One Stop: Pain, Joy, Wanderlust

SINK DEEP ENOUGH into Los Angeles and uncanny vibrancy will arrest the mind with outlandish fantasy. Curiosity pulls one deeper into the unforeseen. The depths of this rabbit hole mystify and the marvel of discovery compels one further. Down the quiet Washington corridor of Culver City the stylized neon beam of a Victorian crown welcomes curiosity—the Royal/T presents its guests to the splendor of the L.A. art scene. Culver City’s manga-spliced J-pop anomaly housed “The Never Ending Story: Fairytale, Fantasy, Obsession” exhibit on the fourth. New York-based curator Laura Hoptman designed a space where the mind-altering aesthetics of surrealism, an acid-trance through “Alice in Wonderland”, and the animated silliness of Akihabara culture could legally find its way into the imagination.

Elegant hors d'oeuvres were balanced by tiny Japanese women dressed as French maids who made their precarious rounds through the evening’s frenzy of “wonderland” cos-players and art house junkies. Stylized blank smiles followed trays of unpronounceable French delicacies as they presented themselves to multi-faceted crowds of “Alice” impersonators. Each costume featured a personal Goth sensibility—pale blues, matte-black lace, and death metal eyeshadow accented curious conversations throughout. This mob of steam-punk psychedelia bridged the boundaries between the life in this L.A. art scene and the contorted displays of surrealist abominations decorating the walls.

The old-world class from steam-engine romances was celebrated in the hand-crafted collections of Jared Gold. A corner of the Royal/T was devoted to the designer’s rich composition of contrasting pastels and 19th century luxury. Gold blends history and modern ideals into a signature—his stylish sense of nostalgia seems to recreate the romantic notions of individuality and expression.


Anthropomorphic phantasms from the most primal reaches of Wangechi Mutu’s day-dreams frolic and haunt the walls of the Royal/T. The divine dreariness of a purgatory creates a space of uncomfortable self-reflection in Mutu’s “Your Story, My Curse”. This mixed media cerebral assault invites the psyche to relive past jealousy, lust, obsession, and fruitless romances. It’s a living nightmare that no one wants to leave. Mutu’s color palette is deceiving—brilliant patterns scattered across each figure recall Gustav Klimt’s charm, but their appeal undermines the menacing drama and growing tension running through the canvas.

Susan Hancock has spent the last ten years bringing together a culturally diverse cast of contemporary artists into a respectable collection of eclectic style. She has spent the last five owning and operating the Royal/T as a means of immersing herself deeper into the art world. The pieces of her collection on display at the Royal/T represent the human facets of suffering, vulnerability, wanderlust, joy, pain, and love in a vibrant dreamscape of vivid ferocity. The fortunate wandering souls that make their way into her gallery have the opportunity of traveling through unique visions—those projecting an aura she takes to, may even have their spirit cards read.

This city grows curiouser and curiouser. For those looking to appreciate the space royal-t.org has everything. The show will continue its outlandish parade through August fourth and can be followed on Twitter and Facebook at RoyalTCafe.

-- Jesse Alvarez
(photo credit: jslander, flickr creative commons)

“The Bare Necessities of (beach) Life”

IN "JUNGLE BOOK" Baloo took little Mowgli around the jungle and explained to him life lessons for survival. Baloo’s message was given in the form of a famous song, and in my opinion somewhat describes the laid back attitude Los Angeles beach dwellers are known for, “look for the bare necessities the simple bare necessities, forget about your worries and your strife…”.

Today I visited Hermosa Beach, I stood there amongst what felt like an entire different world of people. These people weren’t rushing to work, sitting in traffic on the 405, or even glued to their phones shouting as if they were the only ones on the street. They seemed so relaxed and care free with their shades on, a latte in one hand, and a purse dog attached to a leash in the other. As I watched the resident pedestrians in their element I couldn’t help but wonder, don’t these people work or better yet have anything at all to stress about? Or, has Baloo made his way from the jungle to Los Angeles to continue and spread his life motto. It became very clear that he was here, traces of him were everywhere, and these people moseying down the street, on ironically for LA a rainy day, definitely forgot about their worries and their strife.

I can’t talk about LA without mentioning the weather, so I’ll set the scene for you, and you too can understand why this place and these people seemed so abstract from certain realities. It was cloudy and raining when I left LMU, and after a 20-minute drive on south Lincoln to PCH, and despite the clouds now traveling east, looking at the beach you would have thought LA was rounding off a beautiful sunny day. The sky was crystal clear, the clouds that remained looked snuggle soft and fresh out of the dryer. The ocean water was so bright it resembled that of drifting mirrors reflecting what was left of the setting sun. While I’m observing this shift in imagery, from inland to the coast, right by me walks a young woman obviously in her element and a resident of this picturesque neighborhood: Ponytail, Bermuda shorts, and of course the signature shades, latte, and puppy in hand. It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon and putting all these puzzle pieces together I couldn't help but ask myself, at what point did she wake up today or better yet get dressed? Is it beach resident common knowledge that no matter how a day begins it will inevitably end requiring summer attire? Or, did she wake up, dress April shower accordingly, and race home to change into her “resident uniform” in time to catch the last of the visit from the sun. What’s even more interesting about this scenario is it wasn’t’ just her, everyone that walked past me was visually screaming August. I felt over dressed and all I had on was a light sweater and jeans.

Like I said, Baloo has no doubt paid a visit to Hermosa and made very clear that a stand by set of summer play clothes is to remain on deck. So it my intention to spread his news, that no matter how an LA day begins, if you find yourself near the beach or are wanting to move there, shorts my friends are the bare necessities of life.

-- Erin Golightly
(photo credit: the toe stubber, flickr creative commons)

Defining Modern Art

THIS WEEKEND, I had the pleasure of visiting the Grand Avenue location of the Musuem of Contemporary Art downtown, which forced me to reflect on the relation of graffiti to modern art and the way space is used. Many of the paintings and sculptures that line the walls of M.O.C.A. are ones that would probably be thought of to be universally thought-provoking, but there were a few that I found to be strange additions which seemed to focus more on the process of making the art than the art itself, such as a completely black canvass that was untitled. How are these better than graffiti, and why are these things backed financially? As I walked through the museum, I found myself enamored with the descriptions and the way in which artists pitch themselves, specifically, a modern artist named Pierre Alechinsky who wrote, "When I paint, I liberate monsters. One does not chose the content, one submits to it." With each work of art, I found myself more interested in the writing and attitudes that artists hold towards their work than the work itself.

