To Be a Casting Assistant

At an audition this week, I noticed a repetitive scene playing out in the casting room adjacent to the one I was waiting to enter.

Door swings ajar.

CASTING ASSISTANT steps out to summon the next ACTOR.

ACTOR enters as ASSISTANT closes the door behind him.

Thirty seconds pass.

Door swings ajar as CASTING DIRECTOR and ACTOR exchange the usual post-audition niceties:

               Thanks, thanks so much, thanks for coming in, thanks.

ACTOR leaves, hastily.

Door remains ajar for ten seconds while we see ASSISTANT drop to her knees.  She picks Corn Flakes up off of the carpeted floor.  The task seems tedious and frustrating.  A box of Corn Flakes stands on a table, inside the room.

CASTING DIRECTOR speaks from off:

                You missed one, there.

ASSISTANT picks up one last Corn Flake.

ASSISTANT stands, swipes Corn Flakes from her hand into the cereal box.

ASSISTANT enters Lobby and summons the next ACTOR.

- REPEAT SCENE -

The Comfort of a Cocktail

I used to be intimidated by alcohol.  I didn't know what to do with it but pour it into half a glass of orange juice or Coca Cola, neither of which I like very much.  In recent years, though, I've begun to understand it.  There was no specific experience or learning curve that brought upon this understanding.  It just happened.  One day I found that I like whiskey.  I'd tried whiskey before, but it never suited me.  Until one day.  Now, I can pour some whiskey over some ice, add some sweet or dry vermouth, a dash of bitters, maybe an orange slice or a lemon twist, or some brandy with grenadine and sweet vermouth, or just benedectine.  Or a little benedectine and some lemon juice.  I just get it.  And in that, I feel secure, at home, comfortable.

Hallmark Day

I'm not a cynic, but Valentine's Day does not particularly excite me.  The whole thing feels like a commercial ploy.  I love the idea of showering my husband with love, but why on February 14, why with stuffed animals or big, red, heart-shaped boxes of bad chocolate . . . basically, I don't like being told what to do, or when to do it.

My husband is currently on the phone with our friend who called for advice about what to get her boyfriend for Valentine's Day.  He answered, "I don't know.  I'm different than most guys.  I'd just say a bottle of liquor."

Then she asked him what we're doing for the 'holiday'.  He replied, "We're not big Valentine's Day people, because, you know, every day in this house in Valentine's Day, heh, heh.  We'll probably just open a bottle of wine and eat some cheese."

That sounds about right.

The City Observed: Katsuya

Katsuya is a trendy Japanese restaurant on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.  It is often the backdrop of paparazzi photos and videos featuring the likes of Mark Wahlberg or Charlie Sheen exiting its large glass doors and gliding into their fancy cars at the valet.  There is a lot of Hollywood hype about Katsuya, but I’d also heard that the food is good.  When Dine LA Restaurant Week rolled around, I convinced my non-seafood-loving husband to choose this as our semi-annual dining splurge.

Katsuya’s decor is within a color palate - deep reds, pinks, and blacks – that one might find described as ‘sexy’ in the local glossies.  The clientele is largely made up of the kind of people I’d expect to see standing behind the red velvet rope of Hyde Lounge or Teddy’s, or on the rooftop of The Standard Hotel – that is, trendy – hoping that their shiny lip gloss or fleur-de-lis-emblazoned blazers will help them get discovered.  Joseph and I sat at a corner table at the back of the restaurant, and my unobstructed view of everyone kept me quite entertained. 

My amusement over the atmosphere of the place didn’t, thankfully, inhibit my ability to take the quality of the food seriously.  I really enjoyed it.  The Albacore Crispy Onion was so tender and intriguing in its flavor and texture, with its marriage of soft and crispy, marinated and grilled, that even my non-seafood-loving husband ate a full portion.  The Baked Miso Marinated Black Cod was decadent and reminded me of dusk, if dusk had a flavor.  As enamored as I was by my cod, I was less impressed by Joseph’s dish, the Beef and Mushroom Toban Yaki.  Although the beef did meet all expectations for medium-rare Kobe, the mushrooms didn’t add much of the earthy flavor that I generally expect from them.  Joseph was pleased, though, nodding his head enthusiastically and widening his eyes for emphasis when I asked, “How do you like it?”

