check it out at www.wander-fest.com

I might be in love with all of last Monday night.  Headed over to the launch party for the 35th issue of McSweeney’s, which was jointly hosted by the Echo Park Time Travel Mart (aka 826LA)& bookstore/cafe Stories.  All night long, the hits just kept on coming.
1. The general 826 concept is a quirky store out front (fun and fundraising) and a space for the free kid’s writing workshops and tutoring in back.  Both made me happy. Up front, there was a case of giant eggs (dinosaur?) and a candy jar labeled as “opposable thumbs.”  The educational area was just about the hippest classroom/library I’ve see, more like a coffeeshop I would just want to hang out in.  Made me consider trying to pass for 16 to sneak into some of these classes. After all, I need help writing and I have recently been carded at R movies.

2.  The event was on the adjoining patios of 826LA and Stories.  Beer sales went towards the classes.  Yes, drinking helps children learn to write.

3.  Local band He’s My Brother, She’s My Sister played 2 fun & folksy sets.  The band name is true, and refers to the joint lead singers.  The sister is in short shorts and a beret-like hat.  The brother has impressive side burns and a western shirt.  Why are family bands so appealing?

4.  Also there is a cellist and the percussion is a chick in tap shoes.  Some may say gimmicky, I say amazing.

5.  And they did a cover of the Ace of Base classic “All that she wants.”  

 7.  When it was all over, I browsed the bookstore - a sort of ramshackle, friendly mix of new and used, classics, bestsellers, and independent local publishers.  I left with a $4 copy of the YA classic The Giver.

All in all 7 wins for Echo Park.  Which of course manifested itself in a round of fantasy Echo Park apartment hunting via craigslist.  Magic magic Monday!

The Saban Theater is one of those awesome Art Deco theaters I am so happy hasn’t been torn down yet.  And a place I’ve been driving by for years without any idea what goes on inside.  Independent film?  Children’s puppet shows?  Miss Philippines Pageants?  Located in an awkward stretch of Wilshire that isn’t quite Miracle Mile and is technically (and weirdly) a part of Beverly Hills, it really could be anything.

Last Friday I finally made it to the Saban to check out the Grand Slam Poetry Finals, part of the Brave New Voices festival that airs on HBO.  I’m not exactly a big fan of spoken word or poetry, but in the name of trying new things I agreed to tagalong with a more cultured friend.  We arrived to find an impressive line stretching down a block and a half, mostly giddy teenagers with a splash of middle-aged poetry stereotypes (wild graying beards, wearing mostly black). And since this is LA, I’m sure some of the line was just there because Common and Rosario Dawson were hosting.

So how was it?   The theater lived up to my Art Deco hopes with its ridiculously ornate silver frame around the stage – which the internet tells me is called a “proscenium” – and intense plaster detailing.  The poetry was a mixed bag.  There were parts that really rubbed me the wrong way and reaffirmed why I have avoided spoken word.  Namely: the overblown fire hydrant of emotion, tangled metaphors that confused more than enlightened, and theatrical arm movements.  On the plus side, there was barely any snapping in the audience, and I’m pretty sure the little I heard was a joke.  But I have to admit that some of the performances really shook me, mostly when the poems focused closer to themselves and not the bigger world problems (Iraq, the evils of consumerism, the planet).  There were some really heartbreaking performances about a “picture perfect” family and brutal mother-daughter relationships.  From those moments, I have a (slightly grudging) newfound respect for poetry…not to mention these insanely impassioned teenagers. Like the work or not, these are some intense and brave people.

So thanks, Saban Theater, for hosting my introduction to slam poetry…and giving me the chance to see Common freestyle during some kind of technical mishap.  I think it’s time to give poetry a second chance and to hunt down some more surprising events in the old time LA theaters. 

Another surprise from LA.  Under just the right circumstances, hipsters and young families and Crocs wearing retirees will happily come together very early on a June Gloom Saturday.   The location:  the Milagro Allegro community garden, in the rough-around-the-edges neighborhood of Highland Park. Why?  To attend a free workshop about composting. 

I'll admit it was a bit of an awkwardly diverse scene, but the shared garden nerdiness made it all work.  What can I say, there's nothing like the allure of learning about composting(!) to bring different sorts of people together.  So we all sat around on hay covered rock walls and camping chairs, enthralled by the flip chart presentation about compost bins, worms, and water wise gardening.  We asked questions.  We took copious notes. We gladly filled out a survey.  We put money into the donation box.  And at the end we all scattered around the garden plots to exclaim over extra large sunflowers and propped up pumpkins.  How sweet.  And all at a time when most of Los Angeles was viciously hungover or asleep.

It was a striking reminder of how urban gardening is really broadening in appeal (thanks Michelle Obama) and more proof of the key lesson for me in LA.  There are so many random little events happening at any given time.  But a lot of the time you'll end up taking atleast 2 freeways to find the ones that are interesting to you. 

