It rains, it pours. We are lucky to feel so cozy inside on a Friday.
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..and this is Santa Monica…
With Skates On
6 FebI’ve always loved skate and surf culture. Imagining that if I had only grown up in Southern California, the lanky blond girl on a skateboard riding off into the sunset could have been me – but I grew up in the rocky mountains. It’s about hiking and the outdoors. White water rafting, rock-climbing, running, snowboarding. I never became the hippie this environment often spawns (healthy eating is a big concern, as is saving the environment in my hometown), but I certainly didn’t turn into the Abercrombie&Fitch wearing preppy college student either (also well-known in my hometown – the local University looms over the city). I settled in the middle, I rode a snowboard. When I moved to California, my skate fantasy began again. If I was going to learn to ride, it had to be now and not when I’m 40. It’s ridiculous now (maybe), even more so at an older age.
As a gift for my birthday, I received an Arbor longboard. Completely beautiful in its clear deck tape – to better show off the natural wood and stylized logo. Arbor boards are prized as an environmentally-friendly product; their company ideology advocates that “you can’t just be “green” for the sake of being green. If it were that easy we’d all be wearing hemp.” Their boards are made out of maple, wood and bamboo by-products created during construction. Their boards (skate, snow and surf) are breathtaking.
I learned. Slowly. One night on our way to a Brazilian dinner at a neighborhood restaurant – a perfect opportunity to ride my board down the street – I decided to take a chance down a hill. I was brought to my knees by my fast, uncontrolled ride and suffered a courageous scar. A knarly tear in my knee (see below), was the result. Damn. I am proud. I tried. My board nary suffered a scuff.
You Forgot Your Shirt
19 JanDoes anyone ever watch L.A. local morning news and think that maybe the female anchors just turned up to the set after clubbing all night?
I realize I live in the land of great tans and cosmetic surgery, but why FoxLA needs to broadcast serious morning news with women clad in outfits more appropriate in a line outside Hyde is really beyond my understanding.
Accented
29 Dec
The Beverly Center, a mall so pretentious, it’s got a British voiceover to check you out of parking. It’s strange, this voiceover; undeniably there is a tranquility in hearing that accent – this voice directs me to two payment stations located to my left and right upon entry of the garage from the mall escalators (despite the sign at left of the 4, above), and calmly Thanks me for payment. I feel like I stepped into The Fifth Element. What with the throb of neon lights and British diction. All I’m missing is the Gaultier and red hair; the bad traffic and streetside refuse I have.
Color Me Pink
17 DecL.A. ranks up there as one of the dirtiest cities in the nation. Therefore, I assume that car exhaust and industrial fumes are responsible for the following – because doesn’t toxic pollution paint the sky?
Pretty, don’t you think?
Trash City
3 DecAfter two years, I’ve yet to make up my mind about sunny Southern California. Do I like the fact that driving five miles takes me forty-five minutes and that parking means a 20 minute ride around the block? Does anyone else miss the seasons? Meh. It has been a cloudy week, creating the cool winter I remember should exist about this time of year, and certainly it’s welcome. A walk on the beach however, it is not…
..and this is Santa Monica…
But the landscape under a cloudy sky feels immense.
Certainly, my walk to work the next morning was redeemable.
The jury however, is still out.
Early Rising
4 NovFor most of my life, the Holiday’s have been a tempestuous season I’d rather not dive into, but rather tiptoe around in hopes I get out with family ties intact. Two families since fifth grade meant schedules, two dinners, four parents, twice as many presents (to buy, not necessarily receive) and no rest; amounting to what was more of an anxiety ridden nightmare than a relish of Christmas spirit and wintry excess. Although it has been my misfortune to have had some stressful holidays, it is my fortune that I have. I know what I’m missing.
Muck Tree Christmas in The City: Photo by Piano Coctail
This year, November 1st came with a Holiday invitation, and I succumbed to an early Christmas fantasy. Thus ensued my Christmas catalog version of home – over every doorway, a garland laced with Christmas lights, red berries and dangling silver plastic icicles, a touch of fake snow settled on pine cones nailed to my exterior door. There is glitter everywhere and I’ve dropped only two bulbs. The Thanksgiving dinner menu is written up and I’ve already scoured the internet looking for the right place setting. Let’s spread the cheer. Despite my Christmas spirit, I suspect my neighbors are less inclined to participate in my celebration, their sneering glares at my early rising is something I understand.
At The Grove, a retail mecca meant to exact a European city center, the Christmas tree is being erected. It is “THE” Christmas tree because it is, for the last eight years, the only Christmas tree to be celebrated in style in Los Angeles; an annual event that attracts hundreds of Angelenos and results in miles of traffic bound cars on Fairfax Avenue and 3rd Street.
Trucked in every year and erected in record time, the tree is lit in incandescent fashion. Camera crews and carol singers gather around the monster, made all the more special with the appearance of wispy faux snowflakes pumped above the crowd, a cold midwest fantasy in our hot landscape. The tree is more than 100 feet tall, and takes a crane and small crew to set it in place. Branches are added to give it body and a large wrapped box will appear around the bottom 15 feet for presentation and safety’s sake. Thousands of ornaments in every color will be added, and as Santa’s House is built, the expectation of Christmas wishes fulfilled grows.
