Shaken, Not Stirred

Death...Mayhem...Destruction!

That is what you might have thought if you saw the wall-to-wall coverage of L.A.'s big, huge, giant, scary earthquake on Tuesday. If you actually bothered to watch any of the coverage, however, you'd find it mostly consisted of shots of some bricks knocked loose from a building and a few canned goods that tumbled off a store shelf. Heck, John McCain somehow managed to wreak more havoc on a supermarket than a 5.4-magnitude temblor.

Not to say that being in a earthquake isn't somewhat unsettling. But after about 20 minutes of milling around aimlessly outside while trying to get a cell phone signal, everyone pretty much went about their day. Unlike the national media, I find that Californians are somewhat unflappable when it comes to natural disasters. There seems to be an acceptance that the occasional ravaging wildfire, mudslide, or tectonic plate movement is merely the price one pays for year-round sunshine and abundant natural beauty. (The truly weird part though is that it only takes about a quarter-inch of rain for all hell to break loose.)

This was actually the third and largest earthquake I've experienced since moving to California. The first time, it was around midnight and I was alone in my apartment in bed. My initial thought was that a giant truck had slammed into the side of the building. When I realized what was actually happening, the sensation was not what I would have expected. If you're close enough to the ground during a quake, you can actually feel the earth rolling underneath you like waves. And I think that feeling, even more so than the fear of crumbling concrete or shattering glass, is what makes earthquakes scary. For a few heart-stopping seconds you are completely aware of how anarchic nature can be--how with no warning it can literally pull the solid ground out from underneath your feet. It's a pretty convincing example of man's powerlessness against nature.

The second time, I was in the middle of a company-wide staff meeting at the newspaper I used to work at. I imagine that being in a room full of news reporters and editors in the seconds after an earthquake hits is somewhat similar to watching a pack of rampaging wildebeests take off after a gazelle. In one fluid motion, everyone in the room leaped to their feet and made a mad dash for their phones and notepads. (Sometimes I miss the single-mindedness of journalism.)

On Tuesday, when the windows and desk drawers started rattling, I realized pretty quickly what was going on and had the presence of mind to move away from the large window near my desk to a more protected part of the office. Some of the newer California transplants dove under their desks, which I probably should have done, but I just kind of hovered in a doorway exchanging nervous laughter with a co-worker until the ground became firm once again. Shortly thereafter it was back to work--but the rest of that afternoon had that kind of carnival-like feeling that ensues when SOMETHING HAPPENS to break up the monotony of a typical workday.

And maybe that's the trick of living in California, a place that seems to be constantly perched on the precipice of disaster. Eventually, you learn to be more at peace with its unpredictability and sometimes savage beauty. Maybe you even develop a perverse pleasure in challenging it, which is the only reason I can imagine why people would choose to build their multi-million dollar mansions on stilts along the sides of unsteady mountains.

Well, that and the views I suppose.

Sweet Home Chicago

I've been doing a bit of traveling lately for work. Before I started taking them, business trips held a certain allure. It always seemed very glamorous and ADULT to travel and be paid for it. Unfortunately, like many things in life, the reality does not quite live up to the ideal. Mostly, you spent a lot of time being disgruntled in airports and getting a sore shoulder from lugging a 20 pound (or so it feels) laptop around with you all day long.

The first trip I took in May was to Iowa, of all places. I landed at the minuscule Grand Rapids airport and tracked down the shuttle service I had booked to transport me to my hotel. The service turned out to be a very nice elderly man who sat behind a counter at the airport and kept his reservations alphabetized on index cards. Midway through the 20-mile drive to the hotel he commented, "It's a shame you're coming in at night because you're missing the sights." I wasn't too disappointed since I can only imagine he was referring to the roadside Denny's and, let's face it, if you've seen one you've seen them all.

The second trip was to Chicago, which was actually pretty exciting because I grew up just outside of the city and was able to work in some time to spend with my family and friends. I also got to stay in a hotel right downtown for free.

One thing I have discovered is that no matter where you are, everyone you meet will tell you how much they love Chicago. It may be the most universally beloved city in the world. And with good reason. It's a bustling metropolis with great restaurants, culture, sports, a shoreline and an effective public transportation system. It's what New York would be like if New York were clean and its people were friendly and it had a moderate cost of living and didn't smell like garbage. (So actually, I guess it's nothing like New York.)

Every time I'm in Chicago, I'm struck by what a beautiful city it is. On a bright and sunny day the Loop actually seems to sparkle. And everyone who lives there is like seven feet tall (it is the city of big shoulders after all) and loves to jog. They all seem so happy and robust it's enough to make you ill. While I was there I visited my friend who lives in the chic River North neighborhood. It's a former industrial area, and there's still a chocolate factory nearby that makes the entire neighborhood smell like chocolate chip cookies. How could anyone resist such a place?

