Mom's Apartment

1618 Vista Del Mar reads a hand-written note tacked to the bulletin board above my desk. I only write notes by hand. I had a roommate once who would type notes – reminders, to-do lists, quotes – and then color childlike borders on them with markers before she’d tack them above her desk. A typed, designed note is no longer a note, just as a painting, scanned, printed and rolled into a tube mailer is no longer a painting. The nature has been steamrolled out of it, and now it’s just a poster.

I learned two years ago that when my grandmother gave birth to her first child, my mother, she lived in a building at 1618 Vista Del Mar, right down the street from where I live now. The fact that my mother’s first home on earth was in Hollywood, just a few minute’s walk from the apartment where her daughter would live over a half century later is amazing to me. We’re from Utah. We know mountains and rivers and snow.

Hollywood, City of Dreams, with its constant din of noise and light, its coyote-filled hills, its imported cars and palm trees, A-list Lounges, and sordid motels, is not our territory. It’s been so printed and re-printed, it’s like a poster that you can walk around in. Yet, as it turns out, we’ve got roots here. My grandmother, going into to labor with my mom, took the bus by herself from her apartment to the hospital on Mid-Wilshire – that’s putting down roots.

1618 Vista Del Mar

Below the scrawled 1618 Vista Del Mar note is a blue leather desk organizer, from which stretches a stack of medical bills. I relegated them to the back of the organizer as I’d hoped to do in my mind, but I stood them upright so that I wouldn’t forget the thing one must remember about bills – to pay them. Every time I look at them, I tell myself that I ought to organize them, pay those remaining to be paid, and file them away for good. But there they stand. I may be residing in a city of dreams, but life doesn’t know it.

After all, I’ve got roots here: in front of the medical bills grows a cluster of journal entries that I wrote during my treatment for thyroid cancer. I’ve been tearing the entries out of the journal, because its pages are graphed, and I can’t stand writing on such regimented lines. I’ve been saving them in the organizer, where they obscure the bills. Their edges are torn and frayed, having had a difficult time releasing from the bookbinding. I’ve always had a soft spot for torn paper with its sharp edges turned cloudy. My notes, in addition to being hand-written, are usually scrawled upon torn scraps, their imperfect form reminding me of nature - of mountains, rivers, and snowflakes tacked to the bulletin board above my desk in Hollywood.

After living here for two years, I’d grown to like the neighborhood for its contradictions and justifications, but learning of the nearness of my mother's infant years caused me to love it with a fierce protectiveness. Finding the actual building in which she had lived, still tucked behind that sprawling parking lot south of the sidewalk that is tiled with celebrity names, under the unremitting lights of Hollywood and Vine, was a real full-circle moment. My adoptive city was no longer adoptive – it was a part of me, and while navigating its roads from hardship to health, I had become a part of it.

Weekdays

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I drive to Pacoima, in the San Fernando Valley. From Hollywood, it’s only 15 minutes in good traffic. I teach theatre at a charter school there twice a week. The air is hot and dusty in Pacoima, the streets are wide, and the trees are few.

On Monday and Wednesday mornings, I work out of the LA Weekly offices in Culver City, on the West Side. I have meetings at Culver Studios on these days as well – near enough to be close, but not near enough to make the travel time between them disappear. The air is soft and moist in Culver City, the streets are illustrated with colorful storefronts, and the trees are green and many.

Monday and Wednesday and Thursday evenings I spend at the University of Southern California, in Central L.A., in class or in meetings. The air is dirtier than dust, the streets are crowded, impatient, and the trees are exclusive to campus.

Tuesdays have me at Culver Studios in the morning, and from there I drive to Pacoima in the afternoon, on the 405. The freeway isn’t terrible, in the middle of the day. The drive is quick, and I enjoy the passing view of The Getty, and Laurel Canyon. Is that Laurel Canyon? I’m not sure, but I like it.  Its golden, rolling hills and hiding, curving roads makes me think of filmmakers and actresses.

Thursdays have me driving from Pacoima, after my class, to USC. I check my phone first, to see if the 101 Freeway will be faster than the 5. Silly to drive all the way around if I don’t need to, but often I do. When I don't, I inch past the Hollywood skyline – Capitol Records, Hotel Hollywood, the W, and wish it would all go faster. But just today. After today, don’t move, don’t change. Grow only in spirit, not in size.