Katsuya is known for its cocktails almost more so than its food, therefore, despite the exorbitant price of $14 dollars per, I ordered the Eastern Raspberry Sidecar: “hand pressed fresh raspberries intertwined w/ Hennessy VS Cognac & Nigori Sake, rounded out w/ Cointreau and freshly squeezed lemon”.  I love sidecars as well as every single ingredient on this list, thus I assumed this cocktail would suit my taste.  It did not.  It was watery and monotonous in flavor, like a frappe with too much ice that’s begun to melt. 

Overall, my experience in Hollywood and Vine’s trendy restaurant with trendy cocktails and trendy food was, maybe not top-notch, but upper-middle-notch. I’m glad I went and that I’ve got Katsuya under my belt now (being able to say I’ve been there might help me get discovered).  I will say, though, that I was somewhat disappointed that not a single paparazzo showed up to snap my picture when I exited the glass doors and glided home, along the Walk of Fame that had been wetted by rain (those charcoal tiles are slippery!).

Rainy Season

Rainy season is among us, and it’s more insistent than in recent years.  Two weeks now, but tomorrow finally looks to be the last of it.  Rain in California is different than rain elsewhere. It can be dangerous.  Just a few inches, and news outlets scramble to keep up with mudslides, flash floods, and car accidents caused by slick roads.  It comes down in spurts, rather than in steady streams.  It’ll trickle for a while, just a light sprinkle, and then there’ll be a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and a violent downpour that never lasts longer than five minutes.  Sometimes there’s hail, and everybody logs on to Twitter.

My friend Maggie once described me to someone by saying, “She likes good weather.”  That’s accurate.  I like sunny skies and warm air, foliage and greenery, and learned, upon moving to California, that I love succulents and cacti.  When I lived in New York, I was amused by the odd olfactory experience of the city.  “Every corner has its own smell,” is a phrase used as frequently as “Only in New York” to describe the city’s unique qualities.  You feel tough, unshakeable, thick-skinned, when you know that putrid aromas can’t assail your devotion to the world’s greatest city.  A rainstorm tends to momentarily stifle the myriad odors, but not for long.

In Los Angeles, you’d use the word scent rather than smell, as it really is a fragrant town  (cherry blossoms in the spring, pine in the summer, maple and other perennials in the autumn).  I am swayed by things like this.  I’ll pause on a walk in the Hollywood Hills to determine the source of some lovely scent, and my feelings for California will be strengthened.

Joseph and I are fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood that is extremely walkable by LA standards, and even, I’d say by San Francisco standards.  One of our favorite things to do is to walk to the Hollywood and Vine neighborhood for dinner and drinks.  It’s a thriving, bustling boulevard, Hollywood between La Brea and Gower, and it helps us feel like we still live in a cosmopolitan city.  Last weekend, we had reservations at Katsuya for 8pm, but it was raining, as it had been for days.  We momentarily embodied an Angeleno stereotype when we considered driving the  single mile, rather than walking in the rain.  I’m proud to say that we didn’t succumb.  We dug umbrellas out of the closet, and we walked.  In the rain.  Like New Yorkers.  And I reveled in how nice our wet city smelled.

The City Observed: Wilshire Spa

It had been an extreme winter. I’m not referring to the weather – I live in LA; I’m referring to life and activity. October through December saw a mess of meetings, obligations, rehearsals, online marketing, offline networking, panic attacks and meltdowns, all in preparation for a December performance of one of my original theater works. The highs were terrific, the lows unbearable. Then came Christmas and the New Year, which I enjoyed by ceasing all activity, by sitting in front of a television, alternating my attentions between video games and movies, eating all holiday treats imaginable and drinking cocktails one after the other. Looking back on 2009, and particularly autumn, I felt less than extraordinary, I felt ordinary: easily wrapped up in life’s mundanities, chasing my own tail.

My husband had given me a spa package for my birthday in August, and I’d been holding on to it all this time, waiting for the precise moment when a visit to a spa might save me from utter demise. During the aforementioned months I thought, “I’ll wait until all this over, and I’ll go to the spa to recover.” After the December deadline, I thought, “I’ll wait until the holidays are over, when my body will be all tense from the East Coast cold.” When I returned from the East Coast, I thought, “I’ll wait until after Sundance, when I’ll need some deep relaxation to bring me back to Earth.” Finally, a few weeks ago, I looked at my gift certificate and saw that it was set to expire on February 22. I had to make time to use it. I made an appointment for the approaching Sunday. I now declare that if I had the means, I would implement a weekly ritual of Sunday visits to the spa for the saving of my soul, so cathartic was it.

