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