The funny thing is that I have resisted it for many years now. I left when I was 18 and profoundly bored and desperate to get out of the Midwest and see what life was like in a different part of the country. I've always felt that my true home is among the neurotic and dispossessed, and I've never really looked back. But now, whenever I visit, I feel just the smallest tug pulling me homeward.

That feeling was especially acute when I arrived back in Los Angeles, where it's smoggy and ugly and every one's constantly bitter because their development deal fell through or they got turned away from Hyde last Saturday night. Why, I wonder, don't I flee this horrible place for the magical land of happy giants where it always smells like freshly baked cookies?

But then, of course, there is this.



And if I didn't live in Los Angeles, I would not have ended up sitting two rows in front of Screech from Saved By The Bell on the flight back. (He was sitting in coach...I guess being an early 90s TV actor turned home sex-video star doesn't pay like it used to).

And if that is not a sound argument for living in La-La Land then, my friends, I do not know what is.

In Which I Make Al Gore Cry Non-Biodegradable Tears

A few days ago, I read an article in the New York Times about how Portland has become a super bicycle-friendly city and has the nation's highest percentage of workers who commute by bike

After I read it, I felt a pang of guilt about the fact that I live in the most car-centric city in the world. The moment passed quickly, however, when I remembered that I love my car, and hate bicycle riders.

Yes, driving in Southern California can be torturous. It's ALWAYS rush hour here, and when it rains people completely forget that their vehicles come equipped with brakes. Sometimes when I'm sitting in traffic on the freeway I momentarily lose my mind and scream at the cars around me, "JUST MOVE ALREADY. MOVE! LUCIFER'S BEARD, WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?!"

But the point is that I can scream. I'm safely tucked away in my own little temperature-controlled cocoon of steel and glass, where I can listen to NPR or sing along with my awesome mix CD as loudly as I want. I know it's wrong, but I just can't help it. As much as I miss living in a pedestrian-friendly city, I do NOT miss public transportation. I do NOT miss standing outside in sub-zero temperatures in the middle of winter, waiting to cram myself into a jam-packed train full of people with questionable personal hygiene.

(For those who may not know, Los Angeles does actually have a subway. This is something I often forget, but I was reminded the other night when I caught the last 20 minutes of "Speed" on cable. I have yet to meet anyone in this city who has ever actually ridden it, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out that someone built it for the sole purpose of filming a movie scene and then just decided it was easier to leave it there.)

As for my general dislike of cyclists, well the truth is that they just bother me. They pedal along, blithely unaware of all the disgruntled drivers behind them, and seem to believe that their two-wheeled dexterity exempts them from following the rules of the road. The run-ins I've had with bicycle riders over the years have done nothing to dispel my prejudice. Back in college when I was Rollerblading (remember Rollerblades?), a man who was riding behind me accused me of somehow causing him to crash and fall of his bicycle. And because I stupidly gave him my real name, he sued me for $2,000 worth of damage to his bike. Another time, while jogging, a cyclist running a red light smacked into me and sent me sprawling into the middle of the busiest street in Boston.

Need another example? My friend Neetu (who is an avid cyclist, but I forgive her because she has many other admirable qualities) once took a nasty spill while riding her bike around the college town she lives in. While she was lying prostate on the sidewalk, a man with a hook for a hand attempted to administer first aid to her. Which just goes to show you that nothing good ever comes from riding a bike.

So, my apologies to Al, the lovely, outdoorsy people of Portland and Plant Earth. On this particular issue we're just going to have to agree to disagree. When it comes to my little blue Toyota, my attitude isn't very green. In fact, it's more of a smoggy gray.

Hip To Be Square

One of the more interesting aspects of life in Los Angeles is the ability to observe hipsters in their natural environment. Of course, the species* can be found in virtually any major metropolitan area, but in L.A. they seem to flourish like hothouse flowers.

Because I enjoy indie music and movies, and have several friends who are wannabe filmmakers, I occasionally find myself hovering on the fringes of hipster culture. But even after four years in Southern California, I still feel more like a cultural anthropologist than a member of the tribe. Maybe it's because my bangs--despite being carefully sculpted by a Beverly Hills stylist every six to eight weeks--never seem to fall quite right. I've tried the leggings under an oversized shirt thing a few times and, while I thought it looked rather fetching, I still walked around all day saying to myself, "good God, I'm a 26-year-old in tights!"

Alas, unhipness seems to be coded into my DNA, like the Midwestern twang I've never quite shaken and my inexplicable love for Kenny Loggins (who, I have on good authority, is dead sexy in concert).

