Carl Raether's photo used through Creative Commons license

It’s been a long while since I have posted. Among other reasons (a bone-crushingly heavy work load, ennui and existential despair…) I have the lucky excuse of having been in Paris for a bit. Yes it was cold–a Jack Londony, Fargo-ish kind of cold–but heck, I’d rather freeze my ass off in Paris than be warm and toasty a lot of places.

And the food! Happily one of my foodie friends here, who lived in Paris for a couple of years, had sent me a meaty email with advice on where to get the best macarons (Ladurée) and falafel (Chez hanna) and steak-frites (Relais de L’entrecote). So, on C’s recommendation, we set out for steak at RE, a Paris institution. Steak-frites, understand, is all they serve. You can choose a dessert or a wine, but as far as a meal, they ask only “how do you like your steak?” and they are world-famous for that steak. The line, even in the cold, was long enough to extend into the middle of the street. We dutifully queued up and right behind us came an English-speaking couple, seemingly American. We got to talking and, yes, they confirmed that they were American. In fact, they were from Los Angeles. “Oh,” say I, “I’m from Sherman Oaks. Where in L.A. are you from?” The woman gets a look of consternation, hesistates, and says, “Er, we’re from just north of you.”

Which is to say, Van Nuys. Even as far away as Paris, apparently, a person will go to some trouble to avoid admitting as much.

Richard Alexander Caraballo's photo used through Creative Commons

When I conjure the list of people I believe epitomize L.A. in some sense, Jonathan Gold and Bret Easton Ellis are both on that list, but together? Talking?  I admit I hadn’t really considered that. When I saw that the Hammer has them in conversation this Tuesday (tomorrow), I just had to pass it along to you all. I myself am busy or I’d go just because I love L.A., and Gold and Ellis are utterly paradigmatic of the city, each in his own way.

Can you imagine the conversation?

JG: You know, that story about kids snorting coke all night and prostituting themselves reminds me of this amazing coq au vin I had at this little French place on the Westside last month.

BEE: Speaking of cock, let me tell you about the novel I’m working on now…

Seriously, it’s bound to be a great night. (It’s like the sequel to Hank Moody’s stolen novel; this one’s called Fucking and Lunching.) 

Plus, the Hammer events are free, and there’s cheap parking ($3) right underneath the building. If only the gelato place up the street, Piccomolo, hadn’t closed it would be like a perfect evening. Have fun b.la-ers. Let me know how it is.

mouse pad

We B.la’ers contemplated a Halloween series this year–some kind of spooky or scary L.A. collection of posts focusing on our favorite fright factor in the city or some bone chilling experience we’ve had here. Sad fact: many of us (such as myself) were too busy trying to stay afloat in our (very scary) millennial economy to have time to devote to the series, and a notable number of the remaining B.la’ers didn’t really have a scary experience in the city to relate (and no, encounters with fake boobs or bad fashion do not count; we’d already established that).

Me, one of the things I love the most about L.A. is how very dark and yet simultaneously cheerful it is. Honestly, it’s that very sensibility that convinced me to move here in the first place. A little more than nine years ago I was visiting L.A.. I’d interviewed for a job here but I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to live in Los Angeles. My impressions of the city were largely negative, gleaned mostly from a prejudiced east coast crowd who criticized the city for not enough book stores and metro stops and too too many motivational speakers and girls in fuck-me heels. Women in D.C. wear Reeboks on their way to work, okay? So I came out here for a week to make my own determination and came to the conclusion “Yes, and?” otherwise known as “You say ‘fuck-me heels’ like that’s a bad thing.”

Minnaert's Trashy Lingerie from Wikimedia Commons

The turning point came on the day that Andrea, my bff who came out here with me to visit, dubbed “the sex and death tour of L.A.” We went to the Fredericks of Hollywood Lingerie Museum [now closed, so sorry readers], the Museum of Death [recently reopened, you'll be happy to hear], Trashy Lingerie on La Cienega, and Necromance on Melrose. These latter two stores we happened upon by accident, drawn in by the army of bunny eared teddy-clad mannequins in the window of the former and the desiccated animal carcasses, bird skeletons and foot binding shoes in the latter. Hurrah for fetishistic consumerism!

