Recommendations

People often ask me for recommendations to restaurants, bars, and hiking trails. I can usually provide some excellent matches to your requests. To render it succinct for both of us, check out my Yelp site.

ocotilloangel.yelp.com

Secret LaLaLand

Our City of (Fallen) Angels holds infinite secrets, even for natives, especially for naives such as myself.

Last night I was out with my (native Angeleno, mind you) friend S., who has some secrets of his own (a hankering for bacon-wrapped hotdogs, which, Jewish as he is, he honors after only two drinks); I devirginized him to old-school photo booths at the one in the Shortstop; and others ...

L.A. is a hush-hush Mecca.

Our night last night was marked by young people. But these young people were in the know, you know? At the Shortstop, we played pool with bi-curious D., a beautiful Black man. Turns out he was 22. Almost 23, he said. S. almost told D. about the party he had recently attended with his non-girlfriend girlfriend, where tawdry things had happened, tawdry things I can't handle anymore, at least not without a partner I trust very, very deeply. Maybe that was the first "secret L.A." story that inspired me to blog this blog today.

After hitting up our respective bad-for-you food stands, which a secret undocumented Guatemalan husband and wife own, we meandered to the Gold Room for their unadvertised $4 tequila shot and beer deal. We toasted Zen (tequila with a beer back was his poison of choice - well, one of them), and sat down next to a young cute couple on a first date.

Immediately we adopted a secret set of personas. We squished together as if we were a non-couple couple, and the girl leaned over and asked us why we weren't engaged. I told her it was because I was a lesbian and S. told her ... wait, what did he say? Something to the effect of having just come out of an abusive relationship. I love pretending to be someone else. It was obvious that her date was uncomfortable, but he was soooo cute, that I comforted him, desquished from S., and began to whisper secretly to him. S. pretended to be jealous of this, and he countered by asking the girl, quite loudly, if she knew of any secret sex clubs in the area.

She didn't flinch. I had her pegged for a prude, admittedly because of her hair, which S. said he didn't judge people by. I do - head hair AND facial hair, but that's another blog. S. began to ask further tawdry, even dirty, questions, which flustered the boy and gave me an additional "in." Too bad I don't go for younger men. Yet another blog.

Girl surprised the crap out of me when she said she didn't know about secret sex clubs - which I wouldn't attend anyway, trust me - but mentioned the nearby secret "Alvarado House," which opens after the bars close, serves alcohol, and generally hosts a large number of people who want to dance in a run-down mansion. I know where it is, and I think she exaggerated its prowess. I googled it just now and only found one possibly relevant web site, so I think I'm safe in outing this L.A. secret scene without getting it shut down.

L.A. has many secret gems like the Alvarado House - some formal-ish, some so covert that I can't write about them at all. L.A. resembles Amsterdam in many ways, because if you have a prescription, you can legally partake in secret underground hash parties. We have illicit warehouse parties unlike the ones I've visited in most other cities. At the secret R Bar, you have to know a secret password to get in. It seems contrived, but I think it's kind of fun. They have no sign in front, and seeing the restored copper ceiling and interior space, with secret booths where you can make out, is worth the trouble. I belong to a group called the Ghetto Gourmet - we host secret dinner parties in secret locations where, if the Health Department found us, we'd get big ol' fines. The food is usually worth it, as is the tingle of community sneakiness.

I think that's what it's about - harmless community sneakiness. To me, participating in all the examples I provided above feel sexy - though not literally. Again, I veer away from attending the sorts of secret venues S. was in the mood to attend last night. But I always enjoyed playing Hide and Seek as a child, and this feels like the $5 cover version for adults. Maybe I'll host a secret Hide and Seek party sometime soon.

Ultimately it feels like the charm of L.A. will never wear off, and even though we're professionals now, we can be who we want, wear costumes, and no one cares, or knows.

LaLa Love You, Don't Mean Maybe

John Muir died in Los Angeles in 1914, after spending his lifetime creating the environmentalist movement as we know it. He worked hard to preserve large tracts of land throughout California, including Yosemite, and formed the Sierra Club.

The fact that he was anywhere near L.A. toward the end of his life may come as a surprise, but he, like me, saw nature and "home" as inseparable. He saw all of the earth as "home" and Southern California was no exception. He was en route to the extreme desert near Daggett, California, when he had to go to the hospital in L.A.

http://www.mapquest.com/maps?city=Daggett&state=CA

I count the mountains as home; I don't think I'd like to even try to live anywhere without mountains. My sense of place and my sense of home are inseparable and they are very much grounded in mountains. Others feel that way about the sea.

Muir's Sierra Club has hundreds of holdings throughout Southern California, and maintains a "Hundred Peaks" list of valuable ascents people might make throughout their lives here in this part of the world.

http://angeles.sierraclub.org/hps/hpslist.htm

The point of all this is is that Los Angeles is still one of the loveliest places on the planet. Angelenos navigate through the admittedly nasty smog and traffic because we know that the quality of outdoor life supercedes the trouble. The smog is nowhere near as bad as it once was, though the traffic has increased of course. But the perfect weather allows for year-round exploration, gardening, and camping ... escape from the traffic and the full calendars of events.