I get off at Exposition Boulevard, and am filled with promise at the sight of heavy brick academic structures: The California Science Museum, The Natural History Museum, the lower end of the University, its grandest entrance off the metro line. I turn on Figueroa and park near the Felix the Cat auto dealership. I still don’t know what kind of dealership it is, or why Felix is its mascot. I don’t care, as long as it always remains.

Mondays and Wednesdays, I drive to USC from Culver City. I take Adams usually, sometimes Jefferson. Driving Adams is like navigating a box of crayons. Painted yellow carnicerias and blue mechanic shops, pink party supply shops, magenta-marquied dance halls and vibrant, multi-colored murals in green, overgrown empty lots greet me along the way, like celebratory bystanders of a marathon. Jefferson feels a lot like industrial North Brooklyn, but with faster traffic, and no time to see any of it. Muted red brick, cloudy white commercial glass, and rusted train tracks criss-crossed with nasturtium remind me of the distance I’ve journeyed.

Fridays. Fridays I am asleep.

A Piece of Information

The heat wave has broken, and we've all gotten back to work. Fewer beach trips, vacations over, barbecues past.

Just last week I was on a mad hunt for an air conditioner, and when I learned that there were none left to buy in the city of Los Angeles, I began searching for a window fan. The outcome was the same. Luckily, temperatures dipped, and a cool breeze made its way into my home office. The softer light and gentler air reminds me of Autumn (that's all Autumn is in Los Angeles - a memory), and I find myself missing New York.

But then, out of curiosity, I look at the weather, and it's 91 degrees in Manhattan today. I remember that on September 11th, 2001, it was also hot. Not in the 90's, but in the 80's, I'd guess. I remember because I was wearing black rayon slacks and black leather oxfords, and, at 10:00 in the morning, I was hot.

I've written about that morning before. But there is something I left out of the story: as I ran down Broadway, trying to hail a cab to get back home, I heard a ripping sound. My rayon pants had split along the rear seam. I navigated the rest of the way home, through dust and debris and panic, with my underwear exposed to the world. A piece of absurdity on a tragic day, that I've never told anyone before.

Boston

My heart has been heavy since this morning, when I first received news of Boston. I've tweeted and Facebooked about it several times, I think as a way to release some of the overwhelming emotion. The thoughts I've shared have all been alike: love to all, love to everyone. It may seem sappy, or redundant, or naive or annoying, but my default psychological gesture is one of embrace. I believe that love nurtures, nourishes, and heals. I believe that if everyone made a conscious effort to love one another more - our own families and friends as well as the stranger across the planet -  the world would be a vastly better place. Yes, I do believe that love, purposely practiced, can heal all the suffering in the world, and that despite today's horrors, the runners, volunteers, first responders, and citizens of Boston proved this to be true.

The following Martin Luther King Jr. quote has been going viral on Facebook today, and it helped bring light to my mood. I share it here, against the skyline of Boston. This is as close as I can get tonight to skywriting my love over the city itself.

A Collection of Towns

It is colder in Culver City than Hollywood, and less sunny, generally. I take the bus and the train in the mornings, and as I travel, I feel the degrees falling away, see the fog hanging down.

Downtown Culver City bustles with pedestrians. People walking from work to lunch, people eating healthy lunches at sidewalk cafes, moms walking their pre-school aged children or their dogs. (There's one mom who walks around with her three year old girl who always carries a flower in each hand and does princess dances all down the street.)  It feels like a city, albeit a very small and quaint one, with groomed landscaping and social flow - like The Truman Show's Seahaven or Back to the Future's Hill Valley.

Los Angeles is a city of neighborhoods. Some call them pockets. Each little pocket has a strip. A strip is made up of five to seven shops, one or two bars, a restaurant and/or a cafe. When people ask, "Do you know Los Feliz?", they're usually referring to the two-block strip of Vermont Avenue.

Downtown Culver City has one major strip, and two off-shoot strips. There might be five cool restaurants in the area, and several good lunch spots. It also has two performing arts theatres, one movie theatre, an In'n'out, a Trader Joes, an Office Max, a Ross Dress for Less, some nail salons, and two studio lots.

It's only a city due to population, and through-traffic (all that east side to west side or vice-versa traffic that is either going to or trying to avoid the freeways). Otherwise, it more accurately resembles a large town.

This is Los Angeles, a collection of towns called cities that collectively make up one giant metropolis, if a metropolis can refer to something sprawling and incomprehensible.

Greetings from LA.  We're on our way.

