| 64 ...65 |
[Apr. 29th, 2008|10:56 pm] |
The 64 Greatest Things About LA
Amoeba Music
It arrived from Berkeley only six years ago, yet Amoeba is like L.A. itself—teeming and gritty and so vast as to be daunting at first. Then, looking out past the ink-drenched Goth chicks, Latino punkers, bifocaled jazz aficionados, and dreadlocked dads flipping through the acres of bins, you see it for what it is: an unrivaled opportunity for exploration. The big staff—surprisingly non-'tudinal—and free shows make a great institution that much better.
Disneyland
It is well known that the millions of visitors who annually walk the domains of the Magic Kingdom cannot catch sight of surrounding Southern California. The implication of the park's design is clear. While it is easy to imagine Disneyland without L.A., It's impossible to conceive of the city without Sleeping Beauty's castle. More than 50 years ago, Uncle Walt gave us everything we then lacked: a pungent cultural past (New Orleans Square), a link to distant climes (Adventureland), a social fabric woven by centuries-old storytelling (Fantasyland), a center (Main Street, U.S.A.). Ever since, we've just been playing catch-up.
Apple Pan
The screen door announces our entrance with a slam. We jockey for a seat at the counter, only to be barked at by a waiter in a paper hat. Our drinks arrive in cones. There's nothing easy about dining here—in fact, it often reminds us of being shamed in junior high cafeterias—but then comes that slab of grilled beef in a perfect bun and that delicious slice of fresh-baked pie, and we forgive.
In-N-Out
Hamburger. Cheeseburger. Double-double. Fries. If you're looking for deep-fried chicken chunks, premade salads, or collectible Spidey cups, then In-N-Out is not for you. The local institution, founded in Baldwin Park in 1948, doesn't do anything but faultless burgers and fries. Using fresh ground beef, hand-torn lettuce, and thick slices of onion, they make them like you would if you were at the grill with your closest pals.
Disney Hall
Frank Gehry's tour de force is beautiful, dynamic, and unconventional—the work of a genius and a supreme crank. Inside its billowing steel shell sits a grand yet intimate performance space whose acoustics are heavenly, the better to hear an intriguing mix of classical and contemporary music. Since it opened in 2003, the Walt Disney Concert Hall has proved to be more than eye candy. Its wings have lifted the spirits of our much-maligned downtown, and its resident ensembles—the Philharmonic and the Master Chorale—have shown the world that the arts are more than just alive here, they are flourishing.
Magic Castle
In a mansion high above Franklin Avenue, if you know the right people and say the right words to an owl with crimson eyes, you'll be admitted into a timeless labyrinth of parlors, auditoriums, nooks, crannies, and barrooms in which the world's most revered illusionists and prestidigitators make you doubt the evidence of your own senses. Most magical is how quickly you leave behind all thoughts about Britney's parenting skills.
The Hills
Lots of cities are bordered by mountains. In L.A., though, bucolic highlands rise up throughout, sometimes within walking distance, say, of the home of the Academy Awards (think Runyon Canyon). For those of us fried by sun and smog, the four county ranges—the Santa Monicas, the San Gabriels, the Santa Susanas, and the Verdugos—offer easy access to a mystical escape (think snow!). The hills also serve as a rudimentary GPS: When you're lost in the city, remember they are due north.
Getty Center
The sweeping, sexy Richard Meier architecture. The Pacific views. The garden waterfall and azalea maze. The kids scampering down the greens. The price (free, as long as you don't have to park). Oh yes, and some ancient Roman nudes and Gauguins make it worth the trek on the 405.
Spago
It's a tourist trap! It's a celebrity centrifuge! It's a power eatery—with incredibly good food! One of the wonders of Wolfgang Puck is that he maintains a certain snob appeal even while appearing in Ralphs' frozen food section. At Spago Beverly Hills, executive chef Lee Hefter and pastry chef Sherry Yard may be in the kitchen, but it's Wolfie shaking hands at the tables and treating all customers like the stars they are (or want to be). Three decades after opening—and ten years at this location—Spago defies the odds by still living up to its hype.
