Back in New York...

Last week I traveled back to the motherland.   I strolled through the West Village, up and down Bleeker Street as I'd done so many times before when I called the city my home.  I gazed into the Cynthia Rowley shop window and lamented the boarded doors of the corner book store across from Magnolia Bakery.  Will there come a day when city blocks full of niche shops simply cease to exist?  Where will the Sex in the City tour buses reroute through?

I met friends with new babies for lunch at Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue, where the waitress shook her head from side to side while simultaneously blowing air through her lips whenever we chose a dish that didn't meet her standards.  By the end of the interaction, she had ordered all three of our meals plus appetizers.  We enjoyed every bite.  Eggplant Parmesan for lunch- now that's New York!   

Perhaps the most quintessentially New York part of my brief stay was the run I ventured out on the morning after my arrival.  I had arranged to meet my friend Lindsey, a native NY actress forced to declare her primary residency in Los Angeles so that she might enjoy a future that included food, for an early morning run and an iced coffee- a favorite Big Apple activity.  The hundred plus degree, excessively moist weather meant the only livable outdoor hours were before 10am.

I met Lindsey on the corner of Hudson and Bleeker, and off we went toward the West Side Highway running path.  As we made our way downtown along the river, through the pathways lined with tall reeds and dark green brush, we chatted happily about Lindsey's new love and the energy of a New York summer.  God, it was so good to be back, even with heat so high you felt like you were in a frying pan.  We came upon a series of nearly empty benches, it was Friday morning and most people were toiling away at work.  We split the benches and continued our happy chat.  A lone woman sat reading at the far end.  As we approached, her gaze drifted up to meet mine and she suddenly burst out, "Stop talking!  Stop talking!  Shut up!"  Odd?  Yes.  But somehow comforting.

This next interaction was the exact opposite of comforting.  We rounded the corner and saw a woman, who resembled the SNL character Pat, staring at us from a distance.  She proceeded to reach her hand into her pants.  Ummmmm, was she doing what I think she was doing?  Yup.  Odd and extremely unsettling, yet unfortunately still typical.

After that, we picked up the pace, sprinting ahead to the most familiar place we West Villagers know, the coffee shop.  Once there, we noticed that the new shop took only cash.  Products of our increasingly electronic environment, we had bank cards.  Yet, in a New York twist, the owner and barista gave us the iced coffees on the house.  Now that's comforting and very typical of my beloved NYC and its people.

On our way home while crossing the West Side Highway to return to our respective temporary West Village abodes, we encountered an angry soccer mom clearly not used to driving in the city behind the wheel of her minivan.  She had ignored the 8 foot wide crosswalk and decided to stop her car clear across our path.  Like the benches, we split it and I walked behind the van.  Bad idea.  She started backing up without checking her rear view mirror.  Why would you when you're driving in a city where pedestrians outnumber passengers 4 to 1?  In an effort to save her friend (me), Lindsey yelled "Watch where you're going!  You almost hit my friend!"  To which, the soccer mom replied, "No, you better watch where you're going!"  And then, all hell broke loose and we were in the middle of a New York brawl with a soccer mom (yes, her kids were in the back seat).  

As we walked away,  I thought to myself, "ah, it's good to be back..."  

All the Single Ladies, All the Single Ladies! Go Go Go...to the Grocery Store??

LA DATING RULE:  Add "boyfriend" to your grocery list next time you are heading to the market.

If I have said it once, I'll say it again and again until all the Westside single ladies get the message.  WHOLE FOODS on Lincoln Boulevard in Venice Beach is the place to meet Angeleno guys who are grounded enough to actually enter a grocery store in the first place.

NOTE:  The grounded male is a rare species in this part of the world.  If you are lucky enough to find one, handle with care.  He should be kept away from all things Hollywood if possible.  By inhabiting a domicile near a large body of water, in this case the Pacific Ocean, he is exposed to the more physically-active and, curiously, virtuous breeds of Angeleno men.  Do NOT under any circumstances allow him to socialize on a consistent basis with those male breeds that gravitate to the Sunset Strip in North Hollywood.  Many a grounded male has been lost, never to be seen again in that neighborhood.

