L.A. Anatomía

If there’s one thing I lack, then it’s a memory for alcohol. I just can’t remember the names, mixes, glasses or fruit that adorn the liquored liquids. It’s not because I overdrink, but rather, it’s that I just can’t bother. Nonetheless, November proved to be a month in which I wandered through several scenes across Los Angeles that could be deemed “hot” in that they were places to chill with a drink in hand.

The rundown:

1) Le Cave in Newport Beach was a  fun spot. I remember I had a green drink in a martini glass–I’m going to guess apple? There was also a jazz band. It was nice that the music was in a separate room so that you could still hear your friends if you so desired.

2) I love how wine bars are popping up all over Los Angeles; I just prefer them to regular bars for more than a few reasons. Anyway, AH and I ended at Wine 661 in Santa Clarita. Very chill atmosphere and a friendly bartender/owner who willingly helped me fine that perfect mellow white wine for a weekday. We asked her if there were differences between the wine tastes of men and women, but the bartender said that she found no rhyme or reason to an individual’s preference.

3) For an AFFMA (Arpa Foundation for Film, Music and Art) event, AH and I showed up at Ca’Brea on Brea. Even though the crowd was mainly made up of Armenians supporting Armenian artists, the restaurant served Italian food. (Although, AH says the owners are Armenian. Cool.) We didn’t really eat. The bartender made some viciously potent, sweet and tart lemon something-or-others. AH and I wined, dined and schmoozed. Then we went to a restaurant in Silverlake wherein we shared a plate of French fries and a bowl of udon. While eating, our companions spied Dita von Tease eating at the counter. We broke into whispers, stared at here, then quickly looked away when she wandered by. One of our companions introduced himself on her way back to her seat. She was gracious. She wore a pencil skirt, boat neck top and a feathered hat. I guess she was just taking it easy.

That’s really all. A little muddled, but so it goes when alcohol, words and writers mix.

Whew! I was wondering what to write about when I suddenly realized that the perfect story had fallen into my hands. How could I not have known? Am I such a self-involved Angeleno that I missed what was right in front of my face?

Speaking of what’s in front of your face, what is up with all the vampire love? Why are people so in love with the idea of vampires as lovers? Yeah, they have that whole “I’m a child of the night, immortal, pretty and pale” but what about the downside to dating the pointy-teethed suckers? First of all, they will always have cold feet and hands, which has got to make cuddling a bit annoying. Then, there’s that whole bloodsucking thing; I mean really? How are you going to build a life around those eating habits? Third, they live for freaking ever so this means that the vamp’s got to be broody like Angel or foolhardy like Lestat. What I mean is that they’re going to have ISSUES piled up like a Shel Silverstein garbage pile. You think you’ve got issues being an attractive teen or 20 something? Just check out the mess stewing behind your vampire lover’s pretty 100-year plus facade. Fourth, they’re demons. Don’t care how you coat it, twist it or magic it away; there’s a reason vampires stalk the night. Sure, they could be badboys with sweet hearts, but in the end, the majority of them probably would just want to rip out yours.

Have you figured out that I’m talking about Twilight?

Yesterday, while I wandered through Westwood al lado de UCLA, I discovered that the movie premiere of Twilight was in full swing. The tweens had come out in full force. A bus pulled over and let out a horde with signs! There was a girl wearing a cheerleader uniform with a “Team Jacob” embroidered on front. They were all pressed up at the edge of the sidewalk, squealing for “Edward! Edward!” Or whoever the actor who plays Edward is.

A girl and her boyfriend, who were not tweens or teens, walked by with vampire teeth.

A parking garage–for you must pay for parking in Westwood–had jacked up their price from $5 to $25 for the night.

Twilight has come to the city of angels!

So what does this have to do with the whole Los Angeles anatomy crap that AH and I like to post in this little blogspace? Well, I’ll tell you. As I mentioned, sometimes Angelenos are self-involved. We live in a very big, spaced out city full of spacy people who are running from point A to point B via a traffic-congested highway with ash in the air (or at least this week) and smog. We are hooked up to our GPS, blackberries and laptops, communicating a zillion things to a zillion different people. We may not walk but we move fast. Take for instance, a friend who’s just moved in to town from the Midwest. It’s only been a week and she feels run over by the fast pace that we drive at, talk at and think at.