Upon leaving, I noticed a series of chalk drawings that someone had created on the sidewalk near the parking garage that looked like a series of intricate crop circles. How was this not art? It didn't have the artist's instruction manual. Maybe everything is art, but pitching yourself as an artist is half of the battle. The chalk circles didn't get a description about inner demons, and therefore, people weren't going to pay to ruminate over their meaning. This forced me to conclude the hierarchy at play: perhaps the most talented artists (specifically in graffiti) making statements are not recognized simply because they don't get the chance to pitch themselves. All of the artists in the gallery were supported by huge financial donors, but how does one even get a meeting with these donors? Knowing people.

Maybe the real artists are ones like Prime as featured in Ruben Martinez' "Going Up in L.A.," whose vision for art was not selfish, and even actively wanted to involve other people: "I want to have a big lot when I grow older," he said, leaning forward, a small gold crucifix swinging in front of his dark blue sweatshirt. "It'll have big, long, movable walls. I'll put canvasses up, and have kids and artists there, have it be like a big maze of art. Then, with the money I make in one day, I'll buy some more canvas and change the maze." For "contemporary art", few pieces in the musuem actively involved the spectator, and the descriptions definitely catered to crowds with their undergraduate degrees. The purpose of art is that it is supposed to be universal: it can mean something to anyone. Graffiti is easy to see. It is in our faces every day as we drive to school, work, the daily grind. You don't have to pay a price for it, and you definitely have an opinion on it, good or bad, without needing a paragraph written about it. It just breathes a life of its own without explanation.

Although graffiti art is rapidly gaining recognition with an upcoming documentary on British street artist Banksy, graffiti tours, and new styles popping up everywhere, why aren't these artists getting paid big bucks too?

--Thea Green

(photo: banksky, credit: cannon snapper, flickr creative commons)

Iconic L.A.: Save the Peak -- Final

WELL, WE CAN close the chapter on the fate of "the Peak." L.A. Times reporting this afternoon that Playboy founder, Hugh Hefner, has come to the rescue of the Hollywood sign "anteing up $900,000 to help in the effort to preserve the land surrounding the famed landmark," says the Times. This will be pooled with $500,000 in matching grants from the Tiffany Foundation and Aileen Getty.
And so, as they say in pictures . . .
Fin

-- L.G.
(photo credit: b. rosen, flickr, creative commons)

Hidden L.A: Crime, Chandler & Clifton's

HIDDEN LOS ANGELES' Lynn Garrett, didn't forget to send along the video of crime in 1930s Los Angeles. You'll find it here on her site.

Here some little intro bits . . . "

a really great 30 minute long documentary (shown in 3 parts) about iconic author Raymond Chandler’s take on the corruption of Los Angeles in the 1930s… a paradise infiltrated by dope fiends, smut peddlers, schemers in low places and high, crooked cops and crooked politicians…

And she adds in an email to me:


The 1930s documentary I was recommending to the students about LA crime in the 30s (it features the story about Clfford Clinton’s house being firebombed too)

Enjoy!


-- L.G.

Hidden Venice Beach

MY FRIEND THOM moved from Venice Beach to New York a few months ago, and this weekend he was in town to visit my roommate and me. On Friday morning, we were craving a tasty sit-down breakfast but wanted to find a somewhere walking distance to avoid warm weather parking frustration. We thought of all the places on Abbot Kinney Boulevard since it’s the closest street from our apartment, but Thom knew better—he had a secret up his sleeve that would surely meet our breakfast needs.

Without telling us the specifics of where our destination was located, we followed Thom up and down different streets, to an area that seemed more like a residential neighborhood than a restaurant location. But sure enough we turned one last corner and there it was—The Brick House, literally a red brick building with a small patio facing the street. “This place has great breakfast” said Thom as he looked inside and signaled a waitress.

He was right, the food was great and the patio was as sunny and comfortable as could be. There was only one other group seated outside with us; they wore urban-hipster-style duds of plaid prints and skinny jeans - a common style in Venice. They also had a small dog with them, resting underneath the table as they ate. Wearing sunglasses throughout their meal, they talked with one another over coffee and eggs, and had a cigarette before paying the bill and leaving.

As I looked out at the streets surrounding the restaurant, it reminded me of “Hidden Los Angeles” and all the places that exist here that remain unseen or underappreciated. I have lived in Venice for a while now, and I had never even heard of The Brick House, much less had the urge to give it a try.

I ordered the Venice Eggs Benedict, and was completely satisfied with my choice as it contained one of my favorite foods—artichokes. The more I thought about it, the more this restaurant seemed to epitomize what I love about living in Venice Beach. It’s owned by Venice locals, the best way to get there is on foot, and it’s one of those places that must be found, explored and appreciated, unlike the more popular (crowded) trendy restaurants along Abbot Kinney.

Now I find myself wanting to go there more often and take people there who do not know about it already. It’s close, comfortable, and the food really is wonderful—from a wide assortment of omelets and waffles for breakfast, to burgers as pasta dishes for dinner—The Brick House is truly a hidden treasure in Venice Beach.

-- Lauren McHale
(photo credit: lauren mchale)

Sense Memory: After the Heat

ANOTHER LIFE AGO, it seems, I had to leave L.A. -- flee L.A. would be more precise. The big, sprawling city became claustrophobic -- or at least that was how I saw it at the time. I was finishing my degree, interning for a magazine, selling books at a Century City bookstore now long vanished. It was the latter that was getting to me. Not the routine of the bookseller job; that was pleasant -- shelving books and talking with other clerks about ideas. But the people who came through the doors with pressing needs -- that was wearing. Because the store was adjacent to so many talent agencies, entertainment management glass-and-steel high-rises and a major motion picture studio, there were days that the very air seemed to be sucked out of the entire store -- the entire open-air mall itself -- with demands and temper tantrums and never a thank you. It was a "new breed" of Hollywood and it had big hair, big shoulders and super-size egos.

I'd had enough. I concluded, "L.A. was different. Had changed." I packed up and headed north to San Francisco to try on life there. I enrolled in school and for the first time as an adult didn't have a car. It wasn't as dislocating as I thought, rather it was liberating. I wandered all over that beautiful jewel of a city, across its fabled seven hills. Most weekends, I'd just pick a direction and walk, just to see what I might find. I lived on the southwest end of San Francisco, in the Sunset where I often saw the sun for a mere three hours a day. At 3PM, the fog would float in and hunker down a top the city like a big down comforter. The air smelled damp, metallic and brackish.