Heed my advice ladies, throw on a cute sundress and head over to Whole Foods in Venice Beach as much as possible this summer.  My hairdresser has met her last 3 boyfriends there.  (She has a problem with commitment, which is another post entirely).  I promise the crowd is better than the one you'll meet bar-hopping on Abbot Kinney.  And it is light years ahead of the meat-markets in New York City's meat-packing district- my previous stomping ground.  You may have to contend with the pushy non-profit reps at every entrance and exit as well as the well-dressed homeless fellows who chill at the outdoor tables, but it'll all be worth it after you meet Mr. Adorable.

Just yesterday, I was picking up an early dinner before yoga class and while perusing the ice cream section (I see the irony), a sweet blond surfer type commented on the selection.  He was funny, I laughed, and then he went on his way.  I didn't think anything of it.

Until I arrived at the organic frozen dinner section and the blond surfer reappeared at my side.  With an endearing touch of nerves in his voice, he started "I would have kicked myself if I left without saying something.  You have a great energy about you.  Do you have a boyfriend?"  For the east coasters reading, when spoken by an Angeleno of the opposite sex "you have great energy" translates directly to "I would like to bone you, if you are into it."  As a happily spoken for woman, I replied, "Yes I have a boyfriend, but you made my day.  I'm flattered.  Thank you."

Now, I have to admit that I had my sh*t going on.  I was coming right from an audition so I had on full makeup- including mascara- which I normally skip, a short sundress, and curled hair, which is a far, far cry from how I normally look while perusing the grocery aisles.  Normal attire consists of post-yoga sweaty, unbrushed hair situated on the top of my head in an unruly bun, drenched sports bra and tank, yoga pants, and Rainbow flip-flops.  Guess how many times I've been approached in that outfit...

ZERO.

Moral of the story:  Know the game, love the game, and get your butt to that Whole Foods!  I promise better results than Match.com or any other grocery store in LA or NYC for that matter. 

Feel free to post any success stories in the comments section!

I Climbed Through My Trunk to Get into My Car This Week

Car Keys are illusive.  One minute they're here and the next they're locked in your car under the floor mat.  I'll never understand it.  And I never needed to until I moved from NYC, the mecca of public transportation, to LA, the mecca of isolated, sometimes dangerously depressing transportation.  The streets are a sea of lone drivers in a city where "car-pooling" is a dirty word.

Prior to becoming a card-carrying member of AAA, I paid someone to break into my car on at least three different occasions.  And I have no doubt that I'm selectively forgetting more than a few other unsavory situations.  The first incident that I recall occurred at a meter off Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.  Luckily and very improbably, a tow truck drove by at precisely the same moment I kicked my tire out of sheer frustration.  For that perceptive driver, opportunity knocked.  The second time was outside of my own home.  Did I mention I don't have a spare key?  Well, I don't.  On the third occasion, I was running late to a conference.  I stopped to grab a quick coffee and voila, the car key slid off of my key chain and into the drivers seat which I had occupied only seconds before.  Alas, I was left outside of the car holding a silver key ring which carried only my house keys.  How? 

Now, I have AAA.  They're like my own personal superhero.  When I'm in trouble, I call them.

Still no spare key though.

The most recent example of AAA heroism happened just this week.  I was heading back to Santa Monica from Culver City when I noticed that my gas tank was showing one lonely glowing bar of fuel.  I decided to fill up at the Shell Station located at the busy intersection of Overland and Venice Boulevards, a few hundred yards from SONY Studios and Culver City's business district.  Light on my feet from the lingering adrenaline rush brought on by the productive meeting just a few minutes earlier, I popped out of my car and swung the door closed.  With a sprightly hop, I inserted my credit card, lifted the gas pump and pulled the lever.  Filling initiated, I began mindlessly chatting with the older gentlemen at the pump next to mine, who looked and talked a lot like Martin Scorsese.