Below are some photos I took today on a misty, drizzly four-mile round-trip hike to Hermit Falls, a trek very much worth your time ...

http://www.trails.com/topomap.aspx?trailid=XTR003-088

Hummingbird                                  

West LA, East LA and Term Limitations

Are there term limitations on stereotypes? Just a thought. "Republican," "Liberal," and "Conservative" used to mean entirely different things than they do today. I'm wondering about the duration of semantics. I'm wondering about the limitation of the symbolism of spatial relations, in relation to gentrification. I think about that in regard not only to immigration but also in relation to reputation. For example, and bear with me please unless this concept is entirely too boring, in which case shut the window because I won't know and I don't care - this is cathartic to me anyway - West Los Angeles has a completely different vibe and reputation than East Los Angeles. And as many others have written, the dividing line between the two can be arbitrary and laughably so. Is it Fairfax? Koreatown's foreign signage? The sounds of Armenians fighting and making love at dawn? To me "East LA" signifies crime, rampant crime, and rap videos. And good tacos. But herein I'm talking about the HIP East LA, where I live, choose to live, choose to drink and play and absorb graffiti and see people and walk around and have stupid mutt dogs (literal ones and men) bark at me. I'm not talking about the municipality. I'm talking, where, as you drive east, Santa Monica Boulevard becomes sketchy, Sunset becomes tolerable again, and Beverly becomes downright "where's my Kevlar." West Hollywood is another story altogether. But I think it's illustrative. For my Limeño audience - or just those of you who've not been here in a long time or never - WeHo is the gay district (there are a few) of Los Angeles. But you know what? It's illustrative because it wasn't always and it won't always be. and not just because of the politics of being out. I mean the geography of reputation. I've not thought this through and I need to reread my Richard Sennett before I blab, but no I don't, because unlike in Peru I can say what I want without getting deported. Filipinotown isn't Filipino anymore. In Lima, wealthy San Isidro butts up against some poor-ass 'hoods, which renders it partitioned into "San Isidro" and San Isidro, a claim for which I only have observational and experiential evidence, which since I'm an anthropologist feels as valid as weighing shit on scales. I've been deemed worthy of making such observations. So back to the question: semiotics representation place duration of stereotypes. Boundaries change. What's hip now won't be hip later and what's snobby and elitist, well, that probably still will be unless new money moves to the other hills (but BevHills is quite the anomaly, in all the world, barring maybe Luxembourg and that other little baby country with the casinos). I dunno. Mapping reputation seems so easy in my mind. Would it overlap with yours? I don't think so. Because like Sennett, I wouldn't gauge class by income alone; in fact, I don't even think I'd use class as a classification because I think it's a sort of diaphanous strata and I'd rather use symbolism for my map. Symbolism and oil pastels. I miss oil pastels, but also they smudge.

LaLaLove

Since Zen's death I've acquired a little baby silver convertible Mini Cooper, Mia Lawrence. "Lawrence" was Zen's middle name, and he hated hated HATED being called "Larry." I digress. I haven't had time to take her to the places he and I shared, as I said I would in my previous blog. But I will. She's a pleasure.
I got her partially because of Zen. He and I both loved driving - found true joy in it. It was bittersweet that he died doing just that. His car was a piece of POOOOOP. So much was wrong with it that, one day when I tried to surprise him by fixing something on it, my mechanic just shook his head. There was nowhere to begin, and not enough time. Fittingly.
I hesitated also to get my first convertible, but the first time (EVER) that I drove one was just this March 24, with him, the very car he died by rolling after "Dukes of Hazarding" it off a gravel pile. We laughed and sang Guns 'n' Roses (the stereo worked, sort of) down the Sunset Strip that day and I will never forget the feeling of elation. (I know I can really be myself with someone if I can sing at the top of my lungs with them. I'm an excellent singer but people I'm uncomfortable don't know it, because I won't really sing with them. And drunk singing doesn't count, because I suck when I'm drunk).
Zen might not have died were he not in a convertible with the top down, but yeah, he would have. That stupid f-ing car. We all hate it so much. He was actually in the process of buying a new one.
That's what I've been learning lately from these recent deaths of young men so close to my heart. My friend CK said it - a first line from a poem I'd long forgotten - "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." And I am.
My Hyundai Lucille epitomized responsibility. She was way paid off, got like 40 miles to the gallon, had a big trunk. But I had named her appropriately. She's now serving a LOVELY Bosnian grad student who was giddy with glee to acquire Lucille, just as I am giddy to get Mia Lawrence, thinking of Bob and Zen and trying to savor the wind and the views Lucille couldn't afford me.
I love to drive. I'm connected to Zen that way. It's going to be ok; just stay present. We only got one life, we gotta do what we should.