So anyway, Angelenos move so fast that we miss things like Cordelia Chase from Buffy the Vampire Slayer once did when she went to visit a famous Hollywood director in Los Angeles. Even though she was a native of Sunnydale and personally knew the Slayer, Cordelia missed all the alarms that pointed out her “in” to Hollywood was actually a way to check “out” of life. And that’s kind of how I felt when I walked smack into the tweeny crowds at the Twilight premiere. I’ve lived in LA how many years? And how many times have I come across the whole 9-yards movie premiere?

Zero?

But why should I be surprised? Of course, it’s Westwood! Of course, it’s the perfect place for a premiere! And of course vampire love stories will always have a place in the hearts of Angelenos because this is LA. Where else could they hide so well?

Disneyland is definitely an experience that many a Los Angeleno has loved or endured. During my childhood, I’m sure that I went every three or four years. I remember loving the rides, especially Space Mountain. I remember playing games to cut lines and cheat crowds. I remember dehydrating in the midst of a summer heat, guzzling $5 sodas and devouring too many fries and churros. I remember going on Space Mountain so many times in a row that I felt like I was still on the ride even hours afterwards. Ah, the tolerance of youth! The ability to not get nauseated on moving rides! The strength of the teenage stomach!

My last foray to the Magic Kingdom was about six years ago. California Adventure had just opened, I had a friend who had free tickets that hopped parks and I didn’t have to pay for parking. Over those six or so years, I’d never felt a drive to go back to Disneyland. I guess I believed that I had outgrown this amusement park of legend. But there I was, on Saturday, back. I have to admit that I was a bit worried about feeling overwhelmed by the crowds, strollers, noise and general Disneylandishness of the entire place.

Surprise #1, I found the whole day rather calming.

Surprise # 2, Disneyland has jumped on the healthy-living bandwagon and now has numerous fresh fruit stands in conjunction with the fries, churros, chips, hotdogs, fried chicken, nachos, etc., stands.

Surprise #3 California Adventure is still dull. It is the lackluster younger sibling of Disneyland. I guess as a Californian, I just can’t be wowed by a park that says it will take me for a journey over Camarillo. But I will admit that Soarin Over California, the ride, is a good way to remind tourists and natives that our great state has some great vistas. Otherwise, after the rollercoaster and Hollywood Tower, we hopped over to Disneyland.

Surprise #4 I think the strollers and babies have multiplied by a gazillion.

Surprise #5 Maybe it was because we had a friend in a wheelchair (due to a twisted ankle), but I noticed more people in wheelchairs than ever. Half seemed to be young teenagers who had busted a limb somehow or were faking. The other half seemed to be adults who were obese or had complications with walking because of obesity. I noticed a handful of people who seemed to have a natural disability.

And etc.

What really stood out to me on this trip was that I saw the park so much differently as an adult rather than as a teenager or child. I can see why kids love this place. I can see why they’re dazzled by characters, princess dresses, rides that deify pirates and firework shows that announce in the melodious voice of Julie Andrews that dreams really do come true. But as an adult, I felt a very mellow interest. I didn’t mind being in Disneyland; in fact, I enjoyed myself. But i felt no touch of magic. No serving of fantasy. I saw the stitches that held the place together — the marketeers that came up with the slogans, the CEOs that pondered on new merchandise, the janitors that kept the bathrooms clean, the castmembers that kept their smiles on…..it felt so synthetic. The entire experience was an experience in a box–jumping from Tomorrowland to Adventureland and back to Frontierland. The entire park is a postcard for a greater more vibrant entity like California Adventure is for California. I was reminded of people who spend an entire great event or happening or occurrence or performance taping the program with their video cameras. They never seem to watch the spectacle with their real eyes.

The next day, I walked to my local market and wandered the stalls, buying produce. I bought two pears, a handful of fresh apples and some heirloom tomatoes. I stopped by the herb stall, then I wandered over to the omelet truck and ordered a fresh crepe. When it was done, I took it over to a handful of picnic tables set up under a tree shedding its leaves. Different groups of people were squished on red-checkered cloth-covered tables and I squeezed myself among them. While eating, I listened to a conversation between a husband and wife. She was taking about botany and a book that she was reading–it described how to encourage all kinds of plants to grow and produce fruit.

Taking a bite of my omelet, covered in spicy, spicy sauce, I smiled. There was no need to make yearly pilgrimages to the Magic Kingdom, not when it existed in my backyard.

 The Virgin appeared in a window at Mercy Hospital in Springfield MA. The some locals went to “witness” her. Others had to see her on the front page of next days news paper. The picture was blurred.

“A photographer nun I know says that pictures don’t capture miracles well,” one lady said, tipping over her high heels while pouring soy milk into her venti 4-shot latte at the local Starbucks.