Upon noticing that his vehicle was in fact a tow truck, a sinking feeling swallowed me whole.  What were the chances?  And better yet, where were my keys?  I dug into my pockets only to discover...

Lint.

Ugh!

Peering through the window, I caught site of my keys in the center console hiding stealthily next to my mobile phone and the wallet containing my AAA membership card.  I forced a bewildered yet flirty grin and approached the gas station attendant who was locked securely within a booth of bullet-proof and sound-proof glass.  Expecting to bat my lashes, explain the situation, and receive a hearty chuckle and HELP in return from the man in the glass box, I began confessing my plight.

To my utter surprise, he pointed out loudly (but muffled due to the glass) with clear irritation in his tone that I was blocking other cars from using gas pump #7 and just how busy his station was at lunch time on a weekday.  He gestured to the line of cars now building behind my own and pushed a cordless phone through the metal slot which connected him to his customers, waving his arm in an effort to will me to hurry up.  Without adjusting his voice as it clearly presented his state of mind, he started reciting extra-slowly for my benefit AAA's phone number, shaking his head all the while.

After being assured that AAA would be there in under 30 minutes, I noticed that Martin Scorsese- tow truck operator- and a gaggle of other older gentlemen without much else to do besides mill around a busy gas station at lunch time on a weekday were now gazing into the windows of my Honda assessing my dilemma and discussing various rescue options, none of which involved waiting for AAA.  As I got closer, Scorsese pulled from his truck a gadget that I had seen many times before, the infamous balloon pump and accompanying 3 foot wire featuring a jerry-rigged hook used to fish for keys.  Before I had time to protest, he placed the balloon between the car door and my poor Honda's already scratched body (evidence of previous fishing expeditions) and pumped.  A crevice half an inch wide was revealed.  As Scorsese started poking his wire around in my car, one of his cohorts began whispering in my ear a continuous monologue of reasons why this was a bad idea, "He's gonna ruin your car.  I'd wait for AAA.  Doesn't look like he knows what he's doing..."  After ten minutes of breath-holding and car-scratching, it was determined that due to the key's location in the center console fishing had to be abandoned. 

It was time to go in through the trunk, a strategy employed by many in the grand theft auto field.  In fact, I can now proudly say that I am fully capable of stealing a car should the situation call for it.  Add that to the list of things that didn't kill be but made me stronger!  After another ten minutes of Martin Scorsese's wire prodding around the front seat of my poor car for a motley audience of five who would gasp at his near misses, he finally manuevered the hook around the release and popped the trunk.  A round of applause ensued.  The attendant in the sound proof booth shouted something inaudible and waved his hands summoning me to get a move on.  Where was AAA?

With the trunk now open, it was my time to shine.  I pulled the handle that released the back seat, shimmied into the trunk (an extremely nerve-racking experience for someone who is claustrophobic) and crawled through the length of my Honda all Tom Cruise MI4 style.  Heaving myself into the drivers seat, I unlocked the doors and reemerged into the cool Culver City air displaying my keys proudly above my head for the five sixty-five and older men as well as that nasty gas station attendant to see.

None of whom were watching, other than Martin Scorsese- tow truck operator.  I thanked him profusely, got in my car, and drove home passing the AAA truck on the way.           

Mikey's Hug Deli Open THIS WEEKEND!

I got an email this morning from the Hug Deli.  It's baaaaaaaack....

Don't waste time debating it, just get your ass over there and check it out.  Everybody needs a hug once in awhile, even you.

MIKEY'S HUG DELI *THIS SATURDAY*
We proudly accept high-5s and fist bumps!
Fresh baked "Choc Chip Cookie Hugs" (while supplies last)!