I have rarely met a festival I didn’t like.  (With the notable exception of the Precious Cheese fest in Hollywood.  All I’ll say is that name is a LIE.)  Knowing the Silver Lake Jubilee would have live local bands & hyped up food trucks on a springtime Sunday, I had to check it out.  Plus, added points for giving me an excuse to say and write an underused, fantastic word like jubilee. 

Overall The Jubilee was lovely and relaxing, not too big and not too small.  The sort of mellow scene where people just plopped on the sidewalks to eat or listen to the bands or watch people square dance or read poetry or get their palm read (seriously).  The crowd was more diverse in age and ethnicity and subcultures than I was expecting -- perhaps a sign that Silver Lake is rocking it through the growing pains of gentrification?  But then again, a sizable percentage of the crowd was wearing stick on mustaches purchased from one of the booths...  

Based on two signs from the day, I’ve decided to expect great things from LA this summer.  Sign #1: Fallenfruit.org gave away free tomato seedlings.  And one week later mine is still alive in its new pot from the dollar store!  Sign #2:  Finally tasted the much discussed kimchi fries from the Frysmith truck. New American + KBBQ + the LA food truck craze…it's so LA and it totally works. 

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Silver_Lake_Jubilee_Santa_Moni.zip (9.02 MB)

Ventured into the legendary canyon of hippies, musicians, artists and probably some cults.   No sightings of those.  But in its place found a hike w/ a view of more than LA smog.  As in the unimaginative planned neighborhoods of Pacific Palisades (implying the Palisades is the Orange County of LA).  And wild flowers.  And the ocean.  And trees and meadows I can imagine happy/crazy hermits living in.  And mountain bikers w/ enormous thighs.  And lizards with their tails missing.

...And this beemer.  Topanga Canyon = the intersection of Hippies & Money

Clearly, more exploration needed.

The epitome of creepiness in a planned community

A classic Saturday afternoon: my apartment is too messy to hang out in, so I’ve run away in search of a less distracting place to read in.  I’ve already had a couple of sad LA moments spoiling my plans.  Lines too long. Parking unavailable.  Unruly pedestrians.  So when I see an empty looking tea shop with the promise of non-metered parking, I have to go for it.

It’s called T Salon.  It’s new to LA but has 20+ years of history in New York.  It is all things cute.  As we would say in my line of work, it is impeccably on brand.  A huge wall of loose teas in cool metal canisters.  Eastern religion coffee table books.  Light fixtures and art made of recycled tea bags.  An array of vegan baked goods.  Method soap in the bathroom.  Biodegradable utensils.

I’m new to Team Tea. (But I refuse to stop playing for Team Coffee on a more regular basis.) I have come to terms with tea’s old cat lady connotations.  I have invested in an adorable yellow tea kettle.  Tea is no longer just for when I’m sick or a rare rainy day.  Tea time is: a gentler morning wake up, post-meal relaxation, and creative productivity.  Yaaaaay tea!

But even considering my newfound tea interest, I am surprised that I am able to stay at this place for several hours.  It’s further (disturbing) evidence that LA has snuck into my consciousness and managed to change me a little these past couple years.  The staff here - god love ‘em - treats their tea like high end marijuana or wine.  They offer suggestions, scoop out little mounds for you to smell, and describe the ingredients and benefits in loving, New-Agey detail. And when they turn around, I realize that the back of their T-shirt is emblazoned with a quote from the T Salon founder: “Allow tea to elevate your spirit.”

That should activate my West Coast gag reflex like crazy.  I should be running out the door and going to 7-11 for a Slurpee or something. But somehow I am ok with this - the use of the word spirit in an earnest fashion.  Oh my… 

And then there’s the other people around.  To my left, two late thirties guys are having an intense life catch up.  Topics range from:  their past and present careers (writer, actor, musician, architect, family therapist), Buddhism, and women.  They say things like “own your sadness,” “being purpose driven,” and “sensitivity to the energies that do exist.”  (Yes, of course I was taking notes while pretending to be writing something else.)

Hmmm.  T Salon, I like you, but I don't like that I like you.  Maybe tea is the real gateway drug...

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Venice_Beach_Lincoln-Abbot_Kin.zip (11.34 MB)

Over the holidays I was a superfluous house sitter in Venice.  Didn’t care for pets or plants.  I was just there to hang out in a nicer house and enjoy a rare LA treat: a walkable neighborhood.  So here are a few highlights from a day of Venice walking.

1) Lunch and coffee on Abbot Kinney

This is familiar territory.  A place of after-work adventures and ex-hair stylists and former spinning classes and window shopped boutiques.  One of the first places in LA that felt comfortable.  A manageable little piece of LA that I could hold in my hand, that held my hand back.