I missed the sun. Not the intense heat of late summer, but the hint of real warmth and the gold tones and shadows that late-afternoon sunlight brought with it. But too there was something else missing.

My first visit back to L.A. was in the Spring. A mini-heatwave was upon us. I stood in a friend's backyard for a party; her backyard, a loud, brilliant tangle of bougainvillea and sneaky morning glory. But what hit harder than the fuchsia and magenta petals curling up the trellis or my friends' faces and their stories told in their familiar cadences was something on the air. Literally. The breeze carried a subtle perfume, sweet but not too, floral but cut with sharp spice. Also, there was a hint of smoke. A bitterness. It hung in the air, only disturbed by a breeze. It took me a bit to realize that it wasn't something someone had dabbed behind his or her ear or something cooking on the grill, or something burning, L.A.-style off in the not-too-far-off distance.
It was chaparral, ground-cover -- sage, rosemary. It was a explosion of night-blooming jasmine overflowing a nearby flower-bed. With the cool night coming on the air was full of scent notes, a mix so unique to Los Angeles. Nothing brought the city back to me, my connection to it, as much as this. I was home: the fading light, the cooling breeze after the heat -- and those aromas. L.A.'s scent rubbing against all of us. Claiming us. Lingering.

-- L.G.
(photo credit: flickr creative commons)

Read L.A.: Los Angeles on the Page

I OFTEN SHRUG out of being pinned-down on what L.A. books are my favorite. So this list merely represnts books that, to me, nail some aspect of Los Angeles that I find resonant. A few of them I have returned to time and again ("Day of the Locust" "Hope of Heaven.") The titles are nonfiction and fiction. Photography, poetry etc.



Here they are, in no particular order:
Hope of Heaven -- John O'Hara
The White Album -- Joan Didion
What Makes Sammy Run? -- Budd Schulberg
Mildred Pierce -- James M. Cain
Day of the Locust -- Nathaniel West



Devil in a Blue Dress -- Walter Mosley
Dreams from Bunker Hill -- John Fante
Playback -- Raymond Chandler
Chavez Ravine 1949 -- Don Normark
Days Without Weather -- Cecil Brown
The Other Side -- Ruben Martinez
A Single Man -- Christopher Isherwood
Low Down -- A.J. Albany

Out With the Stars -- Jim Heimann
Tapping the Source -- Kem Nunn
The History of Forgetting -- Norman Klein
The Nowhere City -- Alison Lurie
Imagoes -- Wanda Coleman
Days Between Stations -- Steve Erickson
In a Lonely Place -- Dorothy B. Hughes



-- L.G.

Become an Explorer

HOLLYWOOD, BEVERLY HILLS and Santa Monica are the top three things foreigners want to see when they visit “the land of celebrities and sun,” more commonly known as Los Angeles. As Angelenos we sigh and grunt when another friend from out of state or country asks to see this Los Angeles which we know to be stereotypical. Yet it’s not that we don’t like these areas of town, rather, that we know there is much more to L.A. than this.

As I began to think about outside impressions of Los Angeles, I thought of my own impressions of other countries I have visited in the world. When I went to London I wanted to see the West End, Big Ben, and Parliament. When I went to Scotland I wanted to see Edinburgh Castle and when in Paris I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, Louvre and Sacre Coeur . When reflecting on my travel plans, I began to realize that I was more like the aforementioned crowd than I realized because that’s what we all are, tourists in areas that we are not from.

I’ve found that in order to veer off the beaten path of the tourists, guidebooks can be helpful but also seem overwhelming. In my experience the best way to truly see a city is in the eyes of a local or of someone who has held residence there for an extended period of time. Some of my favorite times when studying abroad were from recommendations by the locals, say of a great place to eat or a hidden place with an amazing view, both of which were not frequented by tourists. These new discoveries made me feel like I was truly entering another world and not one where everyone around me was the same.

Moreover, I find that when friends go to London I make a list a mile long of all of my favorite places for them to discover that are off the beaten path because when studying abroad, I explored and would take long walks and see what I could find. Unfortunately, here in Los Angeles so many of us are so busy with our day to day lives that we miss the richness that our city has to offer. But next time, I’m not going to tell my friends who visit, about the typical place, instead I’m going to immerse myself with them and explore my city. Will you?

--Emily Day

photo caption, view from the old los angeles zoo; 3rd and Fairfax
photo credit: omar omar, flickr creative commons

Iconic L.A.: Road, Music & California Love

DRIVING TOWARDS THE beach meant double-sided cassettes spinning verse about “California Love”. Bass-treble gangsta’ anthems that inflated my brother’s bravado as he and his friends took in the babes and waves on either side of that caramel-colored Regal. Gustavo spent these days looking through his rear-view at the chubby mess of bashfulness sitting by the window. In his mind, the over-confident charm he and his friends worked over the sun-soaked girls on each of those trips were actually attempts to mold me. The Aztec gods, Olde English, black and white brown pride engraved on his arms, afternoon rides by the beach, and Tupac’s voice all seemed to influence me—this imagery would prove to shape my sentimentality of Los Angeles, whenever I would acknowledge its claim over my memories.

Tupac as a poet acts as a historian of my time in Los Angeles. His voice has the uncanny ability to surface images and senses that remind me of my first impressions of the city. Growing up I spent most of my time with my older siblings—hanging out, parties, fights, rides and rides and rides all took place within the limits of Manhattan Beach, Inglewood, and Hollywood. Tupac, as well as his friends in the genre Snoop, Ice Cube, Dre all seemed to come together to make a distinctive sound that makes me envision my family at a younger time in their lives. To me, Los Angeles represents my family growing up and driving through it with me. These times shaped my understanding and reinforced their memories with the music that surrounded. It has an aggression that represents the real struggle people face every day in this city, it illustrates the strength that people have developed after dealing with it, but it also reflects the excitement to be had within it.