But the pièce de résistance of the tour was Skeletons in the Closet, the gift shop at the Coroner’s Office downtown. I had read about the store in Roadside America, but I didn’t really realize that the shop is actually *at* the Coroner’s Office, which is to say, you walk by a lobby of people waiting to identify remains on your way in to buy beach towels with chalk outlines on them and garment bags shaped like body bags.

Chuck "Caveman" Coker's picture used through a Creative Commons license

The shop itself is a bit ramshackle, occupying as it does, a left over office not so skillfully repurposed as the coroner’s emporium. The day we went, there were a handful of people. A couple of women seemingly on their break from their downtown jobs were doing a little gift shopping after lunch. There was an adorable teen-aged goth girl complete with a purple lined cape, swirly eyeliner and a dad who looked like he could be related to Tom Boswell. He had apparently given her a ride and was also funding the purchases. “Oh dad look,” she’d exclaim, “Souvenir toe tags! Can I get one dad?” “Sure honey,” he’d reply, “Go right ahead.” Coming from the east coast, I’d never actually seen a chipper goth kid before. She was all smiles. I was charmed. Even better, Teen Vampire had a doppelganger. A Hannah Montana type was there with her mother on an informational interview with the coroner’s investigator because that’s what Hannah wants to be when she grows up. “You never forget your first body,” the coroner’s investigator was saying. “I remember I had to identify the stomach contents: green beans and onions.” “Ew!” said Hannah, her mother and the Coroner in unison and all three wrinkled their noses.

It was without a doubt the most surreal and creepy vacation day I have ever had, beginning with the gallery of John Wayne Gacy clown paintings at the Museum of Death and ending with the purchase of souvenir insulated mugs that said “L.A. Coroner’s office. Stay cool!” on the side. I was in love. I moved here within the year.

I like to think of the zeitgeist here as “sunshine gothic.” Clearly, not everyone sees the city this way (or we’d have done that series for you), but from my perspective our happy decadence is one of our best qualities. This is the way the world ends–not with a bang but a party.

Get your scary on, Blogging.la readers, I have it on good authority this year’s Queen Mary Halloween event: Dark Harbor is the best yet, and we have tickets for you. Horror aficionados don’t need the explanation, but for the rest of you: each year, the Queen Mary gets transformed into a  fun, scary Halloween party? event? park? There are bands and food, and this year there are five apparently ridiculously scary mazes. Their site boasts “more than 45,000 scares per hour” courtesy of 160 monsters and 20-foot tall flames. (It’s sounds a little like a Burning Man afterparty if you’re sober, but I’m promised it’s even more scary than that.)

Tickets are regularly $35, discounted to $29 ($25 for students) for the next two weekends (Oct. 8-10, 15-17), but I’ve got two pairs of freebies for this Friday or Sunday if you can get your clever on and provide a caption for the photo below in the comments. Keep reading for details.

Click me twice to make me bigger

So leave your best/funniest caption  in the comments below, and don’t forget to supply an email address where I can reach you. Winners will be selected sometime after midnight (of course) Thursday night by a committee of two (me and a PR guy–now you’re really scared aren’t you?). Watch your email late Thursday night/early Friday morning. If you can’t make this weekend, they can raincheck your tickets for next Friday or Sunday.

Of course, if you plan to go, you should check out the website for all the details. I’m a blogger, not your mother. Go. Have fun.

[Also, if you want to hedge your bets, the Queen Mary is giving away tickets to the best caption for this pic. Tweet your caption to @TheQueenMary with the #DarkHarbor hashtag.]

Mira Shemeikka's Neon Indian photo used through Creative Commons

So how does chillwave sound around now, LA? Not bad right? Well I’ve got good news for you. I have an extra pair of tickets to see chillwave darlings, Neon Indian this Friday at the Music Box.