2013 Wishful Predictions

Happy New Year, Everybody!

I had a long, and much needed holiday vacation.  A thing about me: when I go on vacation, I really go on vacation.  I disconnect completely and cease all productivity.  Hence, the long delay in my posting here.

But I'm back! And I'm rested! Re-energized! Onward.

Here are my wishful predictions for LA's upcoming year.  I'll jump for joy to see any of the following take place:

• Plans to develop a cross-town trainline from Union Station along the entire distance of Sunset Boulevard.  Yes, I know the city is still working on the Subway to the Sea, and that's great, but it runs along Wilshire, which is not within walking distance of my home.


• Malibu Wine Country laws to change to allow tasting rooms to operate at the actual wineries.


• Good Hangs, Cheap Drinks: Let's please see a trend away from cocktail revival bars and their $12 drinks toward neighborhood dives and $6 drinks.


• A revamp of the Macy's plaza downtown.  Macy's Plaza is bleak and depressing, but it sits on prime real estate in the heart of downtown.  With a revamp, it could be a great shopping and entertainment destination.  LA needs a better, more accessible shopping district that is in the actual city, rather than a pre-fab mall like The Grove or The Americana, or inaccessible, bougie Beverly Hills.  I mean, there's a subway station directly across the street!! Where better to develop LA's Rockefeller Plaza or the like?  Oooh! Turns out it's already in the works! Score!


• Better stores at Hollywood and Highland.  There's a huge outdoor mall there on prime real estate, but the only decent stores are Zara, a tiny H&M, and a Sephora. BCBG and Bebe? Blech.  Let's see a J Crew, Banana Repbulic, Urban Outfitters! Please! And how about a book store? Barnes and Noble, if nothing else?  I mean, there's a subway station directly below! Where better for good shopping? C'mon.

Okay, get at it, LA!  Here's to a prosperous, adventurous, less car-dependent, more metropolitan 2013!

A Food Tour of New York

After my too-brief weekend in NYC, I have compiled a list of a few of my favorite city eats. Despite common belief, New York ought not be experienced solely inside the Michelin rated restaurants of Wolfgang Puck and Mario Batali. No, the real New York lives in the holes in the wall, where the floors crumble under their age, and the aromas of authentic cuisines from around the world mingle in the street.

Go to these places, and you will have experienced New York at its best.

Soup Dumplings at Shanghai Cafe

Dumplings with soup inside. Delectable dim sum and delicious tea.  In the heart of my favorite NYC neighborhood.  Chinatown is a world of wonder.

Pierogis and Borscht at B & H Dairy

A hole of all holes in the wall, this place makes the best pierogis in Manhattan. Greenpoint, well, that's a different matter.  This place has been around forever, and I hope it remains forever. I don't know why it has 'dairy' in the name. Maybe because they serve sour cream with everything.

Cafe con Leche and Chicken Soup at El Castillo De Jagua

This chicken soup embodies comfort food. Hearty, salty, thick. The cafe con leche is perfect, a better day in a cup.

Halva and Turkish Delight from Economy Candy

Directly across the street from El Castillo de Jagua. It's an overwhelmingly well-stocked candy store, like the kind you envision from the 1940's. In fact, this place has been in business since 1937, and it's like stepping into a sweet, sweet time warp. I like to order freshly cut halvah and turkish delight by the pound.

Pelmeni at Uncle Vanya Cafe

Can you tell that I like dumplings? Chinese dumplings, Polish dumplings, Russian dumplings, I love them all.  I also love Russia, and being at Uncle Vanya Cafe feels like being in Russia. It's authentic; it's yummy.


An Egg and Cheese Sandwich at any Deli

No one in California knows how to make a decent egg and cheese sandwich, and those who try, charge way too much and are skimpy with the cheese. In NYC, an egg and cheese on a roll with salt and pepper costs between $2.50 and $3.50, and is huge and oozes with American cheese.  The more hole-in-the-wall the deli, the better the sandwich. It's a thing about NY that I miss very much.

These are all things that I miss about New York. Inexpensive foods from around the world, available in such quantities that you can grab a bite of heaven-on-earth as you go about your every day.

Holiday Travelers

Back in August, my husband and I missed a flight from LAX to SLC, due to no fault of our own. The fault laid squarely on the airport and it's Soviet-era security lines. Just last week, L.A. Business Journal reported that LAX is the second-most stressful airport in the country.  The emotional meltdown I experienced after the Delta Airlines gate attendants refused to let us on the flight would be a perfect illustration of the truth behind this report.