“Did you see it?” a man with an orange construction shirt in line asked the lady, overhearing the conversation.

“No, I didn’t” she replied.

“Oh, I did.” he said with a proud smile.

“Have you seen today’s paper?” an elderly man, asked the Batista as he was handing him his coffee. The elderly man was a regular there. Came in everyday and did his crossword. He had lived in Springfield all his life and watched the rows and rows of vineyards that stretched till the river, be bulldozed for the Starbucks that stands here now.

“No, John, I haven’t yet. But I know about the Virgin.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, they say a son was praying for his mother who had just come out of surgery in that very room,” said the young Batista.

“You don’t say,” said the elderly man.

The out of towner, who was sitting in the corner watching all of this commotion about the Virgin of Springfield, couldn’t tell if the chatter was all in mockery or in true belief. When they asked her if she had seen it or the picture in the paper, she answered in the most vague response as possible, not knowing how the locals would react if she told them what she really thought.

After a few hours, the buzz about the virgin was beginning to get sensational.

The out of town-er, decided to leave the Starbucks and go do her work else where. Away from the Virgin.

While AH continues to trot her little feet in places exotic, I’ve got some news of my own: I had a very brief trip to Chicago. It was very short, like a hop, skip and jump minus the skip. But, despite the brevity, I have a few observations to make about the Windy City, which, because this is a blog about LA, I can tie back to life in Los Angeles.

Downtown Los Angeles aspires to be Downtown Chicago. What a neat little urban area there is in the city! Great shops! Fabulous little restaurants! Diversity for palettes of all kinds — flavorful, fashionable and festival. Why when I asked my hotel to give me a breakfast recommendation, they sent me to NON-CHAIN cafes! I’m already thinking that I need to come back for a weekend, just for pleasure.

Despite diversity for sale, I did notice that there were no minorities in Downtown Chicago. The professionals, the servers, the retailers, the cleaners, everybodies all appeared to be of European descent. As evening approached, I finally saw some people of African descent….on the streets, with styrofoam cups in front of them and cardboard signs. In particular, a woman sat on the sidewalk, cradling her 10-year (?) child who was fast asleep. People walked by.

There were persons of Middle Eastern/Indian descent who I only noticed in cabs. It just reminded me of when you go into Los Angeles nether-suburban reaches…..white families own nice, white picket houses in which to raise and educate their white children while their latino maids/nannies/gardeners/etc putter around them.  I would like again to add, that I really just skipped into Chicago for the shortest of tastes, but the lack of multicultural diversity did make an impression on me.

For a beautiful urban center with fabulous skyrise buildings, there was a shocking lack of neon signs, billboards and advertisements….at least around the Magnificent Mile. I wonder if its city ordinance? If it were LA, there would definitely be gardens of disgarded ads on the sidewalk, and tapestries of billboards falling over each other. I poked on the internet, but I didn’t find an answer. Does anyone know?

No sunglasses. No one was wearing them at all. Ok, I saw some people….like five. But they could have been tourists. It was a bit distressing to go outside and not wear my shades.

Anyway, the weather was beautiful, the city intriguing, and I would definitely come again. Oh the wonders of travel, even if it is for all too brief a time!

P.S. The airport must be made by the same architect or firm as the Twin Cities airport. They both have a neon underground walkway.

Out.

DZ

All the “To-Do” blogs of the Los Angeles said, “Go to Sunset Junction!” AH said, “Come to Sunset Junction!” Santa Monica beckoned, “Forget Sunset Junction, and run away to Sri Lanka Day!” They all promised music, food and fun in the great outdoors on what turned out to be a lovely, mild summer day in California, and I said nay to them all. I turned my back on the great Silverlake event, which enjoyed food booth reviews in the Los Angeles Times. I even pushed away the allure of SE Asian cuisine–and I do love it so. I did it all for there was a prize that had snagged my attention for months now, and it was to be found on the top of the Hollywood Hills (are those the Hollywood Hills?) in the J. Paul Getty Museum.

I’m going to wander off on a tangent here. When you drive around Los Angeles, the arts of the city post banners on lightposts and the like to tout their events. That’s actually how I found out about BodyWorks at the California Science Center and many other delightful, chocolate-covered treats. On my wander through Farmer’s Market in Santa Monica a few weeks ago, my eye was caught. My attention was arrested. What did my eye espy? Bernini at the Getty!

Who is Bernini? He’s like one of the most awesome sculptors in art history. Don’t believe it? Bam! Bam! Bam!

