it happened in my backyard. It's STILL surreal to me. One of my personal legacies from that day is that ever since, before I moved, every time I was walking the streets, and a plane was low enough for me to see or hear, I'd always think, JUST for a second, that it was happening again. So now, as I pass these low-riding flying behemoths every day, they keep looking like kamikaze missles to me, and it bothers me just enough to keep me uncomfortable. Independent of my 9/11 baggage, I think my own common sense would tell me, "These planes have no business flying so close to the road. They have no margin for error."
I don't know what all this means. I certainly don't expect the city planners to happen upon the blog and be like, "He's RIGHT! We need to change the whole thing!" I just think the whole thing is odd, and it happens to strike a particular nerve with me. So I guess the lesson here is, "Keep your distance from my car during my evening commute, lest my eyes stray towards an oncomming plane and I vere out of my lane."
So the net result is, you get these planes coming in, flying literally maybe 80 feet above the road (I used some modest office buildings in the vicinity for scale). Worse yet, there are TWO runways parallel to each other. Sometimes the planes are staggered, but sometimes they come in in tandem, like they're drag racing. Unlike any other city I've experienced, L.A. offers HUGE panoramic vistas. On days when the smog is in remission, I swear you can see like 80 miles east, mountains lining the entire backdrop. There are no skyscrapers obstructing the view like I'm accustomed to. You can trail these planes from about the time the pilot instructs you to put your tray up and return your seat to the upright position, if one is so inclined.
Again, I'm increasingly fascinated/disturbed by this routine that's developing for me. As I make my way hoe amongst the other Joe Lunch Pails, I find myself watching the planes in, probably to the point of being dangerous to my driving. I was in Manhattan on 9/11. I miraculously lost no one I know, and at no time was I ever directly in harms way. That said, I WAS in the city (actually in transit on the subway at the time the first plane hit), and obviously I've been affected. Ever since, I've had a borderline unhealthy preoccupation with some of the footage (I watch it on the internet more often than I care to admit), simply because it represented the starkest, most dramatic event of my life, and it happened in my backyard. It's STILL surreal to me. One of my personal legacies from that day is that ever since, before I moved, every time I was walking the streets, and a plane was low enough for me to see or hear, I'd always think, JUST for a second, that it was happening again. So now, as I pass these low-riding flying behemoths every day, they keep looking like kamikaze missles to me, and it bothers me just enough to keep me uncomfortable. Independent of my 9/11 baggage, I think my own common sense would tell me, "These planes have no business flying so close to the road. They have no margin for error."
I don't know what all this means. I certainly don't expect the city planners to happen upon the blog and be like, "He's RIGHT! We need to change the whole thing!" I just think the whole thing is odd, and it happens to strike a particular nerve with me. So I guess the lesson here is, "Keep your distance from my car during my evening commute, lest my eyes stray towards an oncomming plane and I vere out of my lane."
Thursday, March 1, 2007
No shirt, no shoes...DICE!!!!
So, having been back at work or a month or so, I've now been immersed in the Redondo/Hermosa/Manhattan Beach communities long enough to make a few observations, at least as they pertain to the lunch and rush hours.
I've taken a shine to a little Mexican greasy spoon just off of the beach. It's cheap, with good sized portions, and frankly, delicious. (Ironically, it's one of the few places I've seen WITHOUT Mexican kitchen help.) Anyway, I go there about once a week, and it continues to crack me up. Clearly, I've stumbled upon a little surfers mess hall, as the walls are lined with signed photos of surfers, as opposed to the usual head shot photos of mediocre celebrities (the kind that would actually think to carry head shots with them for just such an occasion) you'd see in a comparable diner. And apparently, within the surfer world, any semblence of understanding of the social contract is non-existant.
A week or two ago, on the first really hot day out here (like 85 degrees), I happened to go to this place for lunch. I get inside, and these dudes are chillin', eating their burritos, sporting nothing more than their Jams or wet suits. That's it. Not EVEN flip-flops. Jeff Spicoli in real-time, 3D. At first I was thinking, "Right on! Who needs the artificial constraints of society?! Be free!" Then I kept on thinking, "Wait a minute, I don't like to eat food in my own HOME in just a pair of shorts and no shirt! Not even my bagel with cream cheese on the laziest, sloppiest Sunday in the world. That's not even comfortable! And hot Mexican food?? That's just plain loco!"
I've also discovered that there is a revolution in physics taking place. They are literally, completely re-working our understanding of the workings of time out here. See, back in New York, I'd dash out to the deli or something at lunch, for a quick bite. This place would be like 8 deep on the line, and they'd still get me a HOT sandwich within 5 minutes. In the mornings, these 3 cooks would take these MASSIVE construction site orders, (one guy ordering for like 20 guys), each order more particular than the one before. "Gimme 3 eggs and bacon on wheat toast, with the top piece buttered, JUST on the outside, and the bottom piece with jelly, JUST on the inside. Make one egg poached, one egg scrambled, and one egg with the yolk leaking, eeeever so slightly." 20 of these orders at once, knives flying, fingers in constant peril, and they whisk us all in and out. Here, I go in, and there's like 5 people in the restaurant. 3 of them are already eating. So one guy has his order in already. "Cool. I'll be out of here in no time," I think. I order my quesedilla to go. 5 minutes pass. At 10 minutes, I see the first guy's come out. At 15 minutes mine comes out.
I started thinking, "How can this be? It defies everything I've ever learned. 20 people served in 5 minutes, vs. 2 people served in 20 minutes. What kind of f'd up inverse relationship is going on here? Did I used to live in a worm hole or something? Is someone, somewhere travelling at the speed of light, thus slowing down all sense of time?" I figured it out though. THEY DON'T MULTI-TASK here. Cook gets an order, and he doesn't move from it until it's DONE. Start to finish. No interruptions. Can't be disturbed, lest anything happen to the huevos rancheros.
But it's not just this one place. It's everywhere. I keep getting in trouble no matter where I go. On the busier days, I'm like, "Holly, I'll be right back. Gonna grab some lunch." I keep taking the bait, and keep getting burned. I just don't see how these places can afford to exist. They process like 10 orders/hour. For real. What kind of profit margins do they have where they can get away with this? I swear I'm gonna start my own restaurant. I can't cook worth squat, but hell if I wouldn't get the food out quickly.
I've taken a shine to a little Mexican greasy spoon just off of the beach. It's cheap, with good sized portions, and frankly, delicious. (Ironically, it's one of the few places I've seen WITHOUT Mexican kitchen help.) Anyway, I go there about once a week, and it continues to crack me up. Clearly, I've stumbled upon a little surfers mess hall, as the walls are lined with signed photos of surfers, as opposed to the usual head shot photos of mediocre celebrities (the kind that would actually think to carry head shots with them for just such an occasion) you'd see in a comparable diner. And apparently, within the surfer world, any semblence of understanding of the social contract is non-existant.