I am headed to the airport tonight, to catch the red-eye to Boston. I will be taking the 6:01pm metro red line to the Union Station Flyaway shuttle. When I touch ground in Boston just before 6:00am eastern time, I will have been traveling for nine hours.  My in-laws will pick me up, and when we arrive in New Hampshire, my travel time will have expanded to eleven hours.

I am anxious about the flight, anxious about how uncomfortable and tired I will be early tomorrow morning.  Each year, I wonder why - why do we put ourselves through such stress? Wouldn't it be nice to stay local, relax, keep our clothes in our closet, the luggage in storage, and cook our own turkey dinner? Well, the answer is family. We moved to Los Angeles for career pursuits. Our family does not live here. We so often feel isolated from the comfort and security that comes with being close to family. Throwing a party? Need some extra chairs or tables? Call your dad, he might have some you can borrow. Cooking a large casserole, need a bigger pan? Call your mom, you can borrow hers. Husband out of town? Tire blown on the freeway? Call your sister, she'll pick you up.  This is a network of security, of love, of I'll do anything for you.  Friends can help, but their support will never match the strength of that which comes from family.

We are and always will be the travelers, coming from the city where no one else lives, entering into the world of our parents, our siblings. We travel to bridge the distance. Yet, with each return to our current city, it seems that the distance grows, inches with each journey.  L.A. now seems further away than it did in the beginning.

Busy in Paradise

I've registered for the Malibu International Half Marathon.  Look at this course.

Beautiful.

I imagine that the running will be a breeze alongside the paradisical views of the PCH.  And then I remember that I currently struggle to run more than four miles straight through.  My last half marathon was nearly a year ago.  And these days, balancing writing, acting, and work, I'm finding that I have no time to run. Truly, no time. Unless, of course, I were to utilize the early mornings.  I've set my alarm for 6:15 am every morning this week, and every morning I've slammed my zombie paw on the ringing button, shutting it down.

I've been doing a lot of walking, though.  That counts for training, right?

Mapping a Life in LA

It's a vastly different life, this one, and I've lived a lot of them.  Possessing, as I do, a devotion to creativity, as well as a pre-occupation with steady paychecks, I've traversed a lot of ground, mapped many routes.

My legs are sore from all the walking, both literally and figuratively speaking.  I'd like to think that the miles I've walked in life, observing cities from the inside out, have helped form my physical and mental shape. I'm not speaking about fitness, but about being, about the shape I embody in actual space.  So, there are the aggregate miles.  But there's also now.  In the last three days, I've shed the cocoon of my car, and have put my feet to pavement.  See, the thing is, I've gone back to school.  I'm getting a master's degree in writing at USC, and, conveniently enough, the Expo Line has been up and running since spring.  When I was acting in USC student films a few years ago, the Expo line did not yet exist, and getting down there was a pain. Now, it's a real breeze, filtering between buildings, through tunnels, down avenues.

Hence, the new map of my existence: walk 1.7 miles to work, walk 0.7 miles to the train, commute to school, commute back to Hollywood, walk 0.5 miles home.

There are auditions and things that will break up this experience a bit, and require me to, once again, shut myself in a car, but, for the time being, I'm feeling the soreness in my legs as proof of my dedication to this city.

The Exercise of Meandering

I wrote about walking recently, and it's been on my mind a lot. On my mind, because it isn't in my life as much as is necessary to not think about it.

Some years ago, I would alter my after-work journey home with the errands I wanted to run.  I'd zing down the 6 to hit up The Strand Book Store, and then wile away the last hour of dusk in Union Square Park or window shop along 5th Avenue before hopping on the L train home. I'd walk over to Central Park to pick up a new read at the used book stand on Central Park South, and then take the F to 42nd Street and wander over to Grand Central Market to pick up a little gourmet something for dinner.  Or I'd take the F to West 4th and grab a cocktail at Do Hwa and then indulge in a cupcake at Magnolia ($1.25 at the time seemed extravagant), before moseying around the West Village until I was ready to go home.

I guess it's both walking and public transit I'm talking about: the foot-to-ground, visceral connection to a city, literally mapping your community with the soles of your feet, public transit serving as a means to speed up the journey while keeping you contained in an area only as big as yourself (you get in a car and you're twenty times your regular size, requiring a lot more space and energy).