While I can take solace in the fact that I would probably be the coolest person at a Kenny Loggins concert, such is not the case in my daily life. Still, living in the epicenter of tragic hipsterdom does have its moments--like when you're at a Los Feliz bar (which, incidentally, is located next to a cafe called the "Bourgeois Pig") and a group of people in funky hats at the table next to you break into an impromptu script reading. Or when you show up at a concert in Echo Park and see Santino Rice from Season 2 of Project Runway standing outside the venue

(I fear I may be going overboard lately with reporting my celebrity sightings. But then again, what's the point of living in the superficial cesspool that is L.A. if you can't regale people with stories of bumping into the enfant terrible of reality television outside of Echo Park clubs?)

When I saw Santino, resplendent in skinny black pants and a hot pink bandanna underneath a fedora, I suspected I was a little out of my coolness league. Surely enough, the Bishop Allen show was chockablock with waifish twenty-somethings sporting stovepipe jeans, black-rimmed glasses and artfully sideswept bangs.

Still, my lack of the proper accoutrement did nothing to damper my enjoyment of the show, and Matt and I even decided to splurge on t-shirts to advertise our love of all things Bishop Allen. Matt was at first reticent, fearing the t-shirt would suggest he was trying to acquire a false geek-chic aesthetic, when his look is really more straight-up geek. But I talked him into it and, if I do say so myself, he looks dead sexy in it.

On a side note, if you get a chance to check out the band, they're pretty great. I stalkerishly feel like I have a connection to the two frontmen, who formed the group while living in Boston in the early 2000s. (The band is named after the street they lived on in Cambridge.) Also, they have both been featured in this guy's movies, who used to work with Matt's friend Kate at the Trident Bookstore on Newbury Street.

As you can see, me and the band are practically BFF.

Anyway, midway through the show I noticed a guy standing near me who appeared to be even more out of place than I felt. The poor sod was at least 40, and was wearing stone-washed jeans, a button-down shirt TUCKED IN and some kind of bizarre cowboy boot/loafer hybrid upon his feet. At one point between songs he leaned over to the young Elvis Costello doppelganger standing next to him and said, rather sheepishly, "what do you think the average age here is, "25?"

Costello just shrugged his shoulders dismissively, and unhip old guy returned to his place at the edge of the group. Part of me wanted to go over to him and offer some words of comfort--something about how maybe no one ever really feels like they fit in and it's all just bullshit anyway.

But of course I didn't actually go up to him and say anything. In the end, I figured he probably just got lost on the way to the Kenny Loggins show.


* In case you are wondering if you meet the criteria to be a true hipster, you may find this helpful.

And the Award for Best Celebrity Sighting Goes To...

Matt K. (Although I don't know if this story can top the time I saw Ben Stein reliving his Ferris Bueller glory days. Or the time I was on a flight to Florida with Kirk Cameron and he started proselytizing the passengers. But that's a story for another post.)

Anyway, Matt (who has recently discovered his inner Emeril) was in Crate & Barrel loading up on supplies for our woefully understocked kitchen. While searching for a suitable mixing bowl, he noticed Courteney Cox browsing nearby. After a couple of minutes she turned to the woman she was with, exclaimed "$35 for a bowl!?" and walked away in disgust.

Of course Matt, not being a celebrity stalker, just continued to go about his business. Had I been there, I might have been tempted to walk up to her and say, "Excuse me, Ms. Cox. Or Cox-Arquette, or whatever your name is. While I admire your frugality, remember when you were making a million dollars an episode for that show you were on? Why not go crazy and treat yourself to that $35 bowl?"

Or, I might have just burst out with, "I loved you on Family Ties!"

Either way, I guess US Weekly was right after all. Celebrities are just like us!

L.A. Story

Some places, you immediately fall in love with.

The moment I arrived in Boston as a freshman in college, I was smitten. I fell head-over-heels for the city’s charm and history, the noble brownstones lining its crooked streets, the omnipresence of tricycle guy, whose incomprehensible bellows could guide you through the darkest of nights. When I left the summer after my senior year, it broke my heart. I cried all the way to the New York state line.

And then, like many an unemployed and directionless soul before me, I washed up on the shores of the Pacific. My relationship to Los Angeles could probably be best described as a creeping affection. Arriving in Southern California was like touching down on the face of an unknown planet—a planet of garishly colored Mediterranean architecture and incessantly blinding sunlight. It was intriguing, but it seemed too unreal of a place to imagine myself actually living here for any extended period of time.

Now, more than three years later as I’m preparing to become an official resident of Los Angeles, I find there are things about this foreign land that have started to feel like home. Things like late night Astroburger runs, Saturday afternoons at the West Hollywood Farmer’s Market and movies at the Arclight (where they have assigned seating and kindly allow you to bring your cocktail into the theater, which makes it totally worth the $14 price of admission). Searching for an actual home, however, has been a bit of an odyssey.