A week or two ago, on the first really hot day out here (like 85 degrees), I happened to go to this place for lunch. I get inside, and these dudes are chillin', eating their burritos, sporting nothing more than their Jams or wet suits. That's it. Not EVEN flip-flops. Jeff Spicoli in real-time, 3D. At first I was thinking, "Right on! Who needs the artificial constraints of society?! Be free!" Then I kept on thinking, "Wait a minute, I don't like to eat food in my own HOME in just a pair of shorts and no shirt! Not even my bagel with cream cheese on the laziest, sloppiest Sunday in the world. That's not even comfortable! And hot Mexican food?? That's just plain loco!"
I've also discovered that there is a revolution in physics taking place. They are literally, completely re-working our understanding of the workings of time out here. See, back in New York, I'd dash out to the deli or something at lunch, for a quick bite. This place would be like 8 deep on the line, and they'd still get me a HOT sandwich within 5 minutes. In the mornings, these 3 cooks would take these MASSIVE construction site orders, (one guy ordering for like 20 guys), each order more particular than the one before. "Gimme 3 eggs and bacon on wheat toast, with the top piece buttered, JUST on the outside, and the bottom piece with jelly, JUST on the inside. Make one egg poached, one egg scrambled, and one egg with the yolk leaking, eeeever so slightly." 20 of these orders at once, knives flying, fingers in constant peril, and they whisk us all in and out. Here, I go in, and there's like 5 people in the restaurant. 3 of them are already eating. So one guy has his order in already. "Cool. I'll be out of here in no time," I think. I order my quesedilla to go. 5 minutes pass. At 10 minutes, I see the first guy's come out. At 15 minutes mine comes out.
I started thinking, "How can this be? It defies everything I've ever learned. 20 people served in 5 minutes, vs. 2 people served in 20 minutes. What kind of f'd up inverse relationship is going on here? Did I used to live in a worm hole or something? Is someone, somewhere travelling at the speed of light, thus slowing down all sense of time?" I figured it out though. THEY DON'T MULTI-TASK here. Cook gets an order, and he doesn't move from it until it's DONE. Start to finish. No interruptions. Can't be disturbed, lest anything happen to the huevos rancheros.
But it's not just this one place. It's everywhere. I keep getting in trouble no matter where I go. On the busier days, I'm like, "Holly, I'll be right back. Gonna grab some lunch." I keep taking the bait, and keep getting burned. I just don't see how these places can afford to exist. They process like 10 orders/hour. For real. What kind of profit margins do they have where they can get away with this? I swear I'm gonna start my own restaurant. I can't cook worth squat, but hell if I wouldn't get the food out quickly.
Monday, February 26, 2007
So, on Sunday, Bubba and I gave our pig Orville a buttermilk bath...
I was going to leave this post at that, just because the sheer absurdity of that single phrase speaks volumes, but there's too much else to talk about right now, and I'm still digesting that we just gave a pig a buttermilk bath. If I dare to comment much further, my head will explode. Suffice to say, Orville is now fresh as a daisy, free to resume wallowing in his own filth.
As I stated a while back, now that I'm a Hollywoodian, I feel it my civic duty to keep tabs on the various award shows and such. And Sunday was Oscar night. Probably less than 2 miles from here, the film royalty descended on my 'hood for its latest love fest. I'm trying to get with the program, but not so much so that I was conscious enough to realize we now live on the west coast, and that it starts at 5 o'clcok here, not 8. So we missed the first hour or so I guess.
I'm not gonna give a blow by blow, but just a few observations. I thought Ellen did a pretty solid job. I find her pleasantly entertaining. Not gut-bustingly funny, but she definitely elicits chuckles from me. I thought the bit with Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg was particularly funny. That said, the Godfather himself, Spielberg, had the throwaway line of the night in my estimation. When he was on the mic with Coppola and Lucas, the three of them representing, I don't know, 3 billion dollars of movie wealth, he said to them, "spread out," like he was Moe to their Curly and Larry.
When Celine Dionne came on, I took that as an opportunity to skip out to grab us some dinner. I know it was Sunday night and all, but the streets were remarkably empty. Like there literally has been a local mandate for all of Hollywood to be home watching. I felt like a vigilante, stealthily evading the Oscar police as I made my way through the streets. As I came out of the 7-11, I saw a stretch limo race by. I imagined a disgruntled loser from one of the earlier awards, maybe Eddie Murphy or someone, getting a jump start on drowning his sorrows at either one of the post-Oscar parties, or at one of the local strip clubs.
Over the years, Bubba and I, as I would venture to say, 100% of all artists and 99% of all non-artists have done, have imagined our own victory speech we'd give. We always chide each other that we each damn well never pull a Hillary Swank, and fail to mention our better half. The one proviso is, God would get mentioned first. So it's like, God gets top billing and I or she would be 1A. As such, we can't help but notice who mentions God in their speeches. And remarkably, EVERY black aritst mentions God, and EVERY white artist does not. Amazingly consistent. Sure enough, at least out of what I saw, Jennifer Holiday (twice) and Forrest Whitaker were the only ones who mentioned God. I'm not here to make any socio/theological judgements. It's merely an observation. Do with it what you will. I just think it's interesting.
I don't know what's next on the awards docket 'round here. I've GOT to think there's at least a bit of a lull. Or at least a switch of medium, from film to music or something. Surely at SOME point the glad-handing has to stop long enough for people to actually produce new product, to subsequently glad-hand. Let's hope.
As I stated a while back, now that I'm a Hollywoodian, I feel it my civic duty to keep tabs on the various award shows and such. And Sunday was Oscar night. Probably less than 2 miles from here, the film royalty descended on my 'hood for its latest love fest. I'm trying to get with the program, but not so much so that I was conscious enough to realize we now live on the west coast, and that it starts at 5 o'clcok here, not 8. So we missed the first hour or so I guess.
I'm not gonna give a blow by blow, but just a few observations. I thought Ellen did a pretty solid job. I find her pleasantly entertaining. Not gut-bustingly funny, but she definitely elicits chuckles from me. I thought the bit with Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg was particularly funny. That said, the Godfather himself, Spielberg, had the throwaway line of the night in my estimation. When he was on the mic with Coppola and Lucas, the three of them representing, I don't know, 3 billion dollars of movie wealth, he said to them, "spread out," like he was Moe to their Curly and Larry.
When Celine Dionne came on, I took that as an opportunity to skip out to grab us some dinner. I know it was Sunday night and all, but the streets were remarkably empty. Like there literally has been a local mandate for all of Hollywood to be home watching. I felt like a vigilante, stealthily evading the Oscar police as I made my way through the streets. As I came out of the 7-11, I saw a stretch limo race by. I imagined a disgruntled loser from one of the earlier awards, maybe Eddie Murphy or someone, getting a jump start on drowning his sorrows at either one of the post-Oscar parties, or at one of the local strip clubs.