Take “Dear Mamma” for instance. It reminds me of how my mom would take the bus home from work every day—trying to forget the tension in her soles with each glimpse of L.A. life on the way home. Then there’s artists like Ice Cube who remind me of fights breaking out at barbeques in Inglewood over the stupidest machismo reasoning. A song like “I Get Around” or “How Do You Want It” makes me smile at the thought of laughing with my siblings on the beach. My understanding of what makes Los Angeles L.A. is completely personal. I imagine this to be the case with any local. For my experience, I am left with songs and artists that really represent the impressions that my family created throughout the city. Even though my music taste has grown and developed on its own accord, I still keep these songs dear to my heart because they remind me of myself, my roots, and my relationship to this city.

-- Jesse Alvarez

(photo credits: bixentro, my_tats, didoro flickr photo stream)

Natives Aren't Restless

WHEN THE EARTHQUAKE hit Baja California on Easter Sunday, I was eating with my mom, sister, and her two kids at the Rainforest Cafe at Disneytown. As I was finishing up my dank lavanachos, we all looked up at each other as the table and everything beneath us started to sway back and forth slowly. Looking at each other first and then at adjacent families who stopped eating their meals as well, we all knew that this wasn’t a part of the prop thunder and yelling gorillas that the restaurant is known for.

Although unsure of what it was at first, everyone around clarified that that definitely was an earthquake. It was also evident who was not from California as a child sitting at the table next to us immediately started to cry and tremble as he had never experienced an earthquake before - it turned out the family was from Indiana. As the waitress came back to our table, I asked if she had felt the earthquake. with a smile on, she replied, “You know what, I actually didn’t. But then again I’ve been working here for almost a year now and I’ve lived in California my whole life so I’m kinda used it I guess, as bad as that sounds.” The nonchalant and carefree manner of the waitress without showing the slightest fear in what just happened seemed to resonate to me the typical Southern California attitude regarding disasters like earthquakes or fires; we’ll worry about it when it happens and until then everything will be fine.

As my mom finished her rasta pasta and paid the check, she calmly looked over at my two teenaged nephews and says, “You know if this earthquake would have been the big one that’s coming, I would have been fine with it knowing that I was with two of my kids and two of my grandchildren.” With too-cool-for-school expressions that are typical of high school teenagers, they look at each other and smile and laugh seeming to think about the million places they would rather be than with their mom and grandma.

Driving back home I thought about where I would be during the next earthquake. No matter where I might be, I hope I’m not far from my family. Being away from home for the last three years at college, I have grown to enjoy not being home. Eating something between lunch and dinner with my family when the quake occurred, I felt it was a bit of a reality check from nature. The quake was a reminder of the ever-looming possibility of disaster and where you may be when it occurs. Being with my family put everything in a bit of a perspective as I have spent less and less time with my family since college. Since that quake, I have seen my mom at least once every weekend and have phoned her almost every other day- an improvement from the sporadic visits during winter and summer break and minimal phone calls.

--Eddie Flores

(photo credit: Eddie Flores)

Sense Memory: The Interchange

I THINK, when the history of Los Angeles in the 20th century gains the historical perspective of a few more Millennia, the receipt of a California Drivers' License will be viewed as a rite of passage into adulthood on par with a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Where other cultures send their children on Walkabouts into the wild to confront themselves and explore the limitations and boundaries of experience, Angelenos hurl their teen children into the thousands of miles of concrete spaghetti to learn that particular brand of American liberty known as the freeway.

There are moments in a young driver's life that are truly monumental. The ability to navigate a tricky lane change, bumper to bumper, at the speed limit. The shift in one's sense of time where you can accurately judge distances to destinations in minutes, not miles, rush hour or the middle of the night. The way the chest swells in triumph when crossing the invisible border of having driven farther in any direction than ones parents, as if recognizing for the first time: Yes, it is possible to escape!

But the personal memories while driving, those moments in a car that define a certain time or place, those aren't so universal. They are quicksilver and unimaginable until they happen, and when they do it's as if the world had been created for that moment, for you and no one else.

For me, it is the I-10 to I-405 southbound interchange, which I prefer to think of as the Santa Monica to San Diego ramp.

It is a marvel of concrete and engineering; a quarter mile strip of elevated road pitched at 40 degrees to the 405 freeway dozens of feet below. Taken at too slow a speed and the driver feels their left shoulder bracing against the window. Taken too fast and it feels as if centrifugal force will propel driver and vehicle into the Pacific several miles away. And while it's possible to look out the side window while taking the curve it's not advised. Not because of the danger of taking ones eyes off the road but because no one should turn their head to the left while driving and see the wall of cars below as if they were defying gravity and climbing up and down the walls. The image is too disorienting.

The ramp alone is not enough, not to seal itself within my memory jar. It takes a confluence of sky and the magical synchronicity of radio to make the ramp a seminal LA driving experience. It can be any song that strikes a particular chord with any driven, but it has to evoke that sense of hope and freedom that is ridiculously more meaningful that it's supposed to be in the teenage mind. And it can be any type of evocative meteorological phenomena that does for the eye what the music does for the ear. Combined, the physical sensation of the vehicle tugging and hurling its way through physics, while the eye and ear are occupied by their own singularly pleasing elements, becomes that moment that becomes nothing short of quintessential.

And for me, it's the guitar solo from Gerry Rafferty's “Baker Street” mixed with a late August sunset colored amber-orange by smog. On the I-10 to I-405 southbound interchange. With the window down. And me singing along with the guitar at the top of my lungs.

The thing about this is that it feels like some scene concocted for a movie. Better, because I actually lived it. And all these years later I can recognize how lame the moment really is, how void of depth the song is of from any real meaning in my life, how the smog colored sky should be something that horrifies more than golden glow of nostalgia it creates, and how insane it is to love a section of freeway.

But then how can we explain away the things we love, and remember as loving? And why should we? The places they are, and the places within us that they occupy, they are sacred for having given us something more than the sum of their parts. In a city like Los Angeles, where the old is torn down, paved over, and quickly forgotten, the true history of Los Angeles rests in museums of memories of its inhabitants. The cliché that Los Angeles isn't a place, it's a state of mind doesn't quite catch the truth. It is a fluctuating landscape occupied by the builders and repositories of its history, a collective of ephemeral moments, a hive mind of experience. Los Angeles is a theatrical performance where audience and cast are one in the same, where the architecture of the theatre is also the setting, in an open-ended run that invites criticism but defies any one description.

Los Angeles is a gut feeling.