In the past couple of weeks, we’ve looked at apartments that are--in L.A. real estate speak--Culver City adjacent, West Hollywood adjacent and Beverly Hills adjacent ( and a couple that are actually in Beverly Hills—I know, aren’t we posh). Where some of these buildings were actually located, I’d be hard pressed to tell you. But I know exactly which desirable neighborhood they are within spitting distance from.

In L.A., you’re always adjacent to something. Adjacent to celebrity, to the ocean, to a Coffee Bean franchise. Which perhaps makes sense in a city where everybody is trying to be something else. It’s a philosophy based on the utter rejection of the idea that wherever you go, there you are. Because here, it’s not about where you are, but where you’re going.

Today, you may be a paid-by-the-day production assistant eeking out a meager existence in an unglamorous part of West L.A. But one turn of the screw and you’re a high powered producer with major square footage in Brentwood. Mobility here isn’t just upward, it can be stratospheric. So isn’t it more affirming to think of yourself as “Brentwood-adjacent?”

I think this is both the magic and the curse of Los Angeles. It can be painfully image-obsessed and as disingenuous as the non-native palm trees that define its topography. But, as corny as it sounds, it’s still a place that draws people with big dreams.

During the countless Friday night drives I’ve made from my bucolic suburban domicile to my boyfriend’s Santa Monica adjacent apartment, my favorite part of the drive always comes when I’m maneuvering around a twisty hill on the I-10. At one specific point, if the smog’s not too heavy, you get a glimpse of downtown L.A. rising up in the distance. From this particular vantage point, the city’s usually pitiful-looking skyline appears to be floating on a cloud above the earth—sort of like the first image of the Emerald City in "The Wizard of Oz.”

I guess this is kind of how I have affectionately come to think of my new home. A poorly conceived, sprawling, carcinogen-infested Land of Oz. Run by an actor pretending to be a wizard.

Addendum

The L.A. Times wrote a story a couple of days ago about the sad state of independent bookstores in Los Angeles.

I feel pretty cool knowing that I shop at the same place as Diane Keaton.

The End of a Beautiful Friendship

I’ve always loved bookstores. Whether they’re small independents or corporate behemoths, I love them all. There’s something indescribably comforting about the rows of unread books ripe for browsing, the fact that Jane Austen and Michael Chabon can share a shelf, the soothing affirmation that we’re not quite living in a post-literate society.

So it’s with a heavy heart that I say good-bye to one of my favorite Los Angeles haunts. The one and only independent bookstore in Beverly Hills closed its doors at the end of December. For Matt and I, it was a favorite stop on our semi-regular expeditions into how the other half lives. Hang a left at Jimmy Choo, and there it was—a small inviting space tucked away on an unprepossessing street in Beverly Hills’ shopping district. Even though it was just a couple of blocks away, it felt far removed from the gawkers and self-conscious opulence of Rodeo Drive.

But this is L.A., people, and even a bookshop isn’t without a hint of glamour. It was the location of my infamous Ben Stein sighting. (He was spotted walking through the store saying “Phil?…Phil?…Phil?” I’ve often wondered if there actually was a Phil present, of if Mr. Stein does that in public just to mess with people.) We exited the store that same afternoon to see Djimon Hounsou engaged in conversation on the sidewalk.

Then there was the time we observed a guy introducing his blond, model-esque girlfriend to the wonder of reading. He kept stacking books higher and higher in her arms. When he shoved Love in the Time of Cholera at her, explaining how it had changed his life, I thought she was going to faint. It was like watching Henry Higgins instruct a large-breasted Eliza Doolittle.

Despite our frequent visits--and the patronage of sundry monotone celebrities--I realize that we are precisely the reason why the place couldn’t stay afloat. All of their best efforts to drive actual book purchasing were completely lost on us. There was the time we ambled inside to find we had missed Al Gore signing copies of An Inconvenient Truth by mere minutes. Our visits were always punctuated with sentences like, “why didn’t we know Amy Sedaris was going to be here last week?” We didn’t even know the place was closing until we walked past and found the doors locked. To be honest, I think the only thing I ever actually bought there was a birthday card.

Apparently that means that I am complicit in the spread of the evil corporate empire. I’m a mass-consuming drone lured by the promise of Internet purchasing ease and 30 percent off of all bestsellers. But the truth is that I like Barnes&Noble, just as I like Banana Republic and find Dunkin Donuts coffee to be superior to just about anything else in the universe. In the end, a bookstore is a bookstore. It’s not like B&N has stopped stocking Dostoevsky in order to free up shelf space for more copies of The Da Vinci Code.

I’m guessing that, much like myself, most people don’t go to places like Dutton’s to actually buy books. It’s a discovery. A haven in the midst of the retail jungle where you can linger peacefully for hours without having to actually purchase anything. That’s why we come to love such places. Why, when we find them, we plant our metaphorical flags there and declare them our own. It’s a shame they can’t survive on love alone.