Over the years, Bubba and I, as I would venture to say, 100% of all artists and 99% of all non-artists have done, have imagined our own victory speech we'd give. We always chide each other that we each damn well never pull a Hillary Swank, and fail to mention our better half. The one proviso is, God would get mentioned first. So it's like, God gets top billing and I or she would be 1A. As such, we can't help but notice who mentions God in their speeches. And remarkably, EVERY black aritst mentions God, and EVERY white artist does not. Amazingly consistent. Sure enough, at least out of what I saw, Jennifer Holiday (twice) and Forrest Whitaker were the only ones who mentioned God. I'm not here to make any socio/theological judgements. It's merely an observation. Do with it what you will. I just think it's interesting.
I don't know what's next on the awards docket 'round here. I've GOT to think there's at least a bit of a lull. Or at least a switch of medium, from film to music or something. Surely at SOME point the glad-handing has to stop long enough for people to actually produce new product, to subsequently glad-hand. Let's hope.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Let's Play Two!
Figured I'd make up for my recent silence with an Ernie Banks worthy double-header today. I'm not trying to get all Seinfeld on you, obsessing about nonesense, but I have to revisit the pizza phenomenon out here.
Back in Joisy, multiple family pizzaria's used to use the same pizza box. On it was a drawing of this Chef Boy-Ar-Dee looking paisan, with a big ol' grin on his face and two fingers touching right in front of his face like he'd just had a phat slice that was so good, it compelled him to kiss his fingers and say, "Bellisimo!" Coming out of his mouth in a cartoon bubble was the expression, "You've tried the rest, now try the best!" Three months in to my Cali stay, I think the opposite is true for the 'za here. I know I've opined on this already, but I feel much clearer in my assesment now.
California, you don't....you just don't get it. Pizza I mean. After my first comments, several of my readers pointed out that it's because of the different water that New York pizza and bagels are so much better. While I'm sure that's a contributing factor, in no way is that the whole of the equation. 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen is a pretty universal recipe, with little room for individual creativity. No, it's the mindset that's off.
In my desperation, I've probably sampled, I don't know, 12 different slices since I've been here. They're not BAD, per se, but they just miss the mark. I don't know what all is going into their individual recipes and processes, but a quick look at the "slice practices" says it all to me. The whole concept of a slice of pizza is, "Hey, I'm a mover and a shaker. I'm a man on the go and I don't have too much time. Certainly not enough for a sit-down meal with all these deals to close. I know! I'll grab a slice, and be on my way in no time!" You go to the pizzaria, size up the various slice pies available, pick something, they re-heat it for 45 seconds, and you're out of there. Here, I swear to God, they MAKE YOUR SLICE FROM SCRATCH. It takes fifteen minutes to get a slice, the same way it would take 15 minutes for a fresh pie. I'm just trying to catch them behind the pizza oven, flipping a tiny piece of dough, like a referee flipping a quarter at kick-off.
Mind you, I am not ordering, a tuna-fish, m&m's, beef jerky and apricot slice that has to be special ordered for me. I'm talkin' 'bout, "Yo, Sal, lemme git two slices, and some more brothas on the wall!" Two cheese slices (used to be pepperoni until a pig entered my world) at 1 in the afternoon, the height of the lunch hour, and they're starting from scratch. That's all I need to know. That says to me, "You have missed the essence of the task at hand." You LISTENED to Hendrix, but you didn't HEAR it (see: Snipes, Wesley).
Back in Joisy, multiple family pizzaria's used to use the same pizza box. On it was a drawing of this Chef Boy-Ar-Dee looking paisan, with a big ol' grin on his face and two fingers touching right in front of his face like he'd just had a phat slice that was so good, it compelled him to kiss his fingers and say, "Bellisimo!" Coming out of his mouth in a cartoon bubble was the expression, "You've tried the rest, now try the best!" Three months in to my Cali stay, I think the opposite is true for the 'za here. I know I've opined on this already, but I feel much clearer in my assesment now.
California, you don't....you just don't get it. Pizza I mean. After my first comments, several of my readers pointed out that it's because of the different water that New York pizza and bagels are so much better. While I'm sure that's a contributing factor, in no way is that the whole of the equation. 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen is a pretty universal recipe, with little room for individual creativity. No, it's the mindset that's off.
In my desperation, I've probably sampled, I don't know, 12 different slices since I've been here. They're not BAD, per se, but they just miss the mark. I don't know what all is going into their individual recipes and processes, but a quick look at the "slice practices" says it all to me. The whole concept of a slice of pizza is, "Hey, I'm a mover and a shaker. I'm a man on the go and I don't have too much time. Certainly not enough for a sit-down meal with all these deals to close. I know! I'll grab a slice, and be on my way in no time!" You go to the pizzaria, size up the various slice pies available, pick something, they re-heat it for 45 seconds, and you're out of there. Here, I swear to God, they MAKE YOUR SLICE FROM SCRATCH. It takes fifteen minutes to get a slice, the same way it would take 15 minutes for a fresh pie. I'm just trying to catch them behind the pizza oven, flipping a tiny piece of dough, like a referee flipping a quarter at kick-off.
Mind you, I am not ordering, a tuna-fish, m&m's, beef jerky and apricot slice that has to be special ordered for me. I'm talkin' 'bout, "Yo, Sal, lemme git two slices, and some more brothas on the wall!" Two cheese slices (used to be pepperoni until a pig entered my world) at 1 in the afternoon, the height of the lunch hour, and they're starting from scratch. That's all I need to know. That says to me, "You have missed the essence of the task at hand." You LISTENED to Hendrix, but you didn't HEAR it (see: Snipes, Wesley).
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Who Knew?
So, the fates were kind to Bubba and me this past weekend. We had to pick up a few things, so we headed out to the Hollywood and Highland Mall. Located at the corners of Hollywood and Highland (duh) Avenues, it's in tourist Hollywood Central. I've been here all of 3 months, and even I know already, "Eh, we 'locals' wouldn't really want to hang out there. Too touristy." This is where you've got your Walk of Fame, your Kodak Theater (setting up for the Oscars a WEEK in advance, like it's a UN Global summit), and your gift shops hawking t-shirts, faux Oscars for things like, "Best Nephew," and fake drivers license mock-ups of your favorite trashy celebrity.
Then of course, you have Grauman's Chinese Theater. I'd sort of been there a couple of times, already. I mean hey, you gotta look at the cement hand and foot prints if you're there. I think Bubba and I went once, then once again when her sister was in town. Both times, what cracked me up is how absolutely MINISCULE the vast majority of the starlets' shoes/feet were. It's particular funny to me, because I have ill-formed clown feet, and I can only imagine what my cement mold would look like. I also cracked up at some of the cement pairings. Like the old Sesame Street (if it was Electric Co. or a different kids show, cut me some slack) song, "Which of these things just doesn't belong here?" You'd see, I don't know, Clint Eastwood, Marlon Brando, Liz Taylor, and then like, Jim Carrey. Not to sweat him, but you're going from like, Dirty Harry, to Don Corleone, to Cleopatra, to Ace Ventura.