-- David Elzey

Los Angeles Loves Coachella

ON APRIL 16, 2010, hundreds of thousands of people flooded the Empire Polo Fields in Indio, CA for the annual Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. People travel from all over the U.S. to spend three days listening to their favorite bands, DJs, and Indie-Rock performers. Yet this year I realized that Coachella has increasingly become a festival where Angelinos escape the day-to-day dreariness of city life and run around a field for three days as if their professional lives are a thing of the past.

Every friend of mine in Los Angeles goes to Coachella, with the exception of maybe one or two. During the days leading up to the event, LMU buzzes with excitement and anticipation to get out of the city for the weekend of the year. “Are you excited for Coachella?” is never an easy question to answer. Most replies consist of ear-to-ear grins and uncontrollable laughter as Coachella-goers fantasize about the fun about to ensue. It’s difficult to concentrate at school or work for any Angeleno preparing for Coachella, as daydreams of sunshine, palm trees, and amazing live musical performances consume their thoughts.

For one weekend, Angelenos escape the smog, throw on some bohemian-style duds, and take to the grassy fiends where negative vibes are inexistent. Once the lineup is published, it’s hard for any Angelino to say no. Venice Beach hippies, Silverlake hipsters, Beverly Hills divas, and Pasadena valley girls, and famous celebrities all have a place at Coachella, whether they choose to camp, stay at a hotel or Palm Springs resort.

There is a performance for everyone at Coachella; from the legendary hip-hop stylings of Jay-Z, to the electronic beats of DJ Tiesto, to the soothing melodies of bands like She & Him; everyone in Los Angeles has a reason to go. For most people, getting to Indio is a mission—a long, tedious drive or expensive flight. For Angelinos, it takes a drive of up to a few hours, and the experience is always worth it.

-- Lauren McHale
(photo credit Lauren McHale)

L.A.'s Past's Vision of the Future: Bradbury Building

WROUGHT METAL RAILINGS frame the staircases and run along the wall, leaving a great wide open space in the middle with which to admire the straight black lines of everything. Ornately patterned, these rails and the open elevators are like the icing atop this century-old building located on 3rd Street and Broadway in LA.

The ceiling is all of glass, and gives the space a natural glow, with the sun bleaching the places where it falls directly. Unlike any building in Los Angeles, the Bradbury Building has a charm that history did not need to add anything to, but even so, its story is as unique as is the architecture.

Mining tycoon Lewis Bradbury fired his original architect, only to hire one of the man’s draftsmen, named George Wyman. Wyman didn’t originally want to take the project, but he and his wife were spiritualists, and decided to try to see what the spirits were telling them to do. According to lore, they were meditating over what was similar to an Ouija board, and they received a message from Wyman’s brother, Mark, who had died at the age of 8, telling him to take on the project. His inspiration for the project was supposedly a science fiction book he had read, that depicted a building in the year 2000. The great irony comes now in the year 2000, when movies like 500 Days of Summer feature the gorgeous building as a model of great architecture in LA history.

-- Kimberly Dennis

(photo caption: steam-powered elevator, the bradbury building

photo credit: pink_fish13, flickr, creative commons)

Appreciating Los Angeles Universities' Beauty

THE SAYING GOES, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” The beauty that encompasses Los Angeles is endless but it is in the eye of the beholder that decides what and where is beautiful in the city. The beauty that I see day in and day out begins when driving onto the Loyola Marymount University campus entering the front gates with the horizons of the city out to my left.

The overlooking view is sometimes distorted by smog and clouded rain, but on the most beautiful days it is lit with a purple-pink sunset or clear skies. I recently discovered an even better view from one of the lecture rooms on the third floor of the library, which further inspired me to reflect on how fortunate I (we) are to attend such an aesthetically pleasing school. Having been an LMU Lion for three years now I mistakenly assumed that this campus had the most beautiful view of the city compared to the other surrounding Los Angeles universities -- UCLA, USC, Pepperdine (just a few of the many) but to our surprise it is not.

In order to appreciate the beauty of one area of Los Angeles or one campus it is important to recognize and be aware of what others may deem as beautiful. For one instance, although USC is located in an area that some visitors and skeptics begrudge as “dangerous” it is important to note what the campus signifies for others. For some, the campus and its surroundings are beautiful because of the history and symbolism it produces, its overall diversity. If we take a look at one perspective view of the city from four of the many major universities it is undeniable that they each symbolize or present a type of beauty that differs from person to person.

Generally speaking, beauty is in the eye of the beholder but the beauty in Los Angeles is in the eye of the appreciator. When we feel the urge to judge a neighborhood, college campus, or building in Los Angeles based on a narrowed perception of outward beauty, remember to at least appreciate it for its history and for what it may mean to someone else.

-- Jayme Dolan

Hidden Los Angeles Visits LMU

TOMORROW NIGHT, W. Lynn Garrett will speak to our class about her adventures putting together the Hidden Los Angeles website and its Facebook fan page. Take a spin here. Hidden L.A. is a site dedicated to "embracing the depth beneath the shallow" -- which has been "Telling L.A.'s Story's" focus this semester as well. Please come with spirited, deep questions about the region.
-- L.G.

Nothing Like a Marathon to Jump Start Your Day

WALKING ALONG THE Santa Monica Pier this past weekend, it had occurred to me that I live too close to this area to not appreciate it as much as I should. I almost take for granted the fifteen-minute drive down Pacific Coast Highway. The warm feel of the sun mixed with the cold blasts of wind, but nonetheless gave me a very satisfied feeling. It reminded me of the last visit prior to this, when I waited on the sidewalk of Ocean for my friend to cross the finish line of the LA Marathon.

Running the marathon was a goal he had before the end of the 2009 school year. He began training in August and stuck to his routine. That Sunday morning, March 21, the sun rose over Dodger Stadium where he and 25,000 people prepared to literally run through the city of Los Angeles. The kinds of people that came out to this event served as a colorful support group for the runners.

Police officers wandered up and down the course controlling the flow of traffic and protecting unaware pedestrians from walking on the wrong side of the road. I remember watching the crowd cross the one-mile mark, people running by dressed like Elvis, wearing banana suits and other costumes. On the bibs of the runners are a number to identify with and a name. Most people put their own name but there were few who wrote the name of a person to whom they dedicated the race. It is amazing to see how so many different people can come together for a few hours and share in something so incredible, running, walking or supporting.

While the insanely packed streets caused me some claustrophobic moments, I would be more than willing to bear through it all again to see the joy on my friend’s face. I have trouble articulating what it is that I felt that morning, other than the usual joy and happiness for my friend and the 25,000 people who overcame this great feat. I cannot even begin to imagine how much of an achievement it is to run the marathon, and not just any marathon but one that takes you on a tour through your own city.

