There is nothing to say about this particular piece of L.A. scenery except for the fact that this steeple, complete with gyrating globe, sits above a conspicuous yet curtains-drawn-always-closed-possible-restaurant (best guess). I have yet to fully understand what the building functions as (or what search terms to enter in google), except as an ode to the “world,” and it’s unending axis spin – or a possible meeting place for Scientologists. No theory should be rejected.
Yesterday was a stinky day. A cantankerous and particularly odorous, crinkling nose, watering eyes, please move about five feet that way, kind of way. Not myself of course, but the people on the bus ride home. Particularly, on public transportation after 5pm, there exists the unforeseeable possibility that passengers on the metro will be pungent to an unsatisfactory degree with a chance of crazy. In the mix: Richard Simmons long lost brother and three dreggy peripatetic homeless; hoary, grayed, women with canes pointing at you to get out of their seat, lost tourists, local hipsters, kissing couples, ogling men, loud mouths, numerous packages, and foldable grocery carts. The homeless tend to waft heady combinations of urine and the decay of garbage, while others smell like a fresh bag of Fritos, and high-notes of sickly sweet perfume hang in the air. In total a physicality of hands, arms, and legs frisking against each other for lack of space. I only had three miles to go.
Fifteen minutes never felt so sleazy.
Photo by Mariano Perez
This is Murtz Jaffer. He is the host of Canada’s half-hour television show titled Reality Obsessed. As explained by the Reality Obsessed website,
“each episode of Reality Obsessed has Murtz on the hunt for answers to a particular ‘big picture’ question in the realm of reality television. He’ll explore how reality cameras affect the outcome of a complete geek hooking up with a hot babe; how casting directors find the perfect mix of angels and monsters for the next big hit, or what happens after contestants’ 15 minutes of fame are up? It’s a full blown celebration of everything reality!”
He is also, as The New York Times reports, “regarded as the world’s foremost reality television expert because of his ability to predict, analyze and map out how programs will go.” This is why Murtz is famous. For someone with his own Wikipedia page, a long journalistic resume, and star power he’s pretty nice, and a particularly gracious host.
This is what happens when you order bottle service.
This is area – the club meant to look like a modern mid-century, Andy Warhol loving, living room. As if you’ve walked into your own trippy apartment renovated with bars, coruscating neon beacons, wooden tabletops, wooden ceilings and tables, plus lots of girls (guys had a tough time getting past the doorman – want to order a bottle? You’ll have to make it two). Par for the course, on the left you’ve got ass-cleavage, low-tops and slinky dresses – all shaking it out on the dance floor to the beat of hip-hop and remixed pop hits and looking for the closest table with a bottle – and on the right, mixed drinks at $12+ a pop from the cute blond bartenders.
We decide to head to the back room. A small and unimpressive space (compared to the flashing lights and booming music just outside the door) that looks like my parents basement circa 1989 – with better wallpaper.
Turns out it was Murtz’ birthday (or around that time), and so everyone signed his banner.
I expected obsessed fans/reality star pandemonium; fans were not stalking outside waiting for their favorite reality stars, but there were several winners from past reality seasons (Real World, Survivor, Amazing Race) and one fan named Ziggy.
Murtz said his goodbye’s and so did our friends. With that, it was time to turn in.
12:30am, On the road again.
My hubby and I stopped for Starbucks, then saw this bloke setting up shop. Not five minutes after several attempts to wrangle money out of drivers for his services, a cop pulled up and made him vacate the area.
I see this woman everywhere and always in the sun. She looks burnt and thirsty, but she never begs for money.
…and we’re finally here. Though the idea was to head to Malibu, the North side of the Santa Monica Pier provided several wide open spaces on which to set up camp and lay out. So we stopped here. Unlike the bohemoth parking lot located right next to the Pier and Venice Beach – allowing waves of tourists and large families to set up shop, bouncing past your towels with swaths of kicked up sand and shrieking laughter – smaller lots are available the further you drive towards Malibu, thus restricting the flow of beach-goers. So we choose the quiet.
My size 10 clunkers. Though I annually refuse to wear flip-flops because they always give me blisters, no matter how long or how often I wear them, I have yet to find an accceptable replacement and usually ruin a favored pair of chassures. Pain is beauty, right?
What I look like at the beach. My head covered in towels, hats or a book, I try to avoid burning my face for fear of leathery skin and more freckles than I can count. My pasty skin hardly ever bears a tahitian tan, but I try. My one crowning moment was after I received a spray tan in Miami. An old woman from Chile thought I was Brazilian.
The trouble with L.A., almost always a bad highway accident resulting in miles of irritated drivers.
A mile later…
Another mile…
And another…
My hubby and I caught sight of this pimp-mobile just blocks from our house and I had to take a photo. Though the car is obviously a bit rough around the edges, something like this only comes from love, and so seems endearingly named “Fig” for its purple hue.
With the always possible threat of fire or riot, the helicopters patrol the night skies; tonight its concerning that a flare is released nearby. A bright red dot on July 4th is a near miss – who’s going to see it amidst all the fireworks?
The helicopter:
The Flare:
Fireworks were scaled back to only a handful of shows across L.A. because of California’s budget crisis. The Hollywood Bowl, a local concert and event venue, has their own celebration off of Highland Avenue which, although fantastic up close, only makes the hills look like they’re on fire. Above the city, only a handful of colorful bouquets can be seen above the Los Angeles skyline. There’s 15 million people here, so there’s never going to be a single destination. It’s a penury display but a satisfying day. Requisite grilling was done, skin got sun-scorched and we ended up amongst friends.
The main residence of Nickelodeon is actually in Burbank, which is about a 30 minute drive from the Nickelodeon studios off of Sunset Boulevard, so the only filming going on at the Nickelodeon studios in Hollywood is for live-action comedies, none of which I can name. The network has changed locations a handful of times, which included the removal and relocation of a time-capsule put into the ground in 1992 to be opened in 2042. The capsule is full of items deemed important to children at the time. What was included? A Nintendo game boy and a VHS tape of “Home Alone” (I fully endorse this choice).
NICKELODEON ON SUNSET
(formerly SUNSET BLVD. THEATRE)
6230 Sunset Blvd.
Hollywood 90028
Out of the Closet is a thrift store unique to California. Usually a great place to find a second hand item, it’s also an organziation that promulgates HIV testing and supports people around the world that are affected by HIV/AIDS. During this past election, a store in Alaska (also a thrift store) was found to be using the name “Out of the Closet”; they were promptly sued.
Out of the Closet: Home
6210 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90028
This weekend was devoted to the Dad, and as such, I was unable to find Banksy. Although I know he will be waiting when I’m on the street again. Sunday was about a SpongeBob card, old photos, coffee, cigars and a movie at CityWalk. I bought some comics, ate a cinnabon (which makes me sound both nerdy and possibly overweight, neither of which I am (ok, maybe nerdy)) and enjoyed the Pixar film ‘Up’ in a movie theatre so cold it made a kid cry.
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 