So, I'd seen the foot and hoof (Trigger) prints and all, but hadn't seen a film there. Didn't even think about it. Assumed it was like the multi-plex annex next door which we'd already seen, complete with stadium seating, perfect site lines, and a Big Gulp cup-holder. Upon finishing up our shopping, Bubba said, "what's playing at the theater (the multi-plex)?" Turns out "Hannibal" was playing, which we'd wanted to see, starting like right that minute. We give the usher our tickets and he's like, "No, you have to go next door. Down the escalator and outside." Annoyed, because we're already 8 minutes into trailers, we shuffle down the escalator, into the bus loads of tourists outside Grauman's, all taking the EXACT same pictures, that have been taken exactly the same way every day for exactly the last 60 years.
We finally get inside the actual theater and much to my surprise, it is phe-NOMENAL. Just fantastic. Huge lobby. Huge theater. Huge screen. Huge sound. Huge popcorn too. A perfect blend of old-time Hollywood movie showmanship and presentation, but with all of the modern conveniences. Even the bathrooms were great. I don't notice bathrooms in movie theaters, but I have to give this one props. My only regret is that we weren't watching some dope sci-fi movie or battle epic, to really get to appreciate the sense stimulating capabilities of this place.
Early on in my L.A. tenure, I'd noted how for as vast and significant a city this is, it's significantly lacking in concrete historical landmarks and such. Hell, I heard on the radio that in Venice Beach, a battle is builiding because they want to tear down the legendary Zephyr skate shop or something in favor of some condos. Because there's so few places people seem to genuinely care about, this is getting attention akin to the way New Yorkers petitioned for The Plaza recently, or the way so many people go nuts when they talk about renovating Yankee Stadium. So maybe that's why I was so floored by Grauman's? I mean, I think it has been the first and only MAN-MADE place to really live up to the hype for me. (I qualify it with "man-made" because I think the natural splendor actually MORE than lives up to the hype).
When you get down to it, I shouldn't be so fixated on this concept of "legitimate landmarks." I lived either in, or within 45 minutes of NYC for probably 26 out of my 36 years, with this motherlode of great architecture and whatnot. In that time, I went to the Empire State Building once, NEVER went to the WTC, the Statue of Liberty once on a school field trip, and so on. Maybe by virtue of NOT having so many things around, I WON'T now take them for granted, and I'll be able to appreciate things better?? Ahh, I'm over thinking this. The Grauman's Chinese Theater is an excellent place to see a movie. If you ever come to Los Angeles, I highly recommend it. Done and done.
Then of course, you have Grauman's Chinese Theater. I'd sort of been there a couple of times, already. I mean hey, you gotta look at the cement hand and foot prints if you're there. I think Bubba and I went once, then once again when her sister was in town. Both times, what cracked me up is how absolutely MINISCULE the vast majority of the starlets' shoes/feet were. It's particular funny to me, because I have ill-formed clown feet, and I can only imagine what my cement mold would look like. I also cracked up at some of the cement pairings. Like the old Sesame Street (if it was Electric Co. or a different kids show, cut me some slack) song, "Which of these things just doesn't belong here?" You'd see, I don't know, Clint Eastwood, Marlon Brando, Liz Taylor, and then like, Jim Carrey. Not to sweat him, but you're going from like, Dirty Harry, to Don Corleone, to Cleopatra, to Ace Ventura.
So, I'd seen the foot and hoof (Trigger) prints and all, but hadn't seen a film there. Didn't even think about it. Assumed it was like the multi-plex annex next door which we'd already seen, complete with stadium seating, perfect site lines, and a Big Gulp cup-holder. Upon finishing up our shopping, Bubba said, "what's playing at the theater (the multi-plex)?" Turns out "Hannibal" was playing, which we'd wanted to see, starting like right that minute. We give the usher our tickets and he's like, "No, you have to go next door. Down the escalator and outside." Annoyed, because we're already 8 minutes into trailers, we shuffle down the escalator, into the bus loads of tourists outside Grauman's, all taking the EXACT same pictures, that have been taken exactly the same way every day for exactly the last 60 years.
We finally get inside the actual theater and much to my surprise, it is phe-NOMENAL. Just fantastic. Huge lobby. Huge theater. Huge screen. Huge sound. Huge popcorn too. A perfect blend of old-time Hollywood movie showmanship and presentation, but with all of the modern conveniences. Even the bathrooms were great. I don't notice bathrooms in movie theaters, but I have to give this one props. My only regret is that we weren't watching some dope sci-fi movie or battle epic, to really get to appreciate the sense stimulating capabilities of this place.
Early on in my L.A. tenure, I'd noted how for as vast and significant a city this is, it's significantly lacking in concrete historical landmarks and such. Hell, I heard on the radio that in Venice Beach, a battle is builiding because they want to tear down the legendary Zephyr skate shop or something in favor of some condos. Because there's so few places people seem to genuinely care about, this is getting attention akin to the way New Yorkers petitioned for The Plaza recently, or the way so many people go nuts when they talk about renovating Yankee Stadium. So maybe that's why I was so floored by Grauman's? I mean, I think it has been the first and only MAN-MADE place to really live up to the hype for me. (I qualify it with "man-made" because I think the natural splendor actually MORE than lives up to the hype).
When you get down to it, I shouldn't be so fixated on this concept of "legitimate landmarks." I lived either in, or within 45 minutes of NYC for probably 26 out of my 36 years, with this motherlode of great architecture and whatnot. In that time, I went to the Empire State Building once, NEVER went to the WTC, the Statue of Liberty once on a school field trip, and so on. Maybe by virtue of NOT having so many things around, I WON'T now take them for granted, and I'll be able to appreciate things better?? Ahh, I'm over thinking this. The Grauman's Chinese Theater is an excellent place to see a movie. If you ever come to Los Angeles, I highly recommend it. Done and done.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Green Acres
So, as many of you know, Bubba surprised me with an early Valentine's Day gift for the household a couple of weeks ago, in the form of Orville, our new pot-bellied pig. Now that I've got almost 2 weeks with him under my belt, and since it's Valentine's Day and all, I can finally commence with my "review," of said pig.
The first few days, it was hard to get beyond the at least hourly realization I would say to myself, "there's a pig in my kitchen." Not angrily. Not excitedly. Not euphorically. Just perplexedly matter of factly, "there's a pig in my kitchen." At 2 months old, fresh from being taken from his mother and thrust onto an airplane into the kitchen of perfect strangers, Orville was not surprisingly, a tad skittish at first. He was reluctant to even come out of his carrier, but then we learned the key to all things pigs: Food. Food is the magic elixir. The fix-all. For you see, food is Orville's raison d'etre. And he who controls the food, controls the pig. It's that simple.