Standing on the pier that morning gave me a different feeling, one that I will never feel on an ordinary day overlooking the ocean from the dock. It felt close to inspiration, similar to motivation. Maybe next year I'll find that word that I was looking for, hopefully something like 'exultance.'

“All of the hard work leading up to the race was well worth it when you cross the finish line and get an overwhelming sense of pride in yourself.” -Chad Smith, a dear friend and LA Marathon 2010 Participant.

April Showers Bring LA Flowers

RAIN IN L.A. Every Angeleno's nightmare. It makes us all wonder, how does Nor Cal do it so well? My dad always said that Californian's can't drive in the rain, so be EXTRA careful if you even see a cloud in the sky. We can't even function driving our cars, forget riding bikes, making it to meetings on time, or catching up with that friend for dinner across town. The whole city seems to stop what it's doing on those perfectly gloomy days (except for the traffic, of which there is inevitably more) and go inside for hot tea and a good book.

We like to think of ourselves as the happy people that they make us out to be in the ads sometimes, but when the rain comes, were just as grouchy and blah as everyone else on earth. That's when we realize that it's all to do with the warm glow of our Pacific sun. Its our secret. If I could count every time I have heard a person say that they couldn't live in a rainy place, they would be depressed if they did, Seattle has the highest suicide rate because of the rain or some variation of those, it would probably equal ten times the amount of rainy days I have ever lived through in LA. That's how much we hate it. I mean, personally, I love it. Love the sound it makes against the windows, the way it clears a place out, and the way it makes people pensieve, it forces them to think. And of course, it cleans up that LA skyline! There is nothing like a clear and crisp rainy "day after" to brighten one's spirits. But, of course, I use the collective "we" because, well, Angelenos really don't like the rain.

-- Kimberly Dennis

(photo credit, kimberly dennis)

The "Anti-Tour" -- Beneath the Myths

WE HAVE REACHED the part of the semester where we are now looking at remapping, re-imagining L.A. in a different way. The boosters had their moment; so too, the writers from elsewhere. The historians arrived with expectations; the fiction writers with dreams that soured then shriveled. We've read journalists who have tried to crawl under the myth, read voices from those who have lived their lives along the margins of the official L.A. story. Now, the city is again remapped as the L.A.'s core has become valuable. With gentrification comes "erasure" add to it lives behind walls, lives in a bubble. What happens then to community and the stories communities create and re-tell? What will L.A. be if is "written over" yet again? What are the stories you plan to tell about your L.A.?

A postscript on Norman Klein...
In the late 80s, word got around about Norman Klein and something he began to call his "Anti-Tour." A critic and urban historian and theorist who teaches at California Institute of the Arts, had begun taking his classes on "anti-tours." Klein had purchased a crumbling vestige of a grand house in Anglelino Heights (which is a small neighborhood that is Echo Park adjacent) and word had it that it was a former gang house, which meant that sometimes slow moving cars would slink by at any given time. He writes of that time:
"It took twelve years to restore [the house]. . . . [I] discovered I had a lifelong fascination with high urban decay and with gradual uncovering of urban ruins. By 1986, I was running a series of lectures about the level of public neglect and bad faith in Los Angeles, entitled, "Beneath the Myths." I started taking students on what I called anti-tours. I would stop at locations where no building existed any longer, tell them what had been there once: a movie studio, a whorehouse, whatever. We would get out, look around and agree it was gone all right. I showed them as many interiors as I could find, but only if they were inhabited; no museum artifacts allowed."

Those lectures were the working notes and foundation for his book, The History of Forgetting

-- L.G.
photo caption : from Norman Klein's "L.A. Slideshow"

"We Tell Stories . . ." : Norman Klein

"In 1974, when I first moved to the neighborhoods west of downtown Los Angeles, I was soured by the omens I sensed there. One vacant store had been a kosher butcher shop in the fifties now with a rusted sign, but very similar to the dismal store my father had run in Brooklyn for thirty years. In an utter reversal of Proust sipping tea, I remembered the smell of raw meat in the sawdust on the floors, the armies of cockroaches under the display cases, the look of chicken guts stuck to the sides of garbage pails out back.

I learned that across the street from my apartment on Glendale Boulevard, Tom Mix used to ride a horse to work from his ranch in Mixville (now a Hughes market shopping Center). But no recognition could be found anywhere that the entire film industry had once been centered there (1912-192). It was clear that the city of Los Angeles would never announce formally that the movie business had started in what was now, forgettably a "Mexican" neighborhood. At first, the sheer neglect left me dreary, reminding me of family repression during my own childhood. It took at least a year for me to realize how much vitality existed west of downtown."

-- Norman Klein
-- from The History of Forgetting



(photo captions: edendale and mixxville
photo credit: lapl archives)

Los Angeles Is . . .

LIVING IN Los Angeles is like living in a bubble rolling along a path of needles. Ya kno' its going to pop, but you just don't know when.



A YOUNG man meets and falls in love with a young woman at the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles. This area is known as Miracle Mile, and the whole movie takes place there. They make a date, which he misses, and while he is searching for her, he accidentally finds out that we (the United States) are about to start a nuclear war with the Soviet Union. He frantically searches for her so that they can escape Los Angeles.

Harry finally meets the girl of his dreams--on the last day of Earth. Harry mistakenly picked up a ringing pay phone to learn that a nuclear war had already begun. Now with a ticking clock and a rioting city deteriorating around him, Harry must guide Julie to safety. But can he save himself as lawlessness becomes the norm and terror grips every living soul in the city? Written by Tim Kretschmann ( courtesy of ImDB)


The 1988 film Miracle Mile captures the paranoia that constantly grips Los Angeles. People living on top of each other. So close but yet so far. Its like a game of Telephone where what one person says may start out as the truth, but as it snakes down that line things can become twisted, more surreal than anyone can ever imagine. to understand the movie is too understand the areas:

Miracle mile is a one mile stretch between Wilshire, Fairfax, and La Brea. When my father first moved out here, "He said that it was beautiful, everything new and clean it seemed but now its just broken down. Nothing has its sheen anymore, just homless zombies, and roving rockers past their prime, with fairy dust pouring through the palms just trying to rememnber a glimpse of the stars"