SATURDAY, MARCH 13TH FROM 10AM to 5PM

DIREX:  From the 10W, Exit 4th Street, Turn left off Exit, Right on Pico, Left on Ocean (becomes Barnard Way) until you reach Hollister.  South of Shutters Hotel and the Pier.  Look for the yellow "Mikey's Hug Deli" booth on the sand near lifeguard station #24.

PARKING:  Metered parking, $2 public lot #5 for 2 hour parking; all day parking lot for $7. 

WHAT THE HECK:  "Mikey's Hug Deli" is an interactive art installation where peeps walk up to the counter, ring the bell, and order "hugs" from the "Hug Ambassador" behind the counter.  the menu includes "gangsta hugs", "group hugs", "bear hugs", and the infamous "long, uncomfortable hug", not to mention daily hug specials! 
it's only up every couple of months, so ya gotta hug while you can!

PRICE IS RIGHT:  Each hug "costs" 2 compliments.  NO MONEY!!

WHO DO I HUG:  fun peeps like YOU, friends, family, surfers, celebs, puppies, etc.

HUGGING STRANGERS?:  you can hug whoever you want!  the price is right! 

LET'S HUG IT OUT! 

How to Throw One Liners in LA

Rule #1:  Get CREATIVE!

Men here are...different.  And I like it!  They are, for the most part, near opposite from the investment bankers, traders, and conglomerate advertising guys who flock to the Big Apple.  LA guys are writers, actors, producers, niche advertising gurus, web entrepreneurs, studio execs (New York I-bankers cloaked in liberal beliefs), film editors, film/music video/commercial directors, animators, the list goes on...  We may be on the Left Coast but these guys definitely think, in large part, with their right brain.  So, it stands to reason that their pick-up lines will reflect accordingly.  And they do.  I speak from almost two years of experience.

Case in Point:  Just last week, a sweet, somewhat shy gent with icy blue eyes and jet-black hair who could have been the love child of Courtney Cox and Steve Buscemi (think about that for a moment) slouched over to me at a local bar- most likely on a bet- looking hesitantly determined to complete his mission.  He opened his black military style jacket and revealed an actual solid steel combination lock, much like the one pictured above.  It measured a whopping 6 inches in diameter.  No joke.  This thing belonged on the door of a bank safe, not hovering above this impish man's heart.  His goal in sight, he proceeded without a lick of confidence, "I think you may know the combination?"  Perhaps phrased as a statement his tactic would have been met with a better reception.  But it wasn't.

Now, I've heard variations of that cliche approach thrown around before both sarcastically and in earnest... but to Mr. Combination's credit, nobody has ever included a PROP in their performance of that particular one-liner until now.  To me, it showed real innovation and thus deserved some credit.  We chatted for a bit and I decided to bite for what I imagined was the second part of his bet.  He requested that I go over to his friend and ask for an autograph.  You see, the friend looked strikingly similar to James Cameron.  In fact, I thought he was James Cameron.  So, I did the love child of Cox/Buscemi one better.  I strutted over to the James Cameron doppelganger, opened my arms wide and proclaimed in mock tone, "I'm the KING OF THE WORLD!"

When approached creatively, one must respond accordingly.     

Not So Much the Hello Deli, as the HUG DELI

 Swap roast beef, swiss cheese, and potato chips for hugs, kisses, and a side order of compliments, and you've got MIKEY'S HUG DELI.  I stumbled upon it while out for a power walk on the Santa Monica Strand with a friend and in desperate need of a boost to fight off an oncoming attack of the low blood sugar gremlins that was threatening to take me into crankyville as it so often does.  Instead of the orange juice I craved, my expectations were met with a joker-sized smile from a dark haired stranger behind the counter and the realization that this hot dog stand dispensed emotional validation rather than actual physical food as the term deli might suggest (to 100% of the population).   

It works like this:

You and someone you love play the role of deli counter clerk and customer.  The customer tells the clerk exactly what he or she would like and it is the clerk's job to deliver.