We've all heard about someone or another "eating like a pig." I've come to decide that that is a misnomer. I have to tell you, watching an actual pig eat is actually fascinating, not disgusting. Bubba and I have had many a discussion over the years about the essence and nature of greatness. In athletes, artists, or any other readily observable arena, I think most everyone likes to see greatness in action. Unbridled passion and true mastery of a subject. My boy Z, the biggest Knicks fan around, he could even appreciate the greatness of watching Michael Jordan in motion, even as he was ending yet another Knicks' season. I make this comparison because we now have a true artist in our midst.
Orville, is a virtuoso eater. He will eat ANYTHING, and eat it all with a fiery passion. And the best part is, he doesn't seem to take a breath. He's like the horn player Rahsaan Roland Kirk (SECOND reference in a month). Kirk used to play three horns at a time, and could hold a note literally, for as long as he wanted via a technique called circular breathing http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circular_breathing (Kenny G does it too, but that phrase was the first and last time I'll mention him in this blog ever). Once a "session" begins, his mouth fires like a Pac-Man until the food is gone and he goes like 3 straight, extra minutes of chewing air without any results that he'll finally stop. Like a Hoover vaccum cleaner, he won't stop until the dish/floor/carpet is spotless. I guess, at his size, he's more of a Dustbuster than a full-on vaccum, but you get the idea.
Naively, I thought when I started typing this that I'd casually some up having a pig in my house, and move on to the next topic. Clearly, this is going to be an extended work in progress like my friend Elise's journal on the wonders of motherhood http://byeliseabramsmiller.blogspot.com/. But I would be remiss if I failed to mention in my initial bovine recount, the phone call I had with my man Boston Jay on the topic last Friday. Jay's one of my boys from back in the day, and my unofficial "Partner in Swine." He and I both have, shall we say, a "penchant" for bacon, sausage, and all of the other wonderful products that come from this remarkable animal. So when he unassumingly called me last Friday to shoot the breeze, I told him to check his e-mail, so he could take in this latest development in my life. He opened the picture I sent him, and set off on an "Orville-esque," 5 minute uninterrupted laughing jag. The comedic ramifications of this scenario exploded out of his head, one after the other. The irony of this newly formed odd couple was/is truly "delicious" as it were. That this culinary delight was now my "kin folk" as he put it.
By Saturday, he'd caught his breath. That is, until I called him from the cell to tell him I was out taking the pig for a walk. On Sunday, his abs aching like he'd done 1000 sit-ups over the weekend, I decided to bust his "chops" one last time for good measure. I called him to tell him that lil' Orville was literally, camped out by the fire we had going in the fireplace, just BEGGING for me to go over there and honey-glaze him. Boston Jay is slated to come out here some time this spring. We told him he's welcome to stay with us provided he's not holding a fork and knife when we pick him up at the airport.
Truth be told, Orville's presence has had an impact on my pork psyche. To expect me to drop cold turkey is fool-hardy. BUT, I have kind of stopped eating it in the house. This is a problem as my sister had gotten me this like, 4 pack sampler of gourmet bacon for Christmas. And when I've gotten my breakfast fare the last 2 weeks, I do at least stop to consider what's happening (before I inevitably eat it), making me think that it's conceivable at least, that a gradual phase-out could happen. We'll see if that comes to pass, but Orville is certainly safe.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Takin' Care of Business
So, for reasons I've yet to fully grasp, I'm getting requests from the masses to hear about my actual work life here. I've gone out of my way NOT to, simply because I thought that I'd be crossing the line of indifference. In other words, it'd be too boring for even my most die-hard reader. But apparently I'm wrong, and remarkably people care. I'm an entertainer at the end of the day, and harkening back to my class in Showmanship 101, the lesson was, "Give the People What They Want."
Here's what I'm going to do. I REFUSE to believe that people have the slightest interest in the actual particulars of my job. Like all jobs that aren't in a coal mine, or an assembly line, my job has semi-interesting aspects, and horribly mundane aspects. Yes, I work in the "high-flying" world of cosmetics, my staggeringly THIRD traditionally femine industry that I've just happened upon (after fashion and upscale woman's bras and underwear), but as with anything, the day to day reality tends to not be nearly as exciting as one might guess. So I'll spare you descriptions of retail sales spreadsheets, product launches, and mass sample mailings.
For the uninitiated, I work for Prescriptives cosmetics, one of the smaller brands within the Estee Lauder umbrella. I worked in New York for them for three years. Upon deciding to make the move out here, I was fortunate enough to have established a good working and personal relationship with our west coast regional, Holly. She made an enthusiastic effort to keep me in the fold when I got out here, and I now work for her, directly out of her house. So, the net result is that I now am commuting to Redondo Beach every day, helping Holly keep the west coast thriving.
The stylistic contrast between my current and previous enviornments is staggering. (I feel like I'm about to embark on starting another east coast/west coast feud like the rap world unfortunately saw). And this point was driven home this past week, when the top brass from the east had their annual sales meeting out here. A sort of corporate pep rally if you will. I got to reconnect to maybe 10 people I used to work with back east to varying degrees. I heard tale of woe after tale of woe. Work days stretching into the a.m. Weekends. Constant stress. All I could do was nod and smile politely. Most of all I had to keep my trap shut, rather than regale them with my new tales of sockless days and actual peace at work. Oh yeah. They were also fresh from single-digit weather, while I've been "forced" to deal with a "nippy" 65 degrees every day.
When I was in New York, I'd consider myself one of the more laid back people in that office (this isn't just the Estee Lauder office really, but any corporate office I've worked in). I tried to always keep things in perspective. But even I, had trouble with little things. Like, taking an hour lunch felt like a crime to me. How could I, when everyone else was chained to their desk? Hell, I felt guilty just going out to GET lunch to bring back to my desk! Now, I go to lunch down by the beach. There's like 4 cars in the street. It almost feels like a siesta in town. Maybe I stay out. Maybe I come back and come back on my e-mails while I nosh. The point is, it's civil.
Here's the thing though. It's not like they're ineffective out here. The job gets done and done well. Holly for example, is a pit bull. But she's a pit bull able to maintain her sanity, and live a balanced life. She works hard, and plays hard. And her people LOVE her. And THAT seems to be the key to success. Balance. In no way am I dissing the folks back east. I was in that cauldron for 3 years myself. I have nothing but respect for the effort and energy they all expend. But I also wish they could figure out a way to strike the balance I speak of. 3000 miles removed from the daily spectre of the TOP brass, demanding results every day, I understand that it's a little bit easier to loose the chains out here. Still, something is wrong in the equation.