Some things that may help put this in perspective:
Support_for_the_theory (broken windows theory, When people think an area is broken down they treat it as such. Crime rises, etc...)
(Quick history of Miracle Mile... Look at the history and compare it to the movie version. Kinda funny how word spreads so fast in Los Angeles about a nuclear holocaust and what does this say about this city's degrees of separation)

-- Jason Collins

Daryl F. Gates, Former LAPD Chief, 83

DARYL GATES, led the LAPD for 14 years and was at the helm when the 1991 beating of Rodney King occurred, and when the 1992 riots broke out in response to the acquittal of the officers who were accused of the crime. A controversial figure, particularly in communities of color around Greater Los Angeles, Gates' legacy also extends to the type of policing L.A. became known for -- a modern, almost "militaristic" force -- said critics. He oversaw the launch of the city's first Special Weapson and Tactics Team, better known as SWAT. The police force he built up was known colloquially as "The Hammer." As the entire region changed demographically, physically, ("white flight," out-migration, the city's inner-core emptying out), L.A. proper was, more than ever, a melting pot ready to boil over, during the fourteen years of his service He died Friday of cancer. He was 83.

-- L.G.

From the Los Angeles Times obit:

Daryl F. Gates, the rookie cop who rose from driver for a legendary chief to become chief himself, leading the Los Angeles Police Department during a turbulent 14-year period that found him struggling to keep pace with a city undergoing dramatic racial and ethnic changes, died Friday. He was 83.

Gates died at his Dana Point home after a short battle with cancer, the LAPD announced. (An earlier version of this story said Gates had died in Newport Beach.)

The controversial chief, whose tenure ran from 1978 to 1992, spent his entire four-decade career at the LAPD, where he won national attention for innovative approaches to crime fighting and prevention: He instituted military-style SWAT teams to handle crises and the gentler DARE classroom program to prevent drug abuse. These initiatives, emulated by police departments across the United States, and other advances, such as a communications system that reduced police response times, bolstered his reputation as an exemplar of modern law enforcement. President George H.W. Bush called him an "all-American hero."

A proud emblem of progress to some, he was a disturbing symbol of stagnation to others. When the city went up in flames over the acquittal of four white officers accused of beating black motorist Rodney King, he was castigated as a leader out of touch with the changing realities of the city, yet to the end he remained righteous about his authority to police it.

Faced with a proliferation of illegal drugs and street violence, he hammered gangs with police sweeps and broke into crack dens with an armored vehicle armed with a steel battering ram. He made no apologies for declaring that casual drug users should be shot.

By turns charming and brash, articulate and tactless, he generated controversy with gaffes about Latinos, blacks and Jews, most famously with a remark about blacks faring poorly under police chokeholds because their physiology was different from that of "normal" people. Fiercely loyal to his rank and file, he clashed frequently with elected officials, particularly when they slashed his budget or meddled in department discipline, and vowed he would never be bullied by "crummy politicians."

Throughout his tenure, he had a fractious relationship with Tom Bradley, the former LAPD lieutenant and councilman who united a diverse coalition of constituencies to become the city's first African American mayor.

Gates "fought vigorously to make sure the chief's duties were not encroached upon. That comes from understanding the struggles Bill Parker went through moving the department out of corruption," said City Councilman and former Police Chief Bernard C. Parks. He was referring to William H. Parker, the tough, reform-minded chief in the 1950s and '60s, who became Gates' mentor.

Parks said it was important to remember that the vilification of Gates after the King beating was not universal and that his accomplishments as chief mattered to large segments of the city long after he left the department.

"If you go to areas of the Valley, police organizations, officers' funerals . . . he gets the loudest ovation," Parks noted recently. "I've never seen a situation where . . . 18 years after retirement, officers who never worked with him cheer him as chief of police."

Yet others just as vehemently argue that Gates' strengths were outweighed by his weaknesses, particularly his failure to evolve with a city whose politics and social fabric had been transformed by the maturing of established minority communities and the flowering of newer ones molded by immigration.

"This L.A. was a changing city. . . . He never made the adjustment to the new L.A.," said Ramona Ripston, the longtime head of the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California.

In 1991, the videotaped beating of King was replayed around the world, shattering the carefully nurtured myth that the LAPD of "Dragnet" fame -- professional, honest and humane -- never stooped to such behavior. Gates was slow to criticize his officers' handling of the incident and missing from his command post when the officers' acquittal provoked the worst urban violence in decades, causing at least 53 deaths and more than $1 billion in property damage, but he faced inevitable calls for his resignation with characteristic defiance.

Sense Memory: The Classroom and the Jungle

AS PART OF my parents conscientious attempts to encourage my education during the summer they once enrolled me in the Summer Science Workshop at the Museum of Science and Industry. Once. It seemed to my pre-teen self that summer was not meant for school, and certainly not a summer school program built around a science curriculum. But the greatest indignity of it all was taking classes “at the museum” that were really in old, cramped, run-down classrooms that were buildings away from the actual air, fun, interesting museums themselves.

The classroom I remember was long and narrow, old plank wood floors that creaked if you even thought about shifting in your university style chair desks. The spaces between the floor planks was black from years of accumulated grime that had been waxed over rather than cleaned away. It was sticky, and you could peel up small strands of the grime and ball it up between your fingers. The floor grime was far more interesting than learning the differences between concave and convex, or discussing the properties of heat.

There was a large multi-sectioned glass window opposite the entrance, a chalkboard as long as the wall, and desks facing the chalkboard in two rows that were twenty seats wide. Space was so packed that once the class started no one could move – not even the instructor – until the class was cover and the last person in could open the door. In retrospect, the room was a fire hazard and probably in violation of code, but all in the name of science education, so who could fault them?


And it was dim. The heat of an LA summer and a building no doubt built before “refrigerated washed air” had been invented meant that the only way to keep fifty school aged kids comfortable meant cracking the windows open an inch and keeping the overheard lights off. At least I'm pretty sure they were off. The ceilings were so high in the room, the hanging light shades affixed to six foot steel poles stopped at least ten feet above our heads, made it difficult to know whether the large, clear glass orb lights were even on.

There was one redeeming quality to my daily summer trips to the Museum of Science and Industry, and that was the drive along Jefferson Boulevard that passed by a place I called The Jungle.