Grauman's Chinese
Whatever its virtues, monotheism, Sid Grauman knew, was no way to worship the gods and goddesses of the film industry's Golden Age. So for his greatest motion picture temple, the consummate showman ventured farther east than Jerusalem or Mecca. From the Egyptian to the Vista to downtown's movie palace row to the Crest to the Village, you can't say Grauman's Chinese Theater doesn't have competition. But more than 80 years after it opened its pagoda doors, it remains the world's most holy site for movie-loving pilgrims, and its hand- and footprint forecourt is that rarest of L.A. beasts: a critical public space.
Studio Back Lots
It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a city to make a movie. The back lots of Warner Bros., Universal, Sony, Paramount, and Fox are just that—sprawling faux towns with staged Fourth of July parades on "Main Street‚" and potato flakes blowing onto "Chicago" streets. They have their own fire departments, banks, and populations—descendants of James Cagney's cats have the run of Warners, where Clint Eastwood finances their care.
Rose Bowl Flea Market
It is the ultimate bazaar, where thousands of vendors hawk the gems and detritus from a hundred years' worth of manufacturing, crafts, and crackpot schemes. Spread out before the historic stadium and ringed by the oaks and sycamores of the San Gabriel foothills, the Rose Bowl is part folk museum, part cage match for collectors. Held the second Sunday of the month, it exhausts with its Morris chairs, Clabber Girl tins, hacksaws, rare jeans, clown paintings, old lace, dental tools, and billion other offerings.
Central Library
Slated for demolition in the '70s, nearly destroyed by arson in the '80s, this is our monument to the endurance of the written word. Home to more than 2 million titles, it is the largest public library west of the Mississippi. We go for the artwork, too, from the humorous flora- and fauna-bedecked chandeliers in the eight-story atrium to the majestic paintings by Dean Cornwell depicting periods of California history—friars and invaders have never looked nobler.
Vin Scully
With a voice redolent of liniment and peanut shells as it traces the trajectory of the Texas Leaguer the pinch hitter just popped, he's a throwback to—you name it—baseball free of human growth hormone, Sandy Koufax, Brooklyn itself. Scully calls the whole game on TV, he summons literary references to get us through the rain delay, and who else have you got for the voice of Los Angeles? "It's a beautiful day here at Dodger Stadium..." Indeed.
Langer's
Setting roots at the edge of MacArthur Park in 1947, the Langer family has kept an abiding faith in the changing neighborhood that's as unwavering as their commitment to creamed herring and chopped liver. But it is the deli's signature dish of thickly sliced hot pastrami on rye—washed down with a Dr. Brown's soda—that makes us meshuga.
The Grove
Experience it through the eyes of a two-year-old: Not yet lured in by American Girl Place or Abercrombie & Fitch, not privy to the critiques of urban theorists, the toddler can take unvarnished joy in the dancing fountains, the trolley to nowhere, and the crowds as carefree and social as any we find in a city so short on human contact.
99¢ Only Stores
There's simply no better way to experience L.A.'s urban mix. Founded by the son of immigrants, with patrons from half the world's cultures grabbing at canned soup, hair gel, and action figures cast from the global marketplace, the stores make us marvel at how we all came to be here, under one roof, intent on a bargain.
Topanga Canyon
Laurel is more storied, Coldwater more glam, Benedict more exclusive. In Topanga, however, waitresses extol the cosmic vibrations of the food at the Inn of the Seventh Ray, a restaurant whose name is not tongue-in-cheek. Untouched by chain stores or mega-development, the canyon between Santa Monica and Malibu is the last hippie holdout in an ever-gentrifying area. On the main drag, in front of craft-filled shops and friendly dives, women with long gray hair ride horses, sixth graders sell CDs of original music they recorded to benefit charity, and locals, including artist Chris Burden, still hitchhike.