I got tired of being underground so much, though, especially when I lived in Brooklyn. In Manhattan, I could walk or bike everywhere, the train simply being the quicker option.  In Brooklyn, the train was my only option (I'm not a gung-ho bicyclist, and was never prone to riding over bridges, nor was I near enough any of the bridges for this to be an efficient mode of transit).

In LA, I am above ground, and I see a lot of sunlight and trees, which is an improvement over the dripping concrete ceilings and rusted pipes of NYC subway stations.  However, I'm always just where I am, or going there, usually in my car.  I'm never meandering. Oh, to meander. I miss it so.  I regularly attempt it, often spending my lunch breaks wandering around the Hollywood and Vine area. It's a fascinating stroll of opposites - urban and suburban, industrial and corporate - but it has no parks. Nowhere to sit, reflect, absorb. When I get back to my office, my legs are very tired, my shoulders browned by the sun, my forehead flecked with sweat.

Walking in LA. It's an exercise, in more ways than one.

A Pool of Nostalgia

Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.  I blame it alternately on anxiety and muscle pain. A few nights a week, I lie in bed, a tired person trapped in an awake body.  On nights like these, I often don’t fall asleep until four or five o’clock in the morning.  Then, because I don’t want to sleep the next day away, I awaken at a typical morning hour, and spend the day in a near-zombie state.  Such was the case last Sunday.  Moving, but barely alive.

I’ve been running. I started as an excuse to workout outside rather than at the gym.  I trained for a 5K, and then a half marathon. Now I’m training for a marathon.  The conditions have to be just right for me to go running. It can’t be too hot out, but it has to be sunny. It also can’t be morning, because I am asleep in the morning.  Therefore, I mostly run in the evening, after 6:00pm, when temperatures have cooled and the sun has softened.

Last Sunday, I was milling about my apartment in that sleepless zombie state, trying to muster up the energy to go for a run.  By the time I'd finally talked myself into it, it was past noon, and just too hot out.  There were other options. The gym. Hiking up to the Griffith Observatory. Yoga. But I was so tired, I just wanted to float. Outside, resting my muscles under the summer sun, while still moving them in a manner that could be considered good for them.

It dawned on me that I could go swimming. There is a public pool in Hollywood, on Cahuenga. I've only been once, under a very similar circumstance - I was prepping for a round of cancer-treating radiation. Exhausted, but knowing I needed to move, and wanting to do so outside. It was, after all summertime.

I am meant to be outside. The very molecules that make up my physical being are made of fresh air, fresh water. I'm kin of snowmen but from a different climate.  A life spent inside is for me, no life at all. I'd melt.

So, I put on a swimsuit, packed up a beach bag, and drove myself to the pool. I remembered all of my days spent walking to the pool when I was a kid. In grade school, my sister and I would walk a full two miles to the pool in Riverton, Utah, through the small suburban town, into the rural outskirts, past the farms and empty fields, where there was a beautifully landscaped public pool overlooking the Jordan River valley.  Later, I lived in an even more suburban area called Sandy.  No farms, just houses.  There were two pools in the area - the grander one was two miles away, at the end of Highland drive, a major thoroughfare that climbed steeply from my culdesac.  It wasn't a pleasant walk.  The smaller community pool was just under two miles away, along Creek Road. A simple, pretty walk.  In junior high school, I spent my summers in Montana, on a small town swimteam. My friend and I would often walk home from the pool, two miles along a country dirt road through the rolling golden hills of Chinook's expansive farms and ranches. We'd spend the entire day in our swimsuits, running around on the farm, never minding the dirt accumulating on our knees and elbows or the hay in our hair, because we'd just shower it off at the locker room before evening swim practice.

My time spent walking to the pool was time spent really feeling the sensation of being alive, of the sun on my skin, the coolness of the water, the invigoration and fatigue of my muscles, my pruned fingertips, my hunger, my crusted hair, my cracked heels from walking long distances in worn-down flip flops. Last Sunday, as I dipped myself slowly into the cool almost cold water, all of these sensations came flooding back. My heart jumped with gratitude for these memories, and for my psyche having gotten my tired self to the pool, allowing this nostalgia to take hold.