The Jungle was a small hunk of land on the other side of the only creek I'd ever known growing up, the concrete gully known as Balona Creek. On the far side of the creek a large berm rose from the chain link fence, and beyond the bern exotic trees and shrubs. Exotic to me at least. In truth they were probably nothing more than sycamores, polars, and old oaks that had been planted and grown over time. Surrounded by large planes of asphalt and concrete, with the occasional tree along the road and a lot of casual shrubbery that smelled of the dusky smog dust that settled on their leaves, this oasis I knew as The Jungle seemed an anomaly of time and place.
And indeed, it had once been a jungle. It was decades before I understood that this plot of land had a formal name: The 40 Acres Studio Backlot. Like many of the illusions of Hollywood, the 40 Acres property was less than 30 acres of land, and it had been used for jungle sequences by its original owners RKO when they filmed King Kong. When I was older my father mentioned in passing that The Jungle was a studio backlot and that I've probably seen the inside of it more than I realized. A little research proved this was an understatement.


Any child of the late 60s and 70s has seen their fair share of The Jungle on television. Exteriors for television shows like The Andy Griffith Show, Bonanza, and Hogan's Heroes were filmed there, as were the occasional desolate 20th century Chicago sets for a few Star Trek episodes. In its prime The Jungle was home for the Tara plantation in Gone With the Wind, exteriors for The Magnificent Ambersons, and various Tarzan adventures among the dozens of other films shot there.

In a way I'm glad I never knew what went on behind the eight foot earthen berm that ringed the property. In my mind the place was a Shangri La of exotic flowers and crystalline springs and trees dripping with vines. The dirt roads and trails that wound their way through The Jungle were of an earth that was unlike the rest of the Southland which smelled of oil and dried hopes.

As with everything else in Los Angeles, the land was too valuable and possessed too much history to be left alone or preserved. In the late 1970s it was razed and turned into a far more valuable industrial park.

-- David Elzey

Iconic L.A. Save the Peak -- Reprieve

THE LOS ANGELES TIMES reports that Hollywood sign supporters now have 16 more days to raise the funds -- $12.5 million -- to save the the iconic sign and the land surrounding it from "development" L.A. Times blogpost here.

(photo caption, L.A.'s biggest booster, Councilman Tom LaBonge
photo credit, Al Seib, L.A. Times)

On the Subject of Helms . . .

AS MENTIONED IN class this is a subject that has been coming up of late...some images:






-- L.G.

photo credit: L.G.

Downtown Re-mapped

IN YOUR READING for tonight, Norman Klein writes about how downtown L.A. in particular is often used metaphorically in films. I was able to find the opening sequence of this film, Criss Cross (1948) on YouTube, which opens with a really shaky helicopter shot over L.A. which looks like a quaint little village compared to what you see in the Michael Mann clip from Heat.


And this? This is downtown nightlife before the art walk, etc. Looks fun.



-- L.G.

L.A. City of Light, Michael Mann-Style

IN YOUR READING for this week, urban theorist Norman Klein talks about how the point-of-view (and thus reading) of Los Angeles from above -- particularly at night -- has changed over the decades.
Here is the clip from director, Micahel Mann's Heat where Robert DeNiro stands musing over the striking city grid. His monologue comes in around 10:02.

Myrna Loy Returns to Venice High

FEW STARS MOVED as easily from silents to talkies, as Myrna Loy. Most famous for her Nora Charles role in the Thin Man movies with William Powell, Loy grew up in Los Angeles and (according to the L.A. Observed site) attended the Westlake School for Girls when it was indeed situated in the old Westlake neighborhood on Alvarado across from what is now MacArthur Park.

For decades a statue of Loy, titled "Inspiration," graced the front of Venice High School (protected by a fence). Over the weekend, the statue was rededicated on the school's front lawn. The statue figured prominently as plot point in Bret Lott's 2008 novel, Ancient Highway, a fictionalized account of his family's trek to Los Angeles.

Here's my L.A. Times story about the book, a haunting family story where Los Angeles figures as one of the main characters. I spent the day walking around with Lott in his old neighborhood in Echo Park; it was a profile of place as much as it was about the author himself.

-- L.G.

Sense Memory: The Mid-morning Snap

THERE'S A QUALITY of morning light in Southern California where you can almost feel the increasing intensity of brightness in the mornings. It is the sibling of that late afternoon time known by photographers and filmmakers as The Magic Hour, the hang time between sunset and dusk where the quality of light is both bright and indirect, often orange and blue bleeding its last ember of watercolor brightness into evening. But it's morning sister is more ephemeral, fluid, a flash-paper of heat and light that lasts only long enough to evaporate the dew and charge the cool morning air. It's the first tickle of a warm day getting itself up to speed. This is the Mid-Morning Snap.

Two blasts of a horn, two or three metallic reeds bleating out of tin cones atop the van, and the Helms Bakery Truck compliments The Mid-Morning Snap of my childhood. Twice a week the pale yellow box-on-wheels with blue trim would park itself on the corner of our block delivering fresh breads, donuts, and custom cakes to the housebound homemakers of Southern California. Drifting down the path from our apartment building to the curbside wagon, the honeysuckle air of The Mid-Morning Snap would mingle with a scent I would forever only call crust. The Helms Bakery Truck smelled like warm, brown, hearthy crust.Standing near the open doors, I would wait for driver to open the wooden drawers that held within them the various baked goods so fresh from the Culver City bakery that they were still warm. Inhaling these smells was how I learned to distinguish a good donut from a bad without having to taste it. A steamy aroma of fresh oils that was anything but heavy, it was the promise of lightness and cakiness and spongey yeastiness, an education is baked goods that bypassed the tongue because my mother would rarely by anything but the most basic loaf of bread.

The truck itself was the one vehicle most like the toy trucks I played with. Its utilitarian design stood out from the clean lines of American cars and the curves of Volkswagen beetles that surrounded it. Later in life I'd have pangs of Helms truck memories whenever I saw seaside fish-n-chip trucks in British films, another boxy vehicle that promised nourishment from the faint whiff of cooking oil in the air. As housewives began to buy into the corporate supermarket ideal, the trucks disappeared and with them the promise of something good in the air. Without warning or notice,The Mid-Morning Snap became nothing more than a transition, easily missed once we were in school and caught up in learning to write cursive. It was a sensation that disappeared with the last Helms delivery trucks in the late 1960s.
-- David Elzey

photo credit, top, helms bakery district
middle: curbside delivery, tlc, picasa
photo credit, bottom, reseda bear, flickr, creative commons