Capitol Records
So what if it was never meant to resemble a stack of records? Welton Becket's 13-story cylinder on Vine Street was where Frank and Dean and Nat and the Beach Boys recorded some of their best work. No struggling musician has ever set eyes on it and not dreamed of going platinum.
Dim Sum in the S.G. Valley
Here it's not just cuisine; it's a competitive sport. The area's huge number of immigrants from the dumpling capitals of Hong Kong and Taiwan put the heat on chefs to devise the next new thing while producing fully realized versions of the classics. From hot spots like Elite Restaurant in Monterey Park to old-school favorites like Rosemead's 888 Seafood Restaurant, wherever you go, expect long waits, noisy rooms, and bliss delivered on a rolling cart.
Norton Simon Museum
As an art collector, Norton Simon had interests that were blessedly all over the map. The mogul could get as excited by writhing centuries-old bronzes of Shiva as by a Rembrandt or a giant soft ketchup bottle by Claes Oldenburg. To house these gems, Simon skipped the usual monument to inflated self-importance, building instead a lovely museum in Pasadena encased in earthen tiles by potter Edith Heath, with a garden that takes its cues from Monet's Giverny.
MOCA
At this downtown culture hub, art rises to the level of a psychedelic trip. Hey, they're throwing a rave in the museum. No, wait, maybe it's just a hip-shaking symposium. Whatever the cryptic theoristas at the Museum of Contemporary Art are doing, we love it even when we don't get it. They've made Grand Avenue vibrant and art seem fun, and their opening-night soirees put a smile the size of a Murakami billboard on our faces.
Watts Towers
Three towers, one almost 100 feet tall, rise from what was once a modest backyard, just a block from the railroad tracks. Simon Rodia's folk art, his junk sculpture, is encrusted with the pieces of early-20th-century Los Angeles: Fiestaware, 7Up bottles, Malibu tiles. The towers were one man's lifelong devotion, and soaring high above Watts like a cathedral or an old-growth tree, they still inspire.
ArcLight
In an era when new theater construction tends toward suburban deathstar megaplexes, here is a place where the moviegoing experience matters most. The picture is in focus; the popcorn is fresh; an usher in uniform guides you to your seat and makes sure the sound's spot-on. Best of all, the Hollywood ArcLight is built around the beehive-shaped Cinerama Dome, a landmark that outlasted Cinerama itself and now ranks as the only movie screen of its kind in the city.
Huntington Gardens
You visit this 120-acre enclave for a ramble through roses and bonsai. What you don't expect is that desert garden: a live-action Dr. Seuss book where cacti and succulents resemble stalagmites and flowing seaweed, and blooms in oranges and reds and pinks burst from monsterlike forms.
Museum of Jurassic Technology
Two of its most beloved exhibits are The Stink Ant of the Cameroon, an insect driven mad by a spore in its tiny brain, and The Horn of Mary Davis Saughall, an appendage that grew on said woman's head in the 17th century. It's captivating, irreverent, and for the most part, lies. Is it conceptual art? Is it a dig at our blind faith in museums? Long after you've forgotten what's-his-name's show at another institution, you'll remember the Jurassic.
Palm Trees
They were imported to gussy up our streets, and they took to the place like they were born here. Soon they were our calling card and our cliche, emblazoned on everything from hotel facades to cocktail napkins. Has any other silhouette been more photographed?
Star Maps
These celestial signposts promise Shangri-la, or at least to put you in Shangri-la's surveillance cam. Five bucks gives you access Access Hollywood can't. Who cares that the payoff is Ned Beatty watering his lawn? The treasure is in the hunt, and in the tourist's eternally optimistic expectations.