I also remembered how nice the pools are in the Salt Lake area. Maybe it's because the Salt Lake City economy isn't suffering like the Los Angeles economy. Maybe it's because the Salt Lake area is zoned into many small counties, whereas Los Angeles County is sprawling and unmanageable. In any case, Utah pools are landscaped with lawn and hills and trees. Los Angeles public pools are not landscaped. They are simply holes dug into the ground, surrounded by flat concrete surfaces, and enclosed by chain link fences.  They are only open from mid-June to mid-August (whereas Salt Lake pools are open through Labor Day).  You'd think, given the stereotype that Los Angeles is a blossoming summerland all-year-round, that its pools would be lavish and fancy and open most of the year.  That may be true for the private pools of the rich and famous, but the public pools are quite bland and under-staffed. That being said, the Hollywood pool is clean and well-kept, if not terribly pretty.

After my afternoon swim, I put my wet, chlorine-encrusted self back into my car and drove home with the windows open. "Next time, I'll walk," I thought.

Hollywood Recreation Center Pool

Alta Canyon Sports Center Pool, Utah

Closing the Distance with an LA Summer

My parents live in Salt Lake City, Utah. When I lived in New York City, I often lost sleep over how much I missed them. The distance was too great, and it burrowed a hole in my heart that let the wind in at night. Since moving to California, the hole has shrunk. I don't know if it will ever close completely, unless I find myself living in the same city as them one day.  It's size has greatly reduced though, to where I almost don't notice it in between visits, as long as the time between visits grows no longer than three or four months.

Recently, we let six months pass between visits, and I once again felt the wind whistling through the hole in my heart at night. It started keeping me awake, so I called parents and told them I was having trouble sleeping.  They hopped in their Subaru and drove the six hundred and eight eight miles to see me in Los Angeles, and spent six days with me leading up to the Fourth of July. I'd been fortunate enough to receive an unexpected three days off work, which, tacked onto the weekend, gave me five full days with them.

It is during visits from out-of-towners that one unearths a real appreciation for Los Angeles and all it has to offer. Every day, we did something quintessentially iconic of this desert dreamland.

Happy Hour at Stout Burger
One of the best burgers in LA. Usually $10 - just $5 during happy hour.

Happy Hour at St. Felix in the EaCa Alley
Hollywood's First Pedestrian Alley, with sidewalk cafes for the restaurants on the eastside of Cahuenga.

Martinis at Musso & Frank
One of the oldest restaurants in Los Angeles, and firmly rooted in its founding time, Musso & Frank is famous for their martini's, but they make a great Manhattan, too.

Wine Tasting and Picnic at Malibu Family Winery
Gorgeous picnic grounds in the Malibu hills.  The wine may not be spectacular, but the experience is.

Happy Hour at Duke's Malibu
There is no better place to relax over a Mai Tai after a day in the sun and sand.

Levitating Mass at LACMA
A striking site, to see a giant boulder behind Miracle Mile. Brings Canyon Lands to Los Angeles, making a statement about open space and architecture. (There is SO much space in LA!)

Happy Hour at Mohawk Bend
They have a billion craft beers on tap. Seriously, a billion. Plus, a nice patio in which to enjoy them.

Dinner at Masa
The best deep dish this side of Chicago.

Photo by QuarryGirl

Karaoke at Sardo's in Burbank
This neighborhood karaoke bar is one of my favorite places on earth. It is low-key, it is unassuming, its clientele is wholly comprised of neighborhood locals. Step into Sardo's and you're no longer in Los Angeles, you're in Anywheretown, USA.

My dad and my husband performed "Surfer Bird" and got the only standing ovation of the evening. That's my dad for you. Watch the video here:



Strolling the Laguna Beach Strand
You can't get closer to Paradise anywhere. Hawaii? Bah. We have Laguna.

Lunch at Nick's in Laguna
What is better than a deviled egg? A FRIED deviled egg, that's what.

Happy Hour on my Hollywood Porch
Who needs to spend any money on happy hour, when one happens to be quite a skilled bartender, and has a lovely porch in the heart in the Hollywood?

War Horse at the Ahmanson
The book came first, then the play, followed by the movie. The play features incredible hand-crafted,  puppeteered horses.  What the play lacks in dynamic storytelling, it makes up for in artistry.

Manhattan Beach for the Fourth of July
Absolutely my favorite place to celebrate the Fourth of July. It becomes quite a drunken ruckus in the evening, but during the day, the beach itself remains fairly calm.  It's nice to stake out a large spot on the sand, and then, on the way to the bathroom, glimpse the parade of drinking-to-get-drunk post-college kids that peacock up and down the strand.