Ironically, the best way I can illuminate the California way, is via a life lesson I experienced in New York, but am only really starting to LEARN 10 years removed out here. A friend of mine had two young British blokes (Chris and John I think) staying with her while they had a summer internship at an architecture firm. I'd hung with them a few times before their jobs started. Their firm was located in the same part of mid-town as I was working, right off of Times Square. By chance, on their FIRST Monday, I happened to be running late (getting to work around 9:30), and who do I run into on the street, but them, strolling up Broadway. I'm literally running up the street when I see them. I say, "Fellas, aren't you supposed to be at work already???" Chris looks to me and says, "What's the rush, then?" "Well, weren't supposed to be there by like, 9?" "Well, we had to 'ave a lit'le breakfast, 'ave some tea, smoke a few fags. The woooork'll get done then, won't it?" At the time, I thought they were nuts. Now, I see that they got it.
Here's what I'm going to do. I REFUSE to believe that people have the slightest interest in the actual particulars of my job. Like all jobs that aren't in a coal mine, or an assembly line, my job has semi-interesting aspects, and horribly mundane aspects. Yes, I work in the "high-flying" world of cosmetics, my staggeringly THIRD traditionally femine industry that I've just happened upon (after fashion and upscale woman's bras and underwear), but as with anything, the day to day reality tends to not be nearly as exciting as one might guess. So I'll spare you descriptions of retail sales spreadsheets, product launches, and mass sample mailings.
For the uninitiated, I work for Prescriptives cosmetics, one of the smaller brands within the Estee Lauder umbrella. I worked in New York for them for three years. Upon deciding to make the move out here, I was fortunate enough to have established a good working and personal relationship with our west coast regional, Holly. She made an enthusiastic effort to keep me in the fold when I got out here, and I now work for her, directly out of her house. So, the net result is that I now am commuting to Redondo Beach every day, helping Holly keep the west coast thriving.
The stylistic contrast between my current and previous enviornments is staggering. (I feel like I'm about to embark on starting another east coast/west coast feud like the rap world unfortunately saw). And this point was driven home this past week, when the top brass from the east had their annual sales meeting out here. A sort of corporate pep rally if you will. I got to reconnect to maybe 10 people I used to work with back east to varying degrees. I heard tale of woe after tale of woe. Work days stretching into the a.m. Weekends. Constant stress. All I could do was nod and smile politely. Most of all I had to keep my trap shut, rather than regale them with my new tales of sockless days and actual peace at work. Oh yeah. They were also fresh from single-digit weather, while I've been "forced" to deal with a "nippy" 65 degrees every day.
When I was in New York, I'd consider myself one of the more laid back people in that office (this isn't just the Estee Lauder office really, but any corporate office I've worked in). I tried to always keep things in perspective. But even I, had trouble with little things. Like, taking an hour lunch felt like a crime to me. How could I, when everyone else was chained to their desk? Hell, I felt guilty just going out to GET lunch to bring back to my desk! Now, I go to lunch down by the beach. There's like 4 cars in the street. It almost feels like a siesta in town. Maybe I stay out. Maybe I come back and come back on my e-mails while I nosh. The point is, it's civil.
Here's the thing though. It's not like they're ineffective out here. The job gets done and done well. Holly for example, is a pit bull. But she's a pit bull able to maintain her sanity, and live a balanced life. She works hard, and plays hard. And her people LOVE her. And THAT seems to be the key to success. Balance. In no way am I dissing the folks back east. I was in that cauldron for 3 years myself. I have nothing but respect for the effort and energy they all expend. But I also wish they could figure out a way to strike the balance I speak of. 3000 miles removed from the daily spectre of the TOP brass, demanding results every day, I understand that it's a little bit easier to loose the chains out here. Still, something is wrong in the equation.
Ironically, the best way I can illuminate the California way, is via a life lesson I experienced in New York, but am only really starting to LEARN 10 years removed out here. A friend of mine had two young British blokes (Chris and John I think) staying with her while they had a summer internship at an architecture firm. I'd hung with them a few times before their jobs started. Their firm was located in the same part of mid-town as I was working, right off of Times Square. By chance, on their FIRST Monday, I happened to be running late (getting to work around 9:30), and who do I run into on the street, but them, strolling up Broadway. I'm literally running up the street when I see them. I say, "Fellas, aren't you supposed to be at work already???" Chris looks to me and says, "What's the rush, then?" "Well, weren't supposed to be there by like, 9?" "Well, we had to 'ave a lit'le breakfast, 'ave some tea, smoke a few fags. The woooork'll get done then, won't it?" At the time, I thought they were nuts. Now, I see that they got it.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Commuting with Nature
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.
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.
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).
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Melrose Place
Our new digs in W. Hollywood place us smack dab in the middle of the action, between Santa Monica Blvd., and Melrose Ave. For whatever reason, most of our early doings we needed to be on Santa Monica. Only recently did we take our first REAL foray onto Melrose. From what I can gather, it seems like a cross between the uptown, high end couture, Madison Ave. shops and the downtown St. Marks place funky boutiques of New York. Throw in a healthy dose of good ol' California spirituality, and you then have Melrose. Plus, Andrew Shue, former hunky star of Melrose Place, is an alum of my high school, so I felt an immediate kinship to the region.
My wife Bubba is heavy on the spirituality tip. As such, she'd heard about this book store from my boy Z, The Bodhi Tree, so we figured we'd check it out while she stocked up on incense and such. You know, gotta keep the chakras clean for the new year and all. I parked the car two blocks too early, getting temporarily disoriented as to which way was east or west of La Cienega. So, we're walking up the street, and we see a crystal shop. Bubba likes the crystals, so we go on inside. Indeed, they had a beautiful array of all kinds of sized crystals, geodes and whatnot. I felt like I was back in middle school science class, where for every show and tell, inevitably some kid would bring in some amethyst geode he found in his father's den. Anyway, while Bubba was checking out the jewlery, I sneak off to the side. Figure I'll at least inquire about something. You know, maybe get a few brownie points with a post-Christmas, pre-Valentine's Day surprise. I ask the woman working there, "how much for this piece right here?" She says, with a straight face, "$88,000." Guess Bubba and I are going to have to have clouded souls for just a little while longer.