Spaceland
With long lines and a room that's loud as hell, Spaceland embodies the egalitarian spirit of rock and roll. Scruffy Art Center students and Harajuku transplants shoot pool in the back room, waiting out the opening acts. The names of bands who have played here—Melt-Banana, Four Tet, Sleepytime Gorilla Museum—bespeak a world without nosebleed seats. Once you've had your beverage jostled by Graham Lewis, the irascible bassist from Wire, you know that punk is here to stay.
Murals
To see some of the city's most moving art, an invitation to a David Geffen dinner party is not required. L.A.'s cinder-block walls, cement riverbanks, tunnels, and overpasses have proved ample blank canvases for muralists. The memorials to fallen gangbangers or Princess Diana, the homages to Quetzalcoatl or Cesar Chavez, the totally inaccurate though still somehow right-on renditions of Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe, or the Beatles—no museum or mogul's living room could contain them.
Vincent Thomas Bridge
Stretching 2.2 miles and curving gently midway through, the structure places you high enough over the sea—185 feet above the main channel of Los Angeles Harbor, in fact—to unsettle and thrill, presenting vertiginous views of the coruscating Pacific, the high-rises of Long Beach, the distant cluster of downtown L.A., and the hidden world of the port, where hulking cargo ships lie docked among towers of brightly colored steel containers.
Trader Joe's
Born in Pasadena in 1967, its corporate secrets as closely guarded as those of Scientology, Trader Joe's doesn't overwhelm with selection but is rather the arbiter of the finest and most adventurous food you could possibly enjoy given what you can afford. Cheerful crew members chatting you up in the dried-fruit aisle, hand-painted promotions, free samples—forget the computer, what did we do before TJ's? And how could we live without it?
Bradbury Building
With all due respect to the sober 1893 facade at 3rd and Broadway, it's the moment when we cross the threshold and come face-to-face with this most over-the-top spectacle of Victorian futurism that we lose it and have to remind ourselves that this fantasy world, all lacy iron and tile and skylights, is just an office building. Architect George Wyman claimed to be influenced by Ouija boards and Edward Bellamy's utopian novel "Looking Backward: 2000-1887" when creating his masterpiece.
Pink's
Dodger Dogs have the stadium ambience; the bacon-wrapped gut bombs sold by downtown vendors sizzle with street cred. In 1939, when Pink's was just a pushcart, a chili dog, fully loaded, cost a dime; that same dog will run you about three bucks today. But for variety (about three dozen kinds, from the spicy Chicago Polish to the artery-choking Three Dog Night) and a wiener casing that pops just so, Pink's can't be beat, and not just because all those celebrities lining the walls say so.
Union Station
Still the city's public transportation hub and the last grand train terminal built in America, Union Station opened in 1939 as a larger-than-life Spanish deco front door to Los Angeles for arriving immigrants, starlets, and those who fell for the boosters' blandishments. Its massive oak-and-tile waiting room has been a movie stand-in for New York, Miami, and a police station in 2019. To linger in its midst, lost in the solitude or the fray, is life-affirming.
Roscoe's
Who says we eat healthy? Nobody bellying (burp) up to Roscoe's House of Chicken 'n Waffles at two in the morning for a plate of fried chix and a gridiron stack topped by a luminescent orb of I Can't Believe It Is Butter. Scoe's is also the place in town to peep black Hollywood's (heck, black America's) showbiz elite, where everybody from Little Richard (spotted passing out Bible tracts) to Chris Rock to Lil Wayne goes to be seen.
The Beach
Seventy-five miles of coast, and most of it our personal playground. Free light therapy and tanning beds, nap-time and lunch breaks, all-comer football and volleyball, zone-out swimming and surfing, weddings, barbecues, and endless child's play. Since it's pretty darn hard to cycle and skate on sand, a wide bike path runs through it that's as lovely and thought-inducing as any philosopher's walk in Kyoto. And the sunsets? Killer.