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Independence Day

I am a distinctly summer girl. This season is, without a doubt, my favorite, and I look cynically upon those who deny it's superiority over the other three.

I also maintain a very sunny disposition toward the Fourth of July.  There are cryptic memes on facebook and sardonic comments hanging in the air at hipster parties that decry the childishness or naivite of our national celebrations: drinking, getting drunk, eating junk and setting explosives afire, as if these activities somehow overshadow or minimize the true purpose of the holiday: to honor our independence as a nation.

Personally, I find the drunken debauchery of Independence Day truly delightful, signaling the official start of summer.  A nation whose citizens can really let loose and get collectively, rapturously wild in celebrations, the origins of which are easily cast aside in favor of partying, is a nation that is truly free.

Many readers have emailed me with questions about how to become a writer. To answer their questions, I made a brief but informative tutorial: How to be a Writer. Watch it below.

A Vision of Future Weekends

The weekend greets me with yellow sunlight splashing through my eastern facing windows.  It's, as always, a beautiful day out there, and I envision, along with my lazy morning, a slow few days of late brunches, leisurely wandering, people watching, window shopping, coffee dates.

This perfect weekend, however, doesn't quite exist in Los Angeles.  I know, because I've lived it elsewhere, but never here.  Here, it is just a vision, a dream, and to become reality it requires one thing: mass transit.  A thorough system that can facilitate a weekend of strolling about, exploring new and familiar areas, being a loiterer, a consumer, ending each day with the slight but envigorating fatigue that comes with experiencing a city on foot.

As it is, I must amend my vision to include hours of sitting within the confines of my car.

Imagine the possibilities if the following were real:

Some brilliant mind (specifically Numan Parada, an L.A.-area mapmaker) drafted this wishful map of what LA Metro could be. That is, a system for actually getting people around and about. Not just sort of, but really.  A system that everyone would depend on (let alone, know about - I live near the Hollywood/Western red line station and when mentioning this fact, I have, on more than one occasion received the response from fellow Angelenos, "There's a subway in LA?").

Let's compare, shall we? Here is the actual state of LA Metro:

Five lines (the orange one is a bus line and rather ineffective one at that - I know, because I've ridden it) serving none of the most visited areas of LA.  See that white space between the green and orange lines?  There lie the neighborhoods you want to visit - that is, Hollywood, West Hollywood, West LA, Culver City, Venice, Marina Del Mar, Brentwood, Westwood, Santa Monica, Malibu, Pacific Palisades.  How do you get to those neighborhoods? You drive. That is, if sitting in traffic can be called driving.

There are people and organizations in LA working toward building a campaign for more extensive metro.  And, of course, there are people and organizations in LA opposing these campaigns.  Their arguments against investing in rail consist of the amount of money it would take (potentially billions of dollars), the 'antiquated' technology of rail, the hazards of digging tunnels in an earthquake zone (does nobody remember the collapsed freeways of 1989) or in the dry desert.

Well, somehow, Moscow did it:

In the planning of the Moscow metro, the results of a 1931 geological survey showed that:

"the nature of the soil would make tunnelling particularly difficult because it consisted of sands saturated with water and dry sands, strata of different clays which permeated with cracked water-bearing and massive limestone, old washouts and quicksand. Many underground rivers were discovered. During the construction of the tunnel section between Sokolniki and Okhotny Ryad alone the miners had to cross four water flows." - see The History of the Moscow Metro.

Yet, despite the dangers and hazards, and seemingly prohibitive cost (metro projects were repeatedly dismissed for three decades due to high cost), the thing got made.  And it's one of the world's most thorough and effective rapid transit systems (I know, because I've ridden it).

Self-Will and the Weather Report

I checked the weather report on my iPhone this morning, like I do every morning. The high was under 70 degrees, and I thought, perfect. I could wear a long-sleeved shirt, slacks, and a blazer - the semi-professional look needed for the audition I'd be attending later.

Most mornings, the iPhone report shows 72 degrees or higher. My wardrobe choices are limited on those days. I don't consider this a problem, though, because I enjoy being warm. I'd rather be warm than look good. Honestly, I would.

I work in a production center with a lot of other production companies. My office is next to the writer's room for a prime time TV show, and we share a thermostat. Apparently, they like to be cold while they lob ideas across a room at each other. They crank the air up, and I sit in my office, watching frost form on my computer screen.