The entrance to The Wilshire Spa is at the back of a tall, corporate multi-use skyscraper on Wilshire Boulevard. The reception lobby is unpretentious, showcasing no particular luxury or status, showing no signs that it is indeed the portal to an underground bliss. Below a set of stairs, in the sub terrain of the mid-Wilshire district, lies a sumptuous Eden of tranquility.

Basic accoutrements for a pampered experience are provided free by the facility: towels, shampoo, conditioner, soap, q-tips, hair dryers, slippers, coffee, tea, and cucumber lemon water. Two banks of vanity tables give ample space for post-pampered beautification. Behind a pair of doors to the left of the vanity bank sit three tranquil rooms, each heated to a different degree and lined with certain minerals – one onyx, one yellow ochre, and the other mineral salt – each of which, according to descriptions on the walls, has unique calming properties. A set of doors to the right side of the vanities opens on to three baths of varying degrees: cold, hot, and extremely hot. I have a high tolerance for heat, and was pleased when I found myself dripping with sweat immediately upon entering the hot bath; I could only stand five minutes at a time in the extremely hot bath before craving a quick dunk in the frigid water of the cold bath. The proper cycle for getting the most benefit to your circulatory system isn’t something you’ll need to research beforehand – the desire to go from hot to cold and wet to dry will happen naturally. After cooling myself down in the cold bath, my physiological needs led me to the sauna – a typical wood-lined room kept at a controlled heat that I found to be perfectly comfortable, a place where I could lie back and read for quite a spell before finding the pages of my book wet and crinkled from my sweat. The steam room, on the other hand, was far too hot and steamy, even for someone of my high tolerance. I nearly suffocated after a mere thirty seconds in its billows. I removed myself quickly and re-embarked on my cycle of hot bath, really hot bath, cold dunk, and dry room. After a time, a masseuse in black lace bra and panties motioned for me to follow her.

My husband had thoughtfully chosen for my gift the Signature Body Massage after learning that it included two of my favorite things: a massage and a facial. That wasn’t the extent of it, though. My masseuse placed a clean sheet of plastic on a table, splashed a bucket of warm water over it, and instructed me to lie upon it face down. Then, she scrubbed. The website describes this as “a treatment that uses exfoliating cloths to gently remove dead skin cells from your body”; ‘Gentle’ it wasn’t - it was firm and intense. Tension was immediately tossed away - I was like a fleshy mannequin, a pliable material in the form of human only that the masseuse sanded, molded, pushed and pulled into a more perfect form. Entirely nude I lay there, face down whilst she scrubbed me with loofah gloves and cucumber salt. Her gloved hands knew no bounds – every inch of my body received a scrubbing: shoulders, elbows, stomach, inner thighs, groin, and recesses of my behind all received equal attention.  This wasn't a massage for the modest.  She’d turn me from stomach to back to side to side all with a swift push of the hands. At times she’d scissor my legs open, other times fold them over each other to gain access to all surfaces. The scrub lasted at least thirty minutes, enough time to rub off at least my first layer of skin. When there couldn’t have been another single dead skin cell to remove, she squirted a warm lotion all over me and gently rubbed it in. Then, she poured three full buckets of warm water over me. This was my favorite part. It felt like I was lying on the wet sand of the beach as the tide washed over my spent body. Next came a deep and thorough full-body Swedish massage that the masseuse administered with strong arms, digging elbows, and crisp palms.  Again, she left no stone unturned, treating all parts with equal attention, from my fingertips to my spine to my skull. Finally, she worked a green tea conditioner through my hair, layered cucumbers on my face and eyes, and doused my flesh in warm milk. This pure adventure in beauty manipulation lasted a full eighty minutes. I went in an ordinary human and exited a glistening goddess.

My milky, glowing aura stayed with me a good two days. Now, I appear to the world as the self I’ve always been. With my newfound knowledge, however, that I can be so completely transformed in the underworld of Los Angeles’ Korea Town, I won’t wait so long for the perfect time to visit. Perhaps the more often I go to the Wilshire Spa, the more likely I’ll manifest myself into a glistening, enlightened goddess in my daily reality. Good riddance, stress, I’ve found my spiritual practice.