Trust: Photo by Sanjin Jaganjac
You can see it in the line of children that stretches around the block on December first; all ready to sit on Santa’s lap and take that endearing photo they will inevitably despise as teenagers. Retailers are baiting their customers and the holiday music is soon to follow. We’ll take in so much Christmas cheer, we’ll be sick of it at our own Christmas parties and happy to rid ourselves of the lit greenery by New Year’s.
I used to feel sick at this onslaught. Just a retailers game of numbers, which it undeniably is a retailer sales game – pushing employees to their hourly limits with last minute sales for shoppers who procrastinated. Angry crowds and loud crying children in malls. Too much traffic and too many people pushing shoulder to shoulder with large packages in tow. No less in Los Angeles, the city of road rage. However, it still manages to be a magical two months (one if you don’t start your holidays with the retailers.) Despite what family you have or urban sprawl to navigate, there is something about pushing each other into awkward situations in which you have to participate. Those evenings in which we try to forget why we annoy each other so much, that we really do care if each of our relatives and friends live or die creates a moment of fulfillment. We are loved, we are appreciated and we took the time to say that with presents or just our presence. I missed that valuable lesson growing up, in my naivete, I just wanted the scenery.
So here I am, a semi-adult, saddened by the inconveniences the Holidays present but satisfied that this time I’ve got it all (or most of it) figured out – the family, the scenery and the spiked eggnog. The upcoming movie starring Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn, Four Christmases, is a great reminder of the time honored tradition of avoiding family during this coming season, but maybe I can forget all that and remember, for just a few moments in Los Angeles, fake snowflakes falling lightly, it’s the happiest season of all.
Photo by Matt Charnock
Slice of Life
27 OctWhat would you do, if, let’s say, you met your favorite actor? Would you scream, cry, have no words, faint, politely shake his hand and extend your gratitude? Such is the philosophical question (if only a superficial one) one might ask while in Hollywood, where this sort of fantasy can be served up in reality, at your local grocery store, or getting coffee off Sunset. Such was the case on Saturday morning, when my sister and I walked into our local Ralph’s grocery store, and as we glanced to the right, we spied a very familiar profile. Here in the flesh, was our very own Michael C. Hall, our beloved serial killer – Dexter Morgan.
Let me tell you about Dexter Morgan. Before I watched the first episode of the (potentially grotesque) series, I was highly skeptical that a network could produce a worthwhile show surrounding a serial killer who killed other serial killers, while managing to maintain a complex cast sifting through situations you’d actually care about. This storyline could have surmounted to a largely egregious lifetime movie, on schedule next to shows featuring screaming women and vast amounts of blood. But writers of Dexter have done no wrong, and continue to keep the plot line enticing with just one question they want to ask: “Are you prepared to like a serial killer?” I can say, that yes, I am. I like him, I really, really do.
So, did I scream? Fortunately for him, I did not, and although I had a camera in my bag, I decided my best course of action would be mustering enough courage to say hello. On this early Saturday morning, he was wearing a baseball cap, and I imagine it was partly to avoid recognition and also, because he probably hadn’t taken a shower that morning and therefore was less inclined to take a photo with hyperventilating fans. So, as he finished paying for his coffee, my sister and I stood to the side, and as he walked towards us, I piped up, “Michael.” The expression on his face was more Do I know you than Oh, Shit I’ve been recognized and he obliged us with a handshake as I said, “Hi, we’re really big fans of the show.” With a humble and quiet “Thank You”, Mr. Hall walked away in that familiar stride I’ve seen every episode on Dexter. With our parting, I walked into a nearby aisle, and silently freaked out behind the chips, celebrating in high-fives and OMG’s with my sister, who couldn’t believe our luck.
Victoria’s Secrets Offers More Than Underwear (If You’re Lucky You Get An Angel)
23 OctWhile walking around the office today, I realized that my underwear were not working for me. It was riding and rubbing in all the wrong places, in addition to creating panty lines I hadn’t seen when getting dressed this morning; and those are never good (I don’t need four butt-cheeks, just the two). Lucky for me, there is a conveniently located Victoria’s Secret nearby. So, at 11am this morning, I took a quick break to resolve my situation, jetting over to Vicki’s in search of some comfortable underthing.
Upon entering the store, my eyes fixated on every kiosk with panties in sight, I did not notice the commotion going on inside. Then, I turned away from the drawers I had been rifling through and looked up, and before me sat the most famous Angel of them all – Heidi Klum – surrounded by a (surprisingly) small crowd of tween girls getting their photos taken with the model. Paparazzi stood by.
Turns out, Ms. Klum was there to pimp her new makeup line, and proceeded to apply makeup throughout the day on girls such as the one below (not me). I got these frisky snapshots with the help of a friend’s iphone…..
Luckily, I found my saving grace and left the store with little fanfare. Woo-hoo!
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 