You:  How can I help you?

Friend:  I would like a pat on the back.

You:  Comin' right up!

Friend:  And I want a side of emotional security, please.

You:  What's that now?

Friend:  A side of emotional security.

You:  Can you be more specific?

Friend:  You should know what that means.

You:  Not really...  (Give friend a hug)

Friend:  That's not what I meant.

You:  Okay.  You're a really great friend.

Friend:  Getting closer.

You:  This isn't PASSWORD.

Friend:  Try!

You:  I'll always have your back?

Friend:  Thank you very much.

Innovative idea.  Of course, it could only work in LA...  

Heed My Warning: What in NY is Considered Helpful, in LA might be Considered...well, OFFENSIVE

It rained in So Cal today, which was a blessing because I finally didn't feel obligated to "enjoy the weather" and was able to knock a few items off my ever-expanding TO DO list.  The usual blaring rays of sunlight yielded to storm clouds and downpours; it felt like home.  Upon seeing an opening, I made a break for it straight away.   There are only so many consecutive sunny days this New York Transplant can take before I am rendered completely unable to do work.  Rain, rain, come my way!  But don't stay longer than a week please.  ; )

My second stop of the day, following a trip to Walgreen's to have passport photos taken, was Marshalls, where my mission was simple- curtain rods.  However, no mission is simple in 10,000 square feet of post holiday, heavily reduced loot.  It was near impossible to keep my eyes on the prize; what with those red Adidas yoga pants I desperately needed, not to mention that adorable, plaid C&C button-down I missed out on a few weeks ago during a Gilt Group on-line auction that was now staring me in the face.  (If you don't know what Gilt is, I suggest googling it and signing up immediately.  The woman who founded it is a genius.)

I blacked out and came to in the pajama aisle.  Rita Wilson was on Oprah just last week proclaiming that every woman in America needed a few new sets of PJs to start the year off right.  And not only is this the beginning of a new year, but also a new decade.  Thus, it stands to reason that it is exponentially more important to get the new PJ thing taken care of ASAP.  As I began perusing the Jones New York nightgown offerings, I happened to overhear a small disagreement between a couple in the adjacent lingerie aisle about who I now believe to be was his daughter's bra size.  Apparently, the woman was making a purchase on behalf of her step-daughter, who was claiming via the mobile device attached to the man's ear to be a 34C.  However, the woman couldn't wrap her head around this bit of information, because as she said, "I am a 38B and I'm much bigger than she is."  She kept repeating, "My cup size is bigger than hers.  She can't be a 34C" going on to ask the man, "Look, don't you think I'm bigger?"  The man, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of comparing his woman's chest size to that of his daughter, replied consistently with only an embarrassed chuckle.

Now, being a 34C myself, I know how misleading the "C" part of the measurement is.  Although the cup size "C" is in theory greater than cup size "B", a 38B actually trumps a 34C, a fact that would surprise most people.  Also a fact that this woman did not yet understand.  As a New Yorker, I couldn't help but want to butt in.  I didn't.  At first...

By the time I made my way over, half an hour later, to the stacks of rugs which lined the other side of the lingerie aisle, the couple's debate was no closer to a conclusion and my desire to intervene had reached full-blown obsession status.  It was so simple!  And I had the answer to their conundrum!  The way Angelenos feel obligated to take advantage of the sun by participating in an assortment of healthy outdoor activities is the same way that New Yorkers feel obligated to butt in and straighten out someone who is unknowingly spouting a load of malarchy.  The couple's problem had become my problem.  How could I pick out a rug when their solution lay locked inside my already over-crowded head?  After much internal strife, I decided go the way of the Angeleno- isolation- and stay out of it.

Until, the woman said, "I'm getting her the 34B."