Home

Home is a contradiction.  Home is from where I hail.  Home is where I’m living.  Home is the place I understand best. In that order, then, home is Utah, home is Los Angeles, and home is New York City.  In the same order, home is where my parents are.   Home is where my husband is.  Home is where my career is. I’m all over the place.

Perhaps I won’t know one specific home until I’ve become the older generation, have ushered in the younger and helped them find a footing in this world. Wherever I may find myself surrounded by children and grandchildren, with frequent family gatherings and established holiday traditions, and a decades-old, taken-for-granted familiarity with local roads and markets and shops, perhaps only then will I know unequivocally where my home is.

As it stands, nowhere I’ve lived in the past five years is home for me, not of the fairy-tale type, as in Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz. Not of the type mentioned in Christmas songs. I loved living in New York City, and really did consider it home for the majority of my years there. I understood the city, the way it worked, its density and navigability, and the way people interacted with each other. I just got it. About six years in, though, everything about it started aggravating me to sheer anger. The subway delays, the below-freezing temperatures, the piles and piles of garbage, and how far away it was from my parents (my heart ached nightly over how much I missed them after seeing them only twice a year for six years) was just too much to take. I couldn’t call it home any longer.  I spent the next three years conspiring to leave, and finally moved to San Francisco.

I didn’t like living in San Francisco, and I spent the majority of my three years there trying to verbally distance myself from it in the minds of everyone I knew and met. I’m not lazy, not like these people. I’m not a hippy, not like these people. I’m not radical, judgmental, anti-social, provincial or hermetic, not like these people. I observed these qualities in San Francisco residents, and then, yes, I judged them negatively, and began convincing my husband to move. I’ll admit there were some things I liked about San Francisco, such as the air quality, the proximity to wine country, the European beauty of the streets and buildings, but none of these outweighed my distaste for the lifestyle and the people. After three years, we packed up a U-Haul and drove to Los Angeles.

I like Los Angeles. At times I love Los Angeles. There is a vibrancy here, a pulse of activity and excitement. It is a city people gravitate toward to make something happen, make something of themselves, or to just make some thing. In that way, it reminds me of New York. People go out here just to be out and to see who else is out. At bars and restaurants, people observe one another, wondering, “Who is that person and what do they do?” I like that. I like wondering, and being wondered about. Strangers talk to each other here. In LA, you can go to a bar and meet a stranger and actually strike up a potential creative partnership. Some would call that ‘networking’ and be turned off by the notion of it. I’m excited by it.

Still, LA has its setbacks. Last night we went out for Korean food. The restaurant is only three miles from our apartment, but traffic was so bad that it took us thirty minutes to get there. We planned to get drinks at a bar in a different neighborhood later, and knowing it would be another thirty-minute drive, we lamented that we couldn’t just leave the restaurant and walk to the bar and then maybe choose to move along and walk to any number of other bars, like we used to in New York.

En route to the bar later, we realized that we could have taken the subway. The red line stops just one block from the restaurant, and just two blocks from the bar. Then, we could have walked home. Just like we used to in New York. If only we’d thought of it.

A Moment in Time

The Husband is sitting on the floor across from me. He's immersed in the bliss of his record collection.

"You're the one that I long to kiss
Baby, you're the one that I really miss
Baby, you're the one that I'm dreaming of
Baby, you're the one that I love."

I'm seated at our tiny kitchen table in our dining room slash office slash music studio. I've got knitting accroutements all around me. I'm working on a wedding present for a dear friend whose one year anniversary is fast approaching.

Every once in a while I'm hit with the understanding that life is exactly as it ought to be. Good music in the background. A delicious cocktail within arms reach. A person who loves me in the same room.

I've Played High School

I told a commercial agent today that my age range as an actor starts at sixteen. As I said it, I hoped he wasn't noticing the wrinkle between my eyes. It's the only telling sign of my true age. My friend's sister had a wrinkle in the same spot. She got it botoxed. I plan on avoiding that procedure by doing eye-exercises that I found online. I do them at night before I go to bed. They involve stretching the eye-lid, raising the eyebrows, moving the eyes side-to-side within the sockets, and rapidly batting the eyelashes, which we all know, can alone make a girl feel pretty. So far the exercises only seem to diminish the appearance of the wrinkle when I'm actually doing them; when I'm not, it is still there, deep as a canyon.

"My age range is about sixteen to thirty-two," I said.

The agent wrote it down and then, studying my face, pondered, "Sixteen. Mayyybeeee . . . maybe sixteen."

"I've booked high school roles," I lied.