If I have an additional layer with me, then great. I'm comfortable. Really, a blazer or cardigan are in order any day at my office. But on warm days, as soon as I leave the office, beads of sweat form on my forehead instantly - for LA sun does not shine agreeably upon layers.

Yet, I prefer to be outside. Always, in any weather, prefer to be outside, and if I can't be outside, then I want to be moving, rather than sitting. Want to be on location, or on a set, rehearsing, blocking, performing.

In considering the weather forecast, I see my chosen life. For in art, all weather is fine weather.

Silent World

Cour carrée du Louvre

Place de l'Opera

Place Montparnasse

Columbus Circle

Sixth Avenue

Speaking of Obscure Cities . . . "Silent World” is a series of photographs from Paris-based photographers Lucie and Simon. From New York and Paris to Beijing and Italy, these photographs are a depiction of some of the world’s most recognizable and busiest public outdoor spaces vacated and devoid of crowds.

I could look at these all day. And in fact, I have.

You can do the same here.

VIP Oscar Party

I have never been to the Oscars.  Nor have I been to a pre-Oscar industry party.  I want, badly, to attend both such things.  In the meantime, though, I enjoy being a resident of Hollywood during awards season, and witnessing, if only peripherally, the excitement.

Last Saturday night, Joseph and I went for one of our typical evening strolls through Hollywood.  We got dinner at Stout, each of us savoring their signature Stout burger, and jauntily sipping a few ales.

Then, we went to Musso and Frank (Charlie Chaplin's old haunt, if you didn't already know) for a good old Martini.  The bar was, of course, packed and we propped ourselves up on the divider wall between the bar and the restaurant while we sipped our cocktails.  We noticed that a group of people at the bar were in formal attire, and we assumed they'd just come from a pre-Oscar party.  They were also trashed. Bow ties hanging half undone, spaghetti straps slipping, updo's falling down.  Finally, with much drunken drama, they left and we took their seats, which were littered with wrappings from their swag bags.  At first, I pushed it all aside, but then I got to looking. They'd left not just the wrappings, but the swag.  The program revealed that they'd been to a fundraiser for cardiovascular disease research, honoring Larry King. I dug up  a handful of teas, a sample green tea toner, a sample moisturizer, a sample suncreen, a candle, a $100 gift certificate to a spa, and a certificate for a free facial peel from a different spa.

I felt . . . treated.  I love Oscar weekend.

History of The Kodak

History in Hollywood takes no time to build.  The Kodak Theatre is is just over 11 years old, and was designed to be a permanent home for the Academy Awards.  Kodak's contract has them paying $75 million over 20 years for the privilege of having its name appear in guilded letters over the grand entryway to the theatre.  That's $3.75 million a year, nothing to sneeze at for a bankrupt company, and now they're looking to get out of their contract, opening up the naming rights to anyone else with a big enough wallet.

The news has created a string of discussions, online and off, pontificating over the future of the theatre, especially with the added detail that the Oscars may be looking for a new venue.  These discussions are laden with nostalgia for the theatre, its name, and its "history" as the venue for the Oscars.

Councilman Eric Garcetti is asking for suggestions for who might take over the the naming rights, and as one would expect, the suggestions put forth in tweets and comments are mostly tongue-in-cheek.

"Facebook theatre. With all the money they will get from the IPO, they will be swimming in it."

"Tinseltown Theater brought to you by Dole Pineapple."

But then somebody offers this wonderful notion:

"How about the next name sponsor demonstrate (a.) Hollywood awareness and (b.) humility and generosity, by showing they know the theatre and its large adjoining courtyard are built on the spot where the giant set was built for the silent classic, INTOLERANCE. Name the home of the Oscars the D.W. Griffith Theatre. If it can't be Kodak, at least let it be appropriate."

I have to say I love the phrase "Hollywood awareness", both for its oxymoronish nature, as well its idealism.  I dare say, I possess Hollywood awareness - that is, I am a strong advocate for the neighborhood, and am very dedicated to defending its character, and to helping improve its (already significant) quality of life in any small way I can.

The "D.W. Griffith Theatre"with its call-back to our local culture's rich, if short, history is the perfect name for the soon-to-be former Kodak Theatre, but the question is, who would pay $75 Million for it, and where does that money even go?

More articles about The Kodak and its name debate:

http://www.scpr.org/news/2012/02/01/31073/kodak-wants-its-name-kodak-theatre-and-eric-garcet/

http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/movieawards/oscars/story/2012-02-02/kodak-theater-hollywood-oscars/52935692/1