NO!  I immediately leaped into action, allowing my inner New Yorker to take the reigns after lying dormant for months.  "Look" I started, "I have to tell you something.  I'm a 34C."  My Angeleno self was now curled up in a ball on the floor.  "And you clearly have bigger boobs," I continued gesturing to the woman's chest. "It's a mystery to me too, but a 38B is actually larger than a 34C."  At this point I could have stopped.  I should have stopped.  Not just because I had already dispensed what valuable information I had, but also because the woman was obviously in a state of shock.  I marched on. "Do you want me to show you?"  Without waiting for her answer, I was unbuttoning the front of my rain coat and pushing my scarf aside to display my 34C measurements proudly for both her and her man who was standing a few feet away.  Problem solved!  Mission accomplished!

I could have sworn I was here on another mission...

By the grace of God, something, perhaps my Angeleno self tugging at my pant leg, or a sense that I had humiliated this woman in front of her significant other, stopped me.  "Sorry...I was listening to you guys--not listening but I couldn't help but overhear...I don't know...hopefully that was more helpful than hurtful."  I backed away in shame.  Now I really couldn't focus on the rug selection!  What the hell am I here for again?  My mind was barreling full steam ahead into a shame spiral.  Curtain Rods!  Must find CURTAIN RODS!  

After fifteen minutes of walking aimlessly around the store, hiding from the couple in the infant's clothing department, I began to settle down with the help of a breathing exercise my yoga instructor taught me.  My peace-loving, unintrusive, LA self was reemerging.  I returned to the rugs.  And immediately ran into the woman, who was still shopping the bras.  She smiled at me, "this is impossible."  I returned the smile, "I know!  I shouldn't have said anything.  I'm sorry.  I thought I was helping."  "Don't worry about it," and she circled back down the aisle.

Sometimes people have to figure things out by themselves.  I'm okay with that.  Sort of...

Favorite Cards Received From My Mom Back East in 2009

As it is the end of the year and more poignantly the decade, I've been going through stacks of old letters, cards, etc that various loved ones have sent to me since moving to Los Angeles.  Although they are all colorful in their own distinct way, the choice cards were penned, not surprisingly, by my mother.  I thought I would share two of her finest with you...

[on her monogrammed fuchsia stationary, upon learning that I was considering a solo trip to Argentina]
Hi Kristin,
Do not go to So. America- drug cartels are there kidnapping Americans (beheading them too!)- especially alone- who would know you were in trouble?  Please-
Love Ya!
Mom XXOO

Dear Kristin,
Can't believe it's been 30 years since that wonderful day you were born!  I remember it like it was yesterday.  You are everything we dreamed you would be and more.  We are so lucky to have you in our lives.  Thanks for all that you are- Have a wonderful birthday.  You deserve the best.
Love Always,
Mom XXXOOO
P.S. The ring is fake.

Clearly the irony is lost on her in that last one...

Happy 2010 all!  Keep them comin' Mom!

WHEELS

LA goes EVERYWHERE on wheels.  Due to the sprawling nature of the city and the lack of a viable public transportation system, most everyone needs a car or some other alternative way to get around besides their own two legs.  But people seem to take it to a whole new level out here...

My neighbor regularly carries his groceries home via skateboard, and last week I passed a girl riding a unicycle...with a backpack on...while listening to an iPod.  I watched a guy strap two wheels onto each of his sneaker-covered feet with what appeared to be rubber bands and navigate the busy sidewalks of Main Street, Santa Monica with graceful control on a Sunday afternoon- no small endeavor considering hundreds of people flock to the town's local farmers market every weekend.  There are long board skateboards, both motorized and foot-powered (speaking from experience, the motorized version is a hoot with speeds that reach 30 mph), adult-sized tricycles, beach cruisers (of which I am the proud owner of a powder blue Raleigh) both with surfboard racks and without, hundreds of road bikes supporting riders in head to toe racing attire who traverse the streets and the strand from daybreak to sunset, roller blades for those still living in the 90's, skateboards that claim their own skate parks every few hundred yards, motorcycles of all sizes, mopeds, VESPAS (I really want one!), Segways- otherwise known as People Movers- which are very popular among the outdoor mall security crowd and- based on the photo above- with a handful of hipsters on Abbot Kinney, those small cars without doors that look like supped-up golf carts (name anyone?), and of course my arch nemesis...the SMART car, which I consider more akin to the golf cart than an actual highway vehicle, contrary to what you will see- or not see- on The 10.