Mercifully, we got the hell out of there real quick like, and got back onto the path to enlightenment, towards the Bodhi Tree. One door away, a t-shirt with an uplifting slogan (so uplifting that I've forgotten it already) catches Bubba's eye. We venture into this funky looking clothing store. Bubba comes across this lovely, flowing number. Again, it's just after Christmas, but for shits and giggles she asks, "how much for the dress?" "Oh that? $1,400." Sweet Jesus. Does it come with an Oscar? Now blinded by sticker shock, Bubba leads me by the hand to the Bodhi Tree once and for all. I will concede it was pretty neat. But I can't get over how many books there were on say, incense. How much is there to say? "It smells nice." "It'll make your home seem like a parlor." "It may bring you a little temporary inner peace." "If you're a male college student, it might help get you laid because the hippie chick you met in the quad might think you're spiritual and deep." Done and done. I did get a kick out of this one magazine though. I can't rememeber what it was called, but it may as well have been titled, "The Unabomber's Guide to Fine Hillbilly Living." In my 5 minutes of browsing alone, I learned how to heat my home for the winter using free, used deep fryer grease, as well as make a "Philly Cheesesteak" that doesn't have any meat in it. Alls I apparently need are some empty oil drums, a pump, and some soy.
Bubba was looking for something in particular, and the one salesperson we dealt with could not have been more rude and short. Even I of all people, could palpably feel the stink of her negative energy. Or as we locals say, she was puttin' out bad 'vibes.' She was better suited for the Port Authority ticket lines, not a spiritual haven. Honey needs to start dipping into the stash, as it were, to help change her attitude or something.
So God seems alive and well out here. At least on Melrose. He's just got a very Los Angeles attitude, and can come with a high pricetag.
My wife Bubba is heavy on the spirituality tip. As such, she'd heard about this book store from my boy Z, The Bodhi Tree, so we figured we'd check it out while she stocked up on incense and such. You know, gotta keep the chakras clean for the new year and all. I parked the car two blocks too early, getting temporarily disoriented as to which way was east or west of La Cienega. So, we're walking up the street, and we see a crystal shop. Bubba likes the crystals, so we go on inside. Indeed, they had a beautiful array of all kinds of sized crystals, geodes and whatnot. I felt like I was back in middle school science class, where for every show and tell, inevitably some kid would bring in some amethyst geode he found in his father's den. Anyway, while Bubba was checking out the jewlery, I sneak off to the side. Figure I'll at least inquire about something. You know, maybe get a few brownie points with a post-Christmas, pre-Valentine's Day surprise. I ask the woman working there, "how much for this piece right here?" She says, with a straight face, "$88,000." Guess Bubba and I are going to have to have clouded souls for just a little while longer.
Mercifully, we got the hell out of there real quick like, and got back onto the path to enlightenment, towards the Bodhi Tree. One door away, a t-shirt with an uplifting slogan (so uplifting that I've forgotten it already) catches Bubba's eye. We venture into this funky looking clothing store. Bubba comes across this lovely, flowing number. Again, it's just after Christmas, but for shits and giggles she asks, "how much for the dress?" "Oh that? $1,400." Sweet Jesus. Does it come with an Oscar? Now blinded by sticker shock, Bubba leads me by the hand to the Bodhi Tree once and for all. I will concede it was pretty neat. But I can't get over how many books there were on say, incense. How much is there to say? "It smells nice." "It'll make your home seem like a parlor." "It may bring you a little temporary inner peace." "If you're a male college student, it might help get you laid because the hippie chick you met in the quad might think you're spiritual and deep." Done and done. I did get a kick out of this one magazine though. I can't rememeber what it was called, but it may as well have been titled, "The Unabomber's Guide to Fine Hillbilly Living." In my 5 minutes of browsing alone, I learned how to heat my home for the winter using free, used deep fryer grease, as well as make a "Philly Cheesesteak" that doesn't have any meat in it. Alls I apparently need are some empty oil drums, a pump, and some soy.
Bubba was looking for something in particular, and the one salesperson we dealt with could not have been more rude and short. Even I of all people, could palpably feel the stink of her negative energy. Or as we locals say, she was puttin' out bad 'vibes.' She was better suited for the Port Authority ticket lines, not a spiritual haven. Honey needs to start dipping into the stash, as it were, to help change her attitude or something.
So God seems alive and well out here. At least on Melrose. He's just got a very Los Angeles attitude, and can come with a high pricetag.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
And so it begins...
As part of my Christmas booty, my wife Bubba got me my first ever, non-$5 pair of bitchin' sunglasses, er, "shades"as they say in the hipper circles. Is this how it starts? Is this the first step in my "Hollywood-ing?" After YEARS without a cell-phone back home, I'm already acting like a local, that 4-inch silver sliver glued to my ear more and more each day. What's next? Botox? Head shots? Keep your eyes on my soul, people. Make sure I don't lose it.
Speaking of botox, Bubba and I hit the Beverly Center mall recently for the first time. Much to my surprise (chagrine?), what did we pass by, but an IN-MALL botox shop. That's right, free poison into your face, while you sip your Starbucks and take the tags off your latest name brand clothing. Plus they validate parking, so you can't beat that with a bat.
I saw something else I never thought I'd see the other day. Coming back home from doing this or that, Bubba and I decided to hit the ol' IHOP. You know, for a little taste of home. I pull in to the parking lot, and what do I see: Valet Parking. Are you f'ing kidding me??? At IHOP?!?!?! I know parking is at a premium around here, but come on. IHOP?!?!? I couldn't justify handing over my keys in the name of a short stack of pancakes and some swine on the side, so I scavanged the mean streets for my own spot. I'd rather go park at home and walk, than use valet parking at IHOP.
Lastly, we took our first trip out to the water recently. We live about 30-45 minutes from Santa Monica, depending on the traffic. The drive itself is fairly uneventful, save for the 5 minute stretch where we pass Beverly Hills. It's remarkable how formally quartered off the haves and the have-nots are in that part of town. I haven't picked up my local maps of the stars houses yet to warrant the trip into the long money, but just passing by, you can see, "from this point to this point, THIS is where the money lives." Anyway, we get to the literal end of the line, the Pacific Ocean. Santa Monica Blvd, aka the famous Route 66, starts right there (well, technically it's like 1 or 2 blocks in from the ocean thanks to the idiots in the city planning dept.). We park the car just off the boardwalk carnival, and make our way to the beach. We wanted to ceremoniously dip our toes in the Pacific, as a sort of Christening for our west coast rebirth. Kind of like Apollonia purifying herself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka in "Purple Rain." It felt good. Cold, but good. And somehow, with seemingly almost diving intervention, as I pulled my size thirteens out of the water, I turned to Bubba and said..."Dude." I knew I was home.
Speaking of botox, Bubba and I hit the Beverly Center mall recently for the first time. Much to my surprise (chagrine?), what did we pass by, but an IN-MALL botox shop. That's right, free poison into your face, while you sip your Starbucks and take the tags off your latest name brand clothing. Plus they validate parking, so you can't beat that with a bat.
I saw something else I never thought I'd see the other day. Coming back home from doing this or that, Bubba and I decided to hit the ol' IHOP. You know, for a little taste of home. I pull in to the parking lot, and what do I see: Valet Parking. Are you f'ing kidding me??? At IHOP?!?!?! I know parking is at a premium around here, but come on. IHOP?!?!? I couldn't justify handing over my keys in the name of a short stack of pancakes and some swine on the side, so I scavanged the mean streets for my own spot. I'd rather go park at home and walk, than use valet parking at IHOP.