I've never played high school, not even when I was in high school. Aside from the time I was cast as Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark (I was cast not as 'Susy', but as Audrey, because I was skinny and my hairstyle resembled hers in the movie), I was always cast as the Little Old Lady. This, back when I didn't even have any wrinkles. Pearl Burras in Greater Tuna, Maude in Harold and Maude, Vee Talbot in Orpheus Descending. I graduated from college with a BFA in acting without any experience playing someone my own age, and entered an industry in which the 'type' that gets the most work is "18 to look younger."

"Interesting that they cast you as Vee," the agent said, reading over my resume. Then he looked at me for an explanation.

"Yeah, I know." I didn't want to tell him my history with old-age type-casting.

"But why not Carol?" he asked.

"The director wanted to take a creative risk," I quipped.

"Yeah, obviously. Vee is in her sixties and you are, well, not."

I laughed, batted my eyelashes, and tried to subtly stretch the arch of my nose without raising my eyebrows.

"Sixteen," he muttered. "Yeah, maybe. Maybe sixteen."

Foot in the Door

I worked at a production company yesterday. Owned by a director of many big, recognizable movies, and operated by the producer of most of those movies, I looked forward to “getting my foot in the door” of this well-reputed company. What I intended to do once my foot was in, I didn’t know exactly. Build contacts, maybe. They say contacts are good to have in this industry. Learn the ropes of the inside business, maybe. They say you have to have experience to get experience. Astonish the entertainment world with my good looks and quick wit, maybe. Yes, certainly.

I would be filling the seat of The Producer’s assistant while the staff was out at a ballgame. The office was supposed to be closed for the occasion but The Producer decided he needed to get some work done instead. Hence, they called a temp to cover for his assistant, Brian. Brian was in the office when I arrived. He just wanted to get me acquainted with basic procedures and protocol before he took off for the game. I’d be “rolling calls” and revising word documents. Sounded easy enough. He warned me about The Producer:

“He’s a large man, and short-tempered. He’ll get angry. He’ll shout. Don’t worry. He’s not mad, it’s just what he does. Usually he yells at me, but today he’ll be yelling at you.”

Okay, no problem, I thought. I’ve dealt with his type before. I don’t ruffle easily. I’ll be fine.

“You’ll be fine,” Brian said. Then he left.

I was the only person in the office, and the phones were not ringing. It was very quiet. I flipped through scripts and memos on Brian’s desk, trying to acquaint myself with the company’s work. I killed some time on the internet. I helped myself to a drink from the fridge. Then the phone rang. It was The Producer, wanting to “roll calls." I was to read from a list of received calls, and scheduled, outgoing calls. I was to get him on the phone with whomever he felt like talking to from that list. I put him on hold, I dialed the number for a woman named Corinne, I waited for her to get on the phone, and then I pushed the “conference” button. It didn’t work. The call kept getting disconnected. The Producer kept calling me back and asking me to do it again. Corinne laughed. I apologized, she assured me it was no problem, she'd wait, don’t worry about it. Meanwhile, on the other line, The Producer’s tone got louder and louder, angrier and angrier, yellier and yellier each time he called back. I was sweating. I was pushing buttons, I was rubbing my brow, I was apologizing profusely. Finally The Producer screamed, “I’ll call her myself!!” and hung up.

I sat down. My face caved in and a fire ignited in its place. Through the heat, I remembered Brian telling me to call him if I needed any help. I put my hands to my head, pawed through the flames for my face, and pulled it back into position. I reached for the phone and dialed Brian. I explained my crisis to him, and he told me what I needed to do: stay on the phone during the conference. Don’t hang up. The call disconnects if you hang up. Industry assistants always stay on calls, to take notes. The phones are rigged that way.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t know. I should have told you,” he said.

Some minutes later, The Producer called back. As if the past catastrophe had not transpired, as if he were calling me for the first time, he calmly directed, "Connect me with Corinne."

"I thought you were going to call her yourself."

That's the response I wanted to give. But instead, I said, "Absolutely." I connected them, and I stayed on the line, like a good assistant. Following that call, I placed him on another and another and another. I listened, I took notes, I felt certain that in my new mastery of industry phone protocol, I was impressing the socks off these power players.

Believing Eden

Some years ago, while visiting Los Angeles, I drove past a swatch of grass dotted with people lounging on blankets, on lawn chairs, on the bare ground. I imagined they must all be important – writers, producers, directors, actors. Only in LA would I have perceived park patrons as potential power players.