For the uninitiated, know that Rolling Stone named Neon Indian one of the seven best new bands of 2010, and Pitchfork called Psychic Chasm “one of the year’s [2009] most replayable albums.” Neon Indian is the brainchild of Alan Palomo who composes all of the music and is racking up quite a resume for a 21-year-old (see Ghosthustler or VEGA). Neon Indian will be joined by Prefuse 73 and Miniature Tigers on this tour.

Along with most others branded with the label, Palomo himself questions whether there’s even really such a thing as chillwave. Me, I can’t imagine a better way to beat the heatwave than going to this Friday’s show, imaginary genre or not. Wanna go? Tell me how much in the comments below, and one person will be drawn randomly by the end of the day Wednesday. Don’t forget to supply an email address when you comment so I know how to get in touch with you.

best. cake. ever.

First let it be known I am really more of a pie person than a cake person. I’ll take a slice of cherry pie or a fruit tart before a piece of cake almost any time, but whenever I find myself downtown and it’s before 11pm (Tu-Sa), I try to stop by the Nickel for the salt peanut chocolate cake. The Nickel, you may know, is notorious for its maple glazed bacon doughnut, and I mean no disrespect to that doughnut or to the awesome red velvet cake or homemade pop tarts or any of the other amazing eat-dessert-first offerings at the Nickel, but my heart belongs to the salt peanut chocolate cake. The love child of Betty Crocker and Elvis, this is the king of LA desserts. First you’ve got the cake itself, a good dense chocolate cake, and then you’ve got the peanut brittle peanuts crushed on top, but what really makes it is the peanut butter/cream filling with crushed up potato chips between the layers. Seriously, if I lived downtown someone would need to perform an intervention. I would become immense, and it would be the Nickel Diner’s fault.

So yes, we went to the fair, and yes, we had fried foods. My personal review: last year’s deep fried oreos surpassed this year’s deep fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Krispy Kreme jelly donut fried chicken sandwich. Yes, I ate those things. No I do not have documentary evidence. We didn’t go on any rides, which was probably wise given the belly full of artery-hardening is-it-food-or-is-it-a-science-experiment lunch. In fact, one of our party, a Derby Doll in training, had a broken ankle, so we maneuvered the fair with a wheelchair even. We did go to the carved ice museum in the shopping building, which was a disappointment in terms of the carving but almost worth it for the air conditioning.

So here are some photos and tips for you:

Take lots of pictures:

the fair has these photo op thingies everywhere

Pet the goats:

thanks to Noe for the goat picture

Cool off in the shopping area (yes I know I also supplied a picture of the Dodger casket in last year’s county fair post. It seemed to bear repeating):

Thanks to Andrea for this year's Dodger casket shot

Skip the bible stories for children (haven’t we all seen that horror movie? it doesn’t end well):

Bring a parasol or hat. It’s hot and sunny, and drink the lemonade from Hot Dog on a Stick (best lemonade ever):

Me and Andrea courtesy of Conor Horgan

Eat:

Turkey legs and porkchop on a stick by Conor Horgan

Eat some more:

Corndog on corndog action by Conor

Then eat some more:

another one of Conor's great shots

If you require food that isn’t a science experiment, check out the food trucks which are rumored to be parked by the midway (we did not see them but Twitter claims they’re there.

When you’re done with everything, spend a quarter for the silly foot massager seats. They are bone-rattlingly hilarious:

Chris, Devon, and Colin take a load off

kittyz202's photo used through Creative Commons License

Hello _____,

We invite you to join us! Celebrate Yom Kippur with Jerry’s Famous Deli. Our special holiday menu is perfect for the occasion. Bring your family. Bring your friends…and enjoy some great food!

To view this year’s menu, click here:
http://jerrysfamousdeli.com/holiday/

…and remember, Jerry’s Deli catering can make your Holiday planning so much easier. Give us a call and we’ll bring the food to you!