Lastly, we took our first trip out to the water recently. We live about 30-45 minutes from Santa Monica, depending on the traffic. The drive itself is fairly uneventful, save for the 5 minute stretch where we pass Beverly Hills. It's remarkable how formally quartered off the haves and the have-nots are in that part of town. I haven't picked up my local maps of the stars houses yet to warrant the trip into the long money, but just passing by, you can see, "from this point to this point, THIS is where the money lives." Anyway, we get to the literal end of the line, the Pacific Ocean. Santa Monica Blvd, aka the famous Route 66, starts right there (well, technically it's like 1 or 2 blocks in from the ocean thanks to the idiots in the city planning dept.). We park the car just off the boardwalk carnival, and make our way to the beach. We wanted to ceremoniously dip our toes in the Pacific, as a sort of Christening for our west coast rebirth. Kind of like Apollonia purifying herself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka in "Purple Rain." It felt good. Cold, but good. And somehow, with seemingly almost diving intervention, as I pulled my size thirteens out of the water, I turned to Bubba and said..."Dude." I knew I was home.
'Tis the Season
So, no sooner do I lament my lack of celeb sightings than Bubba and I get our first. An A-lister no less. Whilst shopping at the local Whole Foods, we see none other than Kirsten Dunst. We were looking at some flowers outside, and I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Not convinced because she was dressed down, we naturally followed her. We did the requisite, “pretend we’re reading the ingredients” of whatever it was we were shopping for, while altering our path to intersect with her in the next aisle. It was her all right. Tiny little thing. Also remarkably UN-spectacular. I called my boy Z, another New York transplant who’s been here about 7 years now. I said, “Z, she looked nothing like a movie star.” He said, “None of ‘em do.” I wouldn’t even paid her a second glance had I not seen her before. I felt proud because my wife DID (and does) look like a movie star.
<>It’s Christmas time, which I remember only because I happened to glance at my calendar. Nothing about this place says Christmas. Not the weather (even though it’s been unseasonably ‘cold’ here), and certainly not the atmosphere. Very few folks have the lights or lawn ornaments I’m accustomed to. Understand, I grew up in North Jersey, and bodacious displays were commonplace. Palm trees. Just palm trees. So, like they say, “when in Rome,” etc. To get into the “spirit,” Bubba and I decided to go full California throttle for the holiday, so we got a 7-foot tall, artificial, palm Christmas tree. Something like 650 lights on it. Good stuff. I miss the pine smell, and sticky sap and all, but this one has its own charm to it.
Goin' Back to Cali
“The white zone is for the loading and unloading of passengers. There is no stopping in a red zone.” These were LITERALLY the first words I heard as I exited LAX with my wife Maryellen (aka “Bubba), as an official Californian for the first time (save for when I was born in Oakland that is). So of course, MY eternally silly mind flashes to a classic scene in “Airplane,” where two voices argue about abortion over the LAX p.a. system, starting off with that exact recording, while Ted Striker pleads his case with Elaine. Guess I really am in Hollywood now, and my mind is already adjusting to the cinematic mindset, even though I’m a musician, not an actor.
<>So far, the mental adjustment hasn’t been as dramatic as I’d anticipated. It’s different to be sure, but easier really. The pace is slower, almost to the point of annoyance, at least for now. My wife and I are definitely still on New York time, as our short tempers with the various service people we’ve dealt with would attest to. I imagine it will serve us well ultimately, reversing the life-shortening trend that Big Apple living had started. Given that I moved to New York in 1994, I’ll hopefully be back at the break even threshold of a standard male 76.2 year life expectancy by around 2018. <>
I wouldn’t say I’m out here with stars in my eyes. Quite the contrary, I’d say I have more, “C-List” stars in my eyes. I’d be much more geeked to come across say, Meeno Peluce, child star of all kinds of 70’s tripe I grew up on, than I would, Jennifer Garner. So far though, the closest thing I’ve had to a celebrity sighting is the car dealer, Pablo, who sounded exactly like Danny Bonaduce. I half expected him to go on a steroid induced tirade when we turned down his deal, but no dice. He just shook my hand and said, “No problem, Bro.” Still, just being in this environment, one can’t help but at least entertain the notion that most everyone you encounter is either ASPIRING to be Jennifer Garner, or WAS a Meeno Peluce. I drove past Beverly Hills the other day. I see four older gents kibbutzing on a bench. I’m thinking to myself, “for all I know, one of those guys is ‘Paulie’ from the Godfather. You know, the one ‘we won’t see no more’” except, maybe I just did see him. <>
Much to my surprise, L.A. is the friggin’ burger capital of the world (I thought East Orange, NJ staked that claim, but I was wrong). I expected a tofu stand or something on every corner. Instead, there’s burger chains I’ve never even heard of. Astroburger. Fatburger. Sonic. In n’ Out. Carl’s Jr. All of the nationwide chains of course, and a bunch more I’m already forgetting. There’s also donut shops galore. And while the health nuts abound as well, it seems it’s all or nothing for most folks out here. <>
I’ll spare the traffic cliché’s, other than to say, they’re all true. Sonofabitch it takes a while to get places here. But it’s all right, you know? What’s the rush? I told my mom the other day, “I swear no one works here. I see cars filling the roads constantly, yet my neighbors are always home, and no one seems to GET anywhere. I don’t know what anyone DOES here, save for the people serving me in the burger joints.” Interestingly, my older sister apparently felt the same way when she did a 2 year tour at ‘SC out here in the 90’s. <>
As expansive as Los Angeles is, I’ve found it remarkably easy to navigate. Much like New York, the city is cut by a modest number of significant parallel avenues. Everything else is a side street, akin to any numbered street in Manhattan. Couple that with the consistent backdrop of the hills, and the fact that you’re stopping every 9 seconds in traffic, leaving you nothing BUT time to ponder where you are, it’s very easy to know where you are at all times. I also owe a huge geographical debt to O.J., Boyz n’ the Hood, and all of the Death Row artists I was weened on in the 90’s as well. As I’ve been driving around, it’s ALL coming back to me, usually in song. Slauson swap meet, Crenshaw, the L.B.C., Rosecrans, Inglewood (always up to no good), Bundy drive, the 405, I owe it all to 90’s pop culture. <>
I don’t know what it means exactly, when I say I think I’m gonna fit in nicely here. I’m definitely not a typical L.A.er, and if I become one, I demand my east coast peeps take me out on site. That said, I think my laid back, schmoove, schmoove style will play well out here. Hell, I was cold chillin’ right out the womb, as that picture of your boy at the top of this blog, mackin’ in the velour robe will attest to. <>
So here we go…
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