Doughnuts
It's no surprise that the world's largest doughnut was made here. The 5,000-pound fritter was created in 1998 for Winchell's 50th anniversary, but it also stood as a golden, sugary monument to our love affair with all things jelly-filled and glazed. L.A. is home to 800-plus doughnut shops—more than any other metropolis—not to mention doughnut-themed architecture (Randy's giant dunker among them). There's a fried dough fantasy to suit every taste, from Frittelli's French crullers to Donut Man's fruit-filled dreams.
Farmers Market
Ah, the many ways we adore thee. Your cuisine of a thousand nations, your rooflines lifted from the Brothers Grimm, your quaint metal chairs and handmade rolling carts, your mere survival at 3rd and Fairfax. More than all this, we admire how you transform and unite those who step inside. The dawdling screenwriters, the Auschwitz survivors, the Japanese students in tidy uniforms, the grandmas of Park La Brea reborn as town gossips and resident sages: They suddenly have something vitally in common with one another when given over to your resplendent little world.
Schindler House
Of all the modern residential masterpieces that define the city—the Wrights, the Lautners, the Neutras—none are as accessible and alive as Rudolph Schindler's minimalist home and studio. Sandwiched between the apartment buildings of Kings Road, flanked by tall stands of bamboo, and home to the MAK Center for Art and Architecture and its innovative roster of lectures and events, the Schindler is a modular, cement-floored bulwark 80 years ahead of its time.
Hollywood Bowl
We go to the Hollywood Bowl for the music, but the sunsets stop us in our tracks. Seems we've glanced at this crimson wash before—in the middle of a harried commute, say, or out an office window—but here on a warm summer evening, surrounded by a sea of happy people, motley picnics, overflowing pinot, and the strains of a fine orchestra or a raucous band, the changing sky signals the start of something truly grand. Then there's that band shell: Lit up like a mother ship, it seems poised to ascend into heaven.
McCabe's
Sure, we love the walL of instruments, but the real draw at McCabe's Guitar Shop is the many artists who have played in its famed back room for a few bucks when they could be filling concert halls. From Odetta to Jeff Buckley, John Lee Hooker to Alison Krauss, no other stage in town this tiny has supported the weight of such talent.
The Subway
That whoosh! Those silver trains zooming through tunnels that secretly cut through the city. It's a thrill to take people underground for the first time—so quick, so modern! Yes, we sort of had a system like this 100 years ago; yes, the signage could be much better. But Metro eliminates the need to watch the road and find parking. Even if you won't give up commuting in your Honda, at least show this off to friends. The stations alone are worth the trip down the escalator. Stand beneath the shimmering ceiling made of thousands of movie reels at Hollywood and Vine and see if you don't agree.
Griffith Park
Because each of its parts—telescope gazing at the observatory, hiking under the moon with the Sierra Club, catching crayfish in the brook at Fern Dell where Dad proposed to Mom in 1958, riding the Little Steamers and the big choo-choos at Travel Town, bopping to the White Stripes at the Greek, hearing crusty old western stars hold court at the Autry, swirling on that merry-go-round whose organ strains wash over the whole city—could make up half this list alone. Had you gone up in flames, Griffith (and we were scared), L.A. would have lost us, too.
The Hollywood Sign
Try imagining a sign that reads San Francisco bolted to the slopes of Nob Hill, or letters spelling out Paris atop Montmartre. It's impossible. Why? For starters, both cities feature architecture—a certain bridge, a tower—that identifies them instantly. The Hollywood sign is Los Angeles's own emblematic structure; it's the prism through which the rest of the world views us. Please remember: "Hollywood" as advertised here doesn't exist—the studios are scattered across several municipalities. Yet up on a hill tilts a crooked old sign that touts our collective promise like nothing else.
Philippe's
New York, keep your Coney Island dog. Philly, we pity your cheese steak. Those tender slices of pork, roast beef, or turkey, that bun softened au jus, the white-hot mustard that brings tears—the French Dip sandwich here is our city's lunchtime triumph.