Jerry’s Famous Deli
Where Food and People Mix! 

Jerry’s Famous Deli – Guy’s North – Solley’s Deli

Mmm, mmm most delicious Yom Kippur ever!

Dear Customers of Jerrys Deli,

I wish to apologize for the mistake made by our marketing company in the recent email blast sent to you. As an Israeli and a Jew, I was very disappointed by this.

Our marketing company unfortunately sent an email blast without our input. The marketing company meant to serve us. However, they simply did not know what the holiday really represents and how it can offend those observing Yom Kippur / day of atonement.

I apologize on behalf of the company, its staff and the owners.
Ami Saffron
Executive Vice President Jerrys Deli

So much for getting goyem to do your marketing for you, Jerry’s. I think you may have just established yourself as our bad ad campaigns gold medalist. God help me, I know it’s a terrifically offensive gaffe in the eyes of the devout, but I’m laughing so hard I can hardly get this post up.

More in this series:

To a New World of Gods and Monsters

It’s a Thin Line Between Awesome and Awful

Grafittists, I Invite Thee

Some Things Shouldn’t Go Viral

Hard Wood Floors

Who’s the Creepy Guy?

(Thanks to Chris for the tip)

Kitters

Kitters and Woody have recently been orphaned. They have been the constant companions of a dear woman, Judi, who has lost her battle with Multiple Sclerosis. Blogging.la does sometimes try to find homes for various and sundry animals, and I’m hoping someone out there will want to adopt these sweet kittehs. As we all know, shelters are full of unwanted and abandoned cats!

Here’s what my friend Cammy says about these two love cats:

Woody

Kitters is the female calico.  She’s very shy and a bit skittish, we have to admit.  Maybe it is due to her ‘fight’ with a car about 6 years ago that cost kitty her tail.  Thankfully, that is all she lost, and other than missing her tail, to everyone’s knowledge, she is in fine health.  She’s about 8 years old, and is spayed.

Woody, the tuxedo male, is sort of the comic relief to Kitters, as he is very social, and quite the talker.  I think he told me once that he wouldn’t mind if he never saw the inside of another shelter, which is where he came from originally before being adopted by Judi.  He is also in good  health, neutered, and about 8 years old.

Both Kitters and Woody are indoor cats.  If it’s okay with their new people, they will be accompanied by a bit of baggage — two scratching posts and an electric cat box.

Thank you for any help you can offer in finding a new place for Kitters and Woody to live out their lives and share their love.

Contact Katherine :  misskates@mac.com

Can we come home with you?

bored-now's Broken Heart photo used through Creative Commons license

As promised I am posting my lament about the horror that is dating in Los Angeles. Let me first say for years I defended L.A. in this regard. Having dated in Washington, D.C. and Madison, Wisconsin, I felt like I had enough boots-on-the-ground experience to say with some limited authority: no, it’s not L.A. per se that sucks so much as dating in general. It’s like a job interview except you have to eat dinner and feel bad that your tits aren’t big enough. Sadly my job history is about a thousand times more impressive than my dating history (unless you’re using impressive in a general but not necessarily positive sense). Regardless, I’ve always defended this town as not necessarily any better or worse than anywhere else for dating, but lately I have had a string of dates that make me reconsider. Maybe what they say is true and this town is particularly difficult.

Experiences I have had on dates over the past few months include, but are not limited to: someone showing up 40 minutes late for dinner on a first (and last) date, someone asking me out and then telling me he doesn’t date because he needs to be friends with someone for years before getting romantically involved, someone canceling a second date because during the one-short-week since the first date he launched into a serious relationship with someone else, and the pièce de résistance, someone who went awol mid-date. This last deserves special mention as the worst date I have ever been on, which is, I might add, a hard contest to win. He excused himself twice to go to the men’s room and when he got up a third time, purportedly to fetch a credit card from the front counter where he accidentally left it, he never came back. My theory: he was actually married and his wife or one of her friends was at the cafe at the time; an alternative theory: he was doing bumps in the bathroom; or perhaps both of these things were true. In any case, even if you suddenly determine that you are totally and completely not into someone, it’s not that hard to say to her that your stomach got upset or you forgot you left the oven on or the neighbor called and your condo is on fire or something. You don’t just leave the table never to return. This behavior is odd in the extreme.