The mix on Abbott Kinney is a wonderful example of gentrification: 2 parts Whole Foods scene, 1 part vintage Venice grit.  Outside Abbot’s Habit there is an elegant family of French tourists and expensively tousled hippie-chic girls.  Beagle-pomererian puppies and Bugaboo strollers. But there is also a 40-something guy playing acoustic guitar outside the coffee shop for all and none to hear.  And there is the back-of-my-mind memory that there was a shooting in front of the wine bar last year.  Hmmm…  

2) Aimless strolling around the neighborhood with my camera

I’m taking the sort of photos that are destined for deletion, distractedly walking and stopping and fiddling with equipment.  And in my photo haze I end up walking myself to Venice Beach boardwalk… ugh.  Where I’ve dutifully taken out of town visitors to marvel at the rollerbladers and the medical marijuana dispensaries, the graffiti and the tiny paddle tennis courts. 

As one passerby puts it, “this place has always given me the heebie-jeebies (sp?)”  Case in point is a tanned, barefoot, teenage girl, sitting cross-legged with a wide smile and gleam in her eye.  So of the boardwalk.  Vaguely altered state of mind (drugs, drink or her own brand of crazy?)  Mischevious.  Grungy but seems to be by choice.  Homeless or just having an adventure for the day?  And so ready to be stared at.

3.  Boardwalk

Flowing along the herd of the tourists, one of the performers catches my eye. He’s a small, scruffy white guy playing something between a ukelele and a guitar.  A trio of signs in front of him tells me that

a) he will recite poetry if asked

b) he’s raising money for a bus to San Diego ($13 to go)

c) he’s a hobosexual (whatever that means…)

Needless to say, I stop. A rotund, shiny & shirtless Latino man and his kids are standing in front of him. I am not sure if the body odor comes from him or Mr Hobosexual.  They’ve given him a couple bucks and he launches into a poem.  It’s about a lesbian in San Francisco that he fell in love with.  And surprisingly, it’s good.  (Unlike most poetry I’ve encountered, it doesn’t make me shrink away or avoid eye contact or sing songs in my head.  A good and rare thing.)

I drop in some change and ask him where he’s been.  He starts answering me in his booming performance voice “oh where haven’t I been, little lady!”  Then something switches and he starts talking to me like a person.  He tells me he’s been on the road for 8 months, up and down the west coast.  Hitchiking and ride sharing via Craigslist.  Up close he seems smaller, younger, a possible version of many of my friends if they got up the nerve.  I ask him about hitchhiking – especially for a girl.  He doesn’t recommend – he’s had to jump out of cars for being a little too appealing to the driver.  “You’d be surprised how many drivers just love a little white boy like me.”  But it’s ok, he’s going to start catching trains soon.  He’s packing up his backpack, off to meet a friend.  He introduces himself – John – and shakes my hand.  We both move on.

We are aiming for a very LA Sunday.  We have camped out at a Hollywood coffee shop in hopes that the proximity to turbo aspiring screenwriters and passionate artistic types will help us do some “serious writing.”  It is winter, after all.  I have faith in contagion.

On first impression, Sabor y Cultura is pleasantly spacious and invitingly friendly.  Surprisingly, decidedly not too cool. (The walls remind me of mid 90s kids’ bedrooms.  Bright orange and purple and yellow – SPONGE PAINTED.)  I have been to other LA coffee shops that are intimidating.  Where I felt like my creative creds were not quite up to par, even to order a latte to-go.  Where people look up when you walk in, with appraising stares and hungry eyes.  I suspect they are hoping something in your looks will inspire a character.  But today we have the correct props.  Flimsy LA scarf.  Macbook.  Moleskine notebooks.  Digital SLR camera.  We are going native.

I prefer my laptop to live up to its name -  to be atop my lap.  Conveniently this makes for a better people watching angle, but unfortunately the scene is not living up to my Hollywood expectations.  There are lots of laptops but not much "serious writing."  Not many tortured souls who look like they haven’t slept in weeks.  Not much shop talk.  Instead, there are a few people skyping.  A healthy dose of facebooking.  Both ends of the educational spectrum (paper grading and studying). Sporadic reading and typing.  And some who are really here for coffee and conversation.  It is just a regular indie coffee shop. 

But even without those inspiring Hollywood writerly figures, the coffee shop peer pressure is working more than I expected. I’ve always been the type who tried to shut myself away when I want to work.  Extreme un-fun work time, which makes me compensate with major detours that ruin me (watching Elf, making a sandwich I'm not hungry for, endless loops between Gmail and Etsy.)  But the coffee shop gives me the perfect degree of distraction to keep me moving.  There’s just enough overheard chatter and barista clattering to fill my lulls in thinking and doing, but not enough to completely capture my attention for good.

I'm finally catching on to what everyone else already knows about coffee shops.  They pull off a pretty neat trick - making solitary work feel like passively social fun.  I'm not slaving away alone.  We are all reading and writing and clicking and staring together, so it's ok.  So I don't feel oppressed by my blank new Word doc.  And I don't feel alone with an agonizing to-do list.  But no, I really don't want to talk to anyone.  Passively social is just fine with me.