Granted I spend the majority of my time in Santa Monica and Venice, and it is here that I have spotted most of the wheels listed above.  But in a city where the car is king, it's kinda cool that so many people find such innovative ways to get around. Albeit the unicycle is pretty out there, lady.  This ain't the circus, no matter who or what you might see on the Venice boardwalk.  Might I dare go so far as to say that New York City, despite its ever-growing crowds, might benefit by taking its cue from Los Angeles on the WHEELS issue.  It seems my loyalties might be shifting after all... 

*the photo above was taken on Abbot Kinney in Venice and excerpted from the LA Times Fashion section*

If anybody has other interesting/funny photos of people on WHEELS in LA, send them to me at likebutterontoast@gmail.com and I'll post them!

Santa Monica: Yard Sale Mecca

I reside in Santa Monica. So does Oliver Stone, Calista Flockhart, and Harrison Ford...from what I'm told. It's one of the higher end neighborhoods in Los Angeles. No freestanding house sells for under a million, even in this crappy economy. Check out the LA Times Real Estate section for proof. It's kind of depressing. Which is why it was beyond jarring to find 50 or so signs popping up on street corners across Santa Monica ever Friday evening advertising YARD SALES and GARAGE SALES for the upcoming weekend. Now, I have NOTHING against a good old fashioned garage sale to relinquish unnecessary baggage when one is about to move or move on from a relationship that went sour. I've been known to host a ceremonious burning, myself, from time to time. It's good for the soul to purge. And I'm a huge proponent of second hand furniture; there's just something more to a piece when history comes attached to it. Not to mention how well it fits into the whole environmentally aware movement. And we all know how important it is to at least appear that you are doing your part, especially in LA where one risks being blackballed for not recycling plastic. But these yard sales are for the most part shameful; full of old sweaters, soiled concert t-shirts, beat-up children's toys, seventies era knick-knacks, novelty salt and pepper shakers, Clint Eastwood paraphernalia and framed movie posters of hits like The Double 0 Kid starring Corey Haim. Exactly. Albeit, sometimes a beach cruiser or an actual piece of furniture does make it into the mix...sometimes.

Beginning Saturday morning at 8am -7am for the truly motivated- hundreds of residents set up shop and reside at their post until Sunday evening. One innovative woman employed Vitamin Water and lemonade as an added incentive to lure would-be shoppers into her nest of junk; not unlike the real estate agents back East who were known to throw in an actual car with the purchase of a new home to sweeten the deal.

Here's my question: Where does all of this crap keep coming from? And hasn't anyone out here ever heard of the garbage? In NYC, there's simply no room to keep anything that does not have a vital, current, weekly if not daily use. One gets used to throwing out or selling on eBay what is superfluous and simply living with less. Have some standards good people of Los Angeles (or at least Santa Monica), even Good Will employs the "If you wouldn't give it to your best friend, then don't give it to us" rule. Leave the holey underwear in the giant black bin in the alley.

Although who am I to judge? As the saying goes, "One mans garbage is another man's treasure." Only in LA...

Listen to Eric Estrada: "Buckle Up!"

As seen on the side of the 101 Freeway in downtown LA.
1983: the last time it was cool to be a member of the California Highway Patrol, otherwise known as..."CHIPS"!  Coincidentally, it was also the last time their uniforms were updated...

It's Like the W Hotel...but for DOGS...

Okay, so I had to use NYC citysearch to make sure that the Big Apple didn't have one of