The above list represents a sampling of the dates I’ve been on relatively recently. Not all have been that reprehensible and there are several I don’t mention simply because discretion is the better part of good manners. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Travis must look like a gorgon or have bad breath or be boorish or laugh like Elmer Fudd sitting on a juicer. Really though, my fellow b.la-ers can vouch for me when I say I am awesome-ish. Sure I have my issues–don’t we all–but come on, I’m a size 4 and I have a Ph.D. that should count for something.

And lest I come off like I’m trying to bust someone’s chops, I want to clarify that most of the guys I have been out with lately have been reasonably nice guys (except for the douchebag who left mid-meal–if you are out there db I hope your wife finds out you’re cheating on her). Some have been really cool, and I’ve become friends with a few of them. This town is filled with interesting great people, I’m really clear about that. But really dating here is frightful. I concede.

one of Gronk's many amazing images for What Books Press

Wednesday night I had the good fortune to hear several What Books Press/Glass Table Collective writers read at the Wanted: Writers! series at the Rumor Mill. I’ve been meaning to send a shout out about the Rumor Mill for a while after meeting Joe Staats, the master of ceremonies in line to get books signed at the Central Library. This was the third time I’ve been to a Wanted: Writers! reading at the Rumor Mill and each time I leave entertained and feeling part of a community of writers and readers.

Last Wednesday’s reading was particularly special since Katherine Haake, Chuck Rosenthal, and Karen Kervorkian are all part of a collective of “poets and fiction writers, essayists, political activists, a painter, a film-maker [who] . . .  have come together to create, promote, and celebrate new books of literary writing and astounding art.”  The work read Wednesday ranged from tales of space aliens, poems constructed from the landscapes of New Mexico and Texas, and a romp of  a story featuring no less a protagonist than Robert Altman Sr.’s chicken (I would say cock, but that might give the wrong idea–it wasn’t *that* kind of reading). Gronk does all of the cover art for the press and has his own book, A Giant Claw.

For $70 you can subscribe for a year to What Books Press and receive new releases signed by the authors. You can expect to hear more from me about WBP and Wanted: Writers! in the future.

Snapped at Woodman and Ventura

This billboard sprang up just a few blocks from my house since I started this bad ad campaign mini-series of posts here at b.la and it almost feels like a plant. Every time I pass it I giggle to myself about hard wood floors. I am, I admit, lodged firmly in arrested adolescence. Retarded in the true sense of the word. Even so, it feels almost unsporting to pick on this billboard–like the jock beating up the fat kid on the playground: it’s just too easy. But of course, here I am.

Other posts in this series:
To A New World of Gods and Monsters
It’s a Thin Line Between “Awesome” and “Awful”
Graffitists, I Invite Thee
Some Things Shouldn’t Go Viral

Electra Receiving the Ashes of her Brother, Orestes, by Jean-Baptiste Joseph Wicar

Elektra is the third Greek drama I’ve been to see at the Getty Villa, and it’s the first I’ve been compelled to blog about. That should tell you something right there. I went to see a preview show Saturday night thanks to a belated birthday present from a dear friend, and I was so impressed I wanted to tell you all that you should go, but here’s the sad news–well, sad for you, good for the Getty and the troop–the show, which runs Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays through 2 October, is already sold out. So then I wasn’t going to write about it, because I didn’t want to irk folks like Frank, and I didn’t want to gloat-post (“Look what I did that you can’t do…”). But then I read that it’s not impossible that seats will become available and so I’m back to posting about it. Besides I’d really love to get a take on the performance from someone who knows more about translations and/or classical drama than I do (and I know precious little, so that’s a lot of someones).