A few years later, my husband and I signed the lease for an apartment at the foot of Griffith Park. After settling in, we set off to explore the famed urban wilderness. At the entrance, I instantly recognized the Lawn of Somebodies I glimpsed a few years ago. We parked along the crowded road shoulder and walked to the top. As the grassy plateau of the Observatory grounds unfolded before us, the entire city stretche below like an open hand, and I felt as if I was looking upon an exalted land, where every inhabitant lives a life of grandeur.

Standing at a fence near the edge of a cliff, I analyzed the skyline. Hollywood sat just below the notorious mountainside letters. Miracle Mile stretched east to west on the right. Culver City and Santa Monica rose near each other at the far right. Downtown ascended in a cluster to the left. From this bird’s eye view, I could pick out the collections of highrises that belong to each neighborhood, but through the haze, I could discern no other distinguishable landmarks. The streets, houses, lawns, cars, and highways all blended together in one mosaic of grey. Within its crevices, my imagination placed the details of my pre-conceived notion of the City of Angels: brightly painted bodegas, fabric outlets, taquerias, people of all backgrounds and classes forming a tapestry of tight communities, a pulse of life, ceaseless activity and opportunity. This is a place where things happen: creativity, entertainment, partnerships, careers, happiness.

The breeze at the top of Hollywood calmed, caressed, like any breeze I’d felt anywhere: always concerned, always caring, always promising to lead its patrons right where they want to go. I followed it along a path up the mountain. Bits of trash hid in the pine needles that crunched under my feet. A hawk circled overhead, unimpressed by the beating wings of two roving helicopters, one in each valley, certainly searching for or following something or someone significant.

The sight of the hawk soaring above the dusty, sepia tone hills on the same wind that shook the sage brought to mind the Wild West of Old Hollywood. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Kirk Douglas, Gene Autry, posses in pursuit darting past the same rock over and over again, giving the impression of great distance gained.

An educated audience would be aware of the reality of the city just below the uninhabited territory conquested on screen. But a truly intelligent viewer would choose to believe the fantasy that Hollywood, filled with heros, angels, and legends, is a land that can be transformed into an Eden suiting any story one wishes to tell.

My Monday

First thing I did this morning, after responsibly calling the temp agencies, waiting for a return call while searching for jobs online, and finally realizing the window for receiving said calls had passed, was to cover half of my inspiration board with images I find inspiring. Mostly, color. And a dull little farm house that reminds me of my summers in Montana. I also wrote a short list of to-do 's and posted it up on the other half of the board. I then proceeded to do nothing on the list. Isn't that what a to-do list is for, to remind you of all the things you'd rather be doing? Actually, my to-do list is made up of purely performance art related tasks, like proposals, applications and artists statements, and those are things I enjoy doing. Why then do I avoid them? Because they require mental effort. I'd rather crochet. That's an activity that fills my brain with a nice, soothing hum, kind of like the drone of television but without all the noise. See the fruits of my leisure:

Now, don't start thinking that this is how I spend all my time, whittling away the hours with whimsical crafts while questioning my decision to do so. No, actually, I do other things, too. Like pay my bills, submit for acting work, and eat lunches. Yes, lunches, plural. See, now that's time well spent.

Of Late

Finding inspiration in simple things.

Inspiration Board. Here it is, blank. It'll take form and color over the next several days. I'll post the process.

Doilies. This will be my first attempt at them. Here's the pattern I'm following. I bought the floss and the steel crochet hook, which is the tiniest hook I've ever seen. It's almost microscopic.

The Downtown Art Walk. We played a show there last night. I love the hubbub of the Art Walk. Thousands of people descend on the older part of downtown, wandering the same few streets, bumping elbows, dancing to the music of street musicians, gawking at the eccentric s, and taking in the art. I'm always tempted to say it reminds me of New York, but truthfully, it's more of a party. Good vibes everywhere, distinctly LA. Even the cockroaches are welcome, and they do attend, in droves, crawling up through the manholes and sewage drains. Early in the evening you'll hear a few yelps from unsuspecting persons, but by the end of the evening everyone, roach and human alike, gets along just fine. We played at The Regent Theater, once an opulent cinema house, then a seedy adult film house, and now a raw, dilapidated open space. This seems to be the shared history of much of Downtown LA, and I'm fascinated by it.