What sets Bernini’s work apart, and also squarely in the Baroque, is his interest in turning blocks of marble and blank canvas into a record of a dynamic, emotional, human moment. The Getty did a good job comparing and contrasting Bernini’s style to a few of his contemporaries. For instance, Bernini liked to sculpt people as if they were just about to speak. He felt this was the moment that a person was most revealed. Getty signs say that two busts in particular: of the pope and Bernini’s mistress, stand apart as the finer (or even finest) examples of Baroque marble portraiture.

Constanza Bonarelli and Cardinal Borghese

If you look at these two busts, notice how both subjects are not looking straight ahead but off to the side — like they’re talking/seeing someone. In particular, Constanza Bonarelli looks surprised, as if at a vulnerable moment, when she’s not quite put together, while the Cardinal looks like he’s multitasking — sitting for his bust, talking, and etc.

My one disappointment about the exhibit was that it was only Bernini busts, and even then, not all the busts were by Bernini. But I did enjoy learning to appreciate Baroque art even more.

Afterward, I wandered through the Getty gardens, and it seemed to me as if, like Bernini who tried to capture the attention of his audience by capturing a dynamic moment from his subject, the Getty was on the hunt for the same thing. The last couple times that I’ve been here, I’ve been surprised by how many families come to spend a weekend afternoon. The gardens especially are enticing to families — there are open lawns, flowers and a beautiful view of the city. How easy to come with the kids, see a few pieces of art and then chill on the grass! Instead of trying to catch movement, the Getty’s trying to capture an idyllic weekend moment for families. They even have a children’s musical show. I remember hearing a tune about a rabbit.

The day ended on a decidedly more bohemian note. I enjoyed savory crepes at Manhattan Beach, and then sat with friends at the very comfortable and trendy Coco Noche–a wine bar. I love how wine bars are popping up all over the place, and Coco Noche is a bar apart. Aside from a selection of wines, they offer gourmet chocolates. And this is how I shall end this post–with very unique flavors. Imagine a dark night, the sea breeze and three glasses of wine carefully paired with three gourmet chocolates.

The first is a Pinot Noir paired with a spicy cinnamon and chipotle dark chocolate.

The second is none other than a Frontier Red Blend complemented by a very delicious coconut curry chocolate.

And the last is a Cabernet Sauvignon, with a dark chocolate slightly salted and tasting of bacon. When you bite inside, you see the bacon bit, and you wonder at that moment: a) What does your face look like? How would it be captured? and b) Are  you tempted to stick around and try another bite?

The answer: Oh yes. You caught, mouth open and vulnerable to the gourmet delight.

This weekend seemed to have a lot of quintessential Los Angeles in it.

It started off with an art show in Los Feliz, that bohemian bureau in which parking is scarcer than celebrities. (AH and I saw Keifer Sutherland there a few months ago. We were dining on wine and cheese and exchanging books at the Alcove Cafe and Bakery, when Jack Bauer himself walked right by!) At a very nice space that seems to have no name, young hipsters, poets, artists, musicians and art lovers wandered among original pieces, listened to original music, and enjoyed original reading. Oh yeah, AH performed, and totally rocked it! She read this piece.

The following day, I spent at Hermosa Beach, a true seaside beachtown for families and sunlovers by day and partygoers by night. Several friends had rented a beach house just yards from the sand. It’s quite common for people to own beach houses, which they only use during the summer. Like many of them, ours was decorated in a beach theme–seashell chimes, Hermosa Beach-related reading, sand and palm tree towels and framed pictures, etc. What was also fun, aside from sitting on the sand and sunning with the rest of the population, was sitting on the beach house’s patio. Like most beach towns, there are pedestrian walkways build right along the houses, so there is quite a bit of traffic. While sitting on the patio, flipping through a magazine and sipping on some juice, I watched toned runners jog by with their dogs, families on bicycles glide by, half-garbed surfers and girls in sarongs saunter by in their flipflops. It’s really amazing how toned and tan some people can be in Los Angeles. I subscribe to a regime that requires wearing 150 SPF and sitting in lots of shade, while others seem to be braver and toast to a very warm shade of brown.

Sunday, I went to the Farmer’s Market in Santa Monica while I waited for my friend to get a Brazilian wax. While she pampered her body, I went to pamper my stomach, wandering along a crowded sidewalk of persons of all persuasions, passed trattorias, cafes, indie clothes shops and bicycle valets and into the heart of the market. There were all the regular booths of fruits and veggies at the market and then some–gourmet French crepes, aqua-farmed oysters and other shellfish, organic hot chocolate and raw-food finger foods. It was a small space, as generally seems to happen in the beach communities of L.A., but the lawn was crowded with all kinds of people chowing down on local produce.

Despite the heat of the weekend, it was just a nice mellow, truly L.A.ian time. And then, while driving back to my northern hermitage, I saw a sign on the 10 Freeway that I’d never seen before. It said that the 10 was a transcontinental highway! I never knew that! In fact, it is the southernmost east-to-west highway in the United States, connecting cities like Phoenix, AZ., Houston, TX. and Jacksonville, FL. And I thought, how L.A. is that? Here was something that had always been right in front of my face, and I’d never known to connect the dots until now.

AH and I had a typical Thursday evening. We met up at one of our residences around 9 PM, tried to figure out what to do or where to go that was not a franchise, couldn’t, and then just got in a car and drove. We drove straight down Balboa Blvd for more than 30 minutes, and then, when we crossed the 101 Freeway, we turned left and drove even straighter and further along.

Ok, there was some kind of plan, but not really. AH hoped that a cafe she had been to once was a) still open and b) where she thought it was. The latter reason is one reason why we couldn’t reason in what direction to drive. The former reason is a great bane here in the city of L.A. Passed 10 PM, places close and where else can you go for a nibble and drink that is not a bar or club?

If we were high schoolers, we might have had to go to Denny’s.

But AH and I were in luck! After we found the Marmalade Cafe and ascertained that it was not open (the valet parker told us), we drove a lee-tle more until we hit Mel’s Drive-In.

Pray tell, what does that signify?

Ok, I have to be honest. I had no idea what a Mel’s Drive-In was till that night. Heck, I only had an inkling that it existed because of a crossword clue that I (obviously) couldn’t figure out. (Waitress at Mel’s Diner. Answer: There’s no quick google answer so I still don’t know.)

But you may remember Mel’s from such movies as:

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and American Graffiti.

Much like other diner chains (Ruby’s, Johnny Rockets, etc.), Mel’s has the whole 1950-1960s atmosphere. The decor is time-capsule kitsch. The food looked good, but I couldn’t say much as I only had the curly fries and chocolate cake.

What does this entry signify? Sometimes, there isn’t much else to go on but what you got on your plate.

I saw a lot of dead people last week–mostly because I’ve discovered hulu.com and the entire first season of Bones.

It’s an interesting show in that it places death, specifically rotting, gooey, slimy, violently abused corpses on an elegant, scientific and hygenic table for the viewing enjoyment of the audience. The lovely Emily Deschanel runs her hands over the bones, coaxing out the truths found deep within the marrow. Her team of smart, but attractive and young, scientists rip apart the dirt that covers the mutilated bodies and rebuild the the skeleton image as the bones implies the face looks, and etc. to tell the audience the mystery. The whole show is centered around death, particularly the corpse of a person who never gets to speak but who is the diving board from which the show launches action, plot, drama and even romance!

Basically, as a forensics team, Emily and co. piece together and paint a portrait of the victim’s last moments.

I also saw real dead bodies last week (more…)

Last Saturday I headed to the Santa Monica pier (at about 11:30pm) to check out Glow, the light-and-technology art/music festival put together on the beach.

Some of the art was kind of cool but in retrospect I’m beginning to believe that the event itself was the real art piece, featuring up to 44,000 people (that’s not a typo) wandering the beach and surrounding area looking for light and color, both of which there seemed to be tragically less of than anticipated. There were some cool perspective-bending “exhibits,” to be sure, but the event was made far more of an extravaganza by the swarms of people stumbling around in varyious states of intoxication. As one confused visitor put it, “There’s like 3,000 people down there praying to a #$*&@*% lava lamp!”

Parking was a nightmare, of course. From what I read, this event will be attempted again in a couple years. Hopefully by then some of the kinks will be smoothed out.

Gnarly crowds, this is a pedestrian bridge crossing Coast Highway at 1am.
Contrary to what it looks like, watching this lady maneuver her “bioluminescent lightstrings,” looks a lot like this image; the light trails were also visible to the naked eye—a bit like seeing this picture in 3-D.

Glow

Muscle beach in the Glowlight

This was about the time somebody walked right up to me and asked point blank whether I had any acid. Needless to say a good number of the people in attendance were enjoying the event on a far different level.

I called this the “glowstick graveyard.”

Really cool creations hanging beneath the pier, made out of lights, mechanized parts, and plastic bags that inflated and deflated making them look like some bizarre robotic jellyfish.

Glow on, L.A. But next time leave me somewhere to park!
~Molly, Luminaire Images