So yeah, if you’ve heard that the Getty is putting up Sophocles’ Elektra what you’ve no doubt heard is that Olympia Dukakis plays the chorus, which is, somewhat oddly in this production, not really a chorus at all but more like Dukakis and a sidekick along with a cellist. And sure, that’s noteworthy. Who doesn’t like Olympia Dukakis? But the real star of this show is Timberlake Wertenbaker’s translation, which was commissioned specially for this performance. And here’s where my questions come in: at what point does a translation cease to be a translation and become, instead, an interpretation? It’s been about a thousand years since I read Elektra (really, I think I was in high school, which means it was not only a thousand years ago but also that I was extremely stoned, so I truly don’t remember any detail), but it did, to my muddled memory, seem like the translation followed the sense of the play throughout. The language was almost hyper-contemporary at times, however. By itself, that would have probably gotten under my skin eventually (I am generally averse to the dumbing-down of things), but throughout the performance, at the moments of most heightened drama, the actors launched into pure Greek. It was delightful. Wertenbaker completely won me over. And really, like Stephen Mitchell’s Tao, the translation, while contemporary sounding, was extraordinarily poetical in its own right. I was so impressed that, if Wertenbaker’s translation is published, I’ll probably purchase it and read it.

As one would expect from a performance at the Getty, the acting was spot-on throughout. The other unexpected (to me) aspect of the performance was the music (cello, light percussion, and another odd sort of found-object-looking instrument I can’t name for you). Theresa Wong, the cellist, and Bonfire Madigan Shive (hippy parents anyone?), the composer, deserved their own ovation post-performance. Things that worked less well for me were the costuming, which was just too modern for my tastes, in the men’s jacket’s in particular–really, a leather jacket and a linen sport coat?–and the chain link fence part of the set design. The latter is explained this way in the program:

In designing this production, we wrapped the Getty facade in security tape and chain-link fencing to evoke the protective barriers Clytemnestra herself might have erected to defend against acts of reprisal. We are, of course, sadly accustomed today to the sight of public buildings becoming bunkers against possible “terrorist” attacks, and we are certainly accustomed to repetitive cycles of violence. Perhaps this is the real fascination of revisiting Greek drama: it is an occasion to look at our own experience through the unblinking lens of great tragedy.

I’d say, no, in fact, that’s not what the fascination is for me, nor do I expect that’s what draws most people. I could have just as well done without the chain link and leather jackets and amateurish references to terrorism, honestly. If I’m going to seek out a parable of some kind for our war against terror, Elektra wouldn’t be it.

A few days ago a friend, who knows about my aversion to bad ad campaigns sent me this picture in case it was blog-worthy:

And then this morning I saw this on another friend’s Facebook uploads:

So yes, it seems that Sony has been successful getting attention for their forthcoming movie, The Virginity Hit. According to KTLA, more than 70,000 people called the toll-free number in the first five days the billboards and bus posters went up (please, let us hope they were just curious and not actually looking to cure their virginal malady). In that respect, it’s probably a really “good” ad campaign, just an annoying one. But this second picture was snapped in front of the Children’s Hospital, and I think placement alone earns it a spot in the bad ad campaign hall of fame.

Labor Day weekend looms, and you know what that means? That means it’s time for the LA County Fair. Regular readers may know I am a huge fan of the county fair. I LOVE THE COUNTY FAIR!!!! Really. I just logged on and bought ten tickets for me and nine of my closest friends because truly there are few ways I’d rather spend a free Sunday than eating fried Oreos, browsing infommercial gear, and petting baby goats. In anticipation of the upcoming fair season, I offer you some photo highlights from last year’s L.A. County Fair (thank you Colin).

At the fair, you’ll find:

llamas you can pet

bacon!

giant reanimated pizza slices

rides

educational opportunities

lots of terrifying air brush art

let's zoom in on that

AND

stuff to buy!

Look for a full report after this year’s visit. Yay for the fair!