Beverly Hills Hotel
The pink palace is about as understated as a flamingo in a tutu, and we wouldn't have it any other way. What's more L.A. than machers eating McCarthy salads in the Polo Lounge, or those Yves Saint Laurent resortwear shows by the pool, or those Junior League fund-raisers in the Crystal Ballroom? If it's good enough for six of Liz's eight honeymoons, it's good enough for us.
Chateau Marmont
Built in 1929 by a young attorney with aspirations, it soon failed, was sold, failed once more and was sold again—in 15 years. One day an unknown actress with an upper-crust accent arrived wearing a rumpled gray suit and an eyepatch. She signed in as "Katharine Hepburn," and the tone for the hotel's Hollywood-fed future was writ: elegantly disheveled and half-hidden from sight. For celebrities in a war-torn TMZ, the Chateau Marmont's walls have become their green zone.
La Brea Bakery
From the crunchy-outside-chewy-inside baguettes to the crusty rectangles of pain rustique, the deceptively modest shop off Miracle Mile is a carb lover's dough-fueled fantasy. But the Nancy Silverton-founded bakery empire is more than just a turkey-sandwich-to-go kind of place (OK, plus two croissants and a chocolate chip cookie). La Brea Bakery shares the wealth—supplying baked goods for hundreds of stores, cafes, and restaurants, and upping the city's ante for its daily bread.
Premieres
The squealing crowds held back by phalanxes of security guards. The red carpet, because pavement is simply too much for one's Manolo Blahniks on a breathless evening. The stars fawned over by Extra and Entertainment Tonight, with satellite communications technology—more sophisticated than the kind that put a man on the moon—broadcasting such observations as Yes, the director was brilliant, the lecherous costar a joy to work with. It's film history, our history, as the most delightful farce.
Stars at the Ivy
When our college poetry professor is in town and, um, would just love to see...I'm not usually like this!...um, a celebrity? this is as good a shot as any. We can stomach the pseudo-French-country motif, the crab cakes, even the bill if it means getting worked into a pic of Hasselhoff on the patio.
Venice Canals
Abbot Kinney's vision for a "Venice of America" was no match for the vision of Henry Ford. By the end of the 1920s, most of Kinney's 16 miles of canals had become streets. One pocket remains, home to ducks, dinghies, and well-heeled residents. Its arched bridges and narrow footpaths take us to a time when water triumphed over asphalt.
Indie 103.1 FM
When a former Spanish-language radio station began airing the Cockney ramblings of an aging Sex Pistol, Indie 103.1 FM had us at 'allo. Between Jonesy's influential Jukebox, Joe Escalante and his weatherman, David Lynch, Big Sonic Heaven, Feel My Heat, and Watusi Rodeo, there is a show—curated by live humans—for everyone swimming outside the mainstream. Indie has made L.A.'s airwaves the envy of the nation—honest.
KCRW 89.9 FM
Other stations provide NPR, but how many also transmit Michael Silverblatt's literary confabs, dish on the latest in lettuce with Evan Kleiman, or house the largest Web archive of in-studio performances (thanks, Nic) by top-tier artists? KCRW 89.9 FM makes us feel, well, smarter. It's why traffic is tolerable, why we sit in the driveway an extra few minutes, and why we heard Beck long before anyone else.
Sushi on Ventura
Tama Sushi, Teru Sushi, Nozawa, Asanebo, Iroha, the original Katsu-ya. Ventura Boulevard may not be on the short list for an urban design award, and it's not exactly a fine-dining destination. But when it comes to high-quality, we're-not-trying-to-be-a-nightclub sushi restaurants, the road is paved with seaweed-wrapped gold. Aji and uni, oshitashi and ankimo, toro and kanpachi are Ventura's stock-in-trade, and a perpetual chorus of "Irasshai!" reverberates from Calabasas to Studio City.
Hollywood Forever Screenings
As long as there's a place to plug in the projector, glamour will never fade, laughter will never stop, and death cannot be final. At cinespia, the summerlong outdoor film series at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, movies are screened on the side of a mausoleum while picnic-toting cineasts drink wine under the palms and lounge by Douglas Fairbanks, Cecil B. DeMille, and Janet Gaynor. Now that's noir.
USC Football
Tailback U it was and remains, even though nowadays it is superstar quarterbacks who lead the teams to glory. Add in a marching band with attitude, a mascot who runs like the wind, a fight song you can't get out of your head, a movie-star-handsome coach, Tommy Trojan's bronze pecs, and fans who make Friday Night Texans look like sleepy bears, and we're goin' long, baby.
The Weather
Perfection, with just enough biting chills in winter to remind us why we don't live in points north and east. Sure, there are the fogs of June and the occasional sticky hugs in summer, but the rest of the time it's like Goldilocks said: Just right.
Rooftop Neon
Candy colors that vibrate with a come-on, aristocratic names that hover in the air. Elegant script, so evocative of cosmopolitan glamour and decadence, has been spared from the city's notorious architectural neglect. The "Asbury" in orange, the "Gaylord" in green, and the "Arwyn" in blue are 3 of some 150 restored signs that make up the nation's largest concentration of deco and art nouveau neon. Next time it rains after dark, drive down the Wilshire Corridor for a poem in the sky.
Taco Trucks
As many as 4,000 ply the county's streets, and each is unique, a rolling kitchen as ephemeral as traffic and as permanent as the neighborhoods it serves. Whether we want asada or cabeza, al pastor or lengua, there's something primal and urgent about the tacos cooked up in their cramped galleys. It is food that can be powerfully good, transporting you into a gustatory trance while heightening your awareness of all that surrounds you.
Pacific Coast Highway
As we steer west to the county line, past postcard ocean vistas and storied surfer beaches, tasting the cleanest air L.A. affords, our spirits can't help but soar. It's like stepping inside a European cathedral or gazing at the Manhattan skyline for the first time. The Pacific Coast Highway looks sharpest from a convertible going at a brisk clip, but we would be remiss to not stop at secluded Paradise Cove or for a bowl of fierce clam chowder at Neptune's Net.
Sunset Boulevard
The name alone conjures the hopes and delusions that define us. Beginning downtown, it runs past Dodger Stadium, bisects Hollywood (where a sign honors Billy Wilder, whose film titled after the thoroughfare captured the city's darkness), slows along the Strip, resumes speed in Beverly Hills, then crests Pacific Palisades for the descent to the Coast Highway. In its 22 miles, Sunset Boulevard reminds us that our forebears came here for freedom while underscoring that this is where the continent ends.
Musso & Frank
Maybe it's the dark paneling and the red leather booths. The curt but efficient waiters. The daily specials (we arrange our calendars around chicken potpies on Thursdays) or the stiff martinis available anytime. Or maybe it's the aura of the writers (Raymond Chandler and F. Scott Fitzgerald) and stars (Tom Mix and Humphrey Bogart) who've haunted the place. Whichever. After 89 years in business, Musso's is both a time machine and a needed oasis.
The Light
Los Angeles has its microclimates of cool and warm air pockets that gardeners are attuned to when planting in spring. Unlike any other American city, it is also splintered into numerous subdivisions of light—apertures of sky that blaze, glow, glimmer, and dim, depending on season and landscape: the sad, failing light in October, the muzzy pall above the Valley that hangs like wet linen in November, the gin-clear fluorescence of April, the kaleidoscopic photochemical sunsets of July. Then comes tropical August, when under mackerel skies, light drops like periwinkle confetti across the city's expanse.
JennBunny's Bedroom
Dark, but cozy, Jennbunny's bedroom is probably the most fucking coolest place in California. |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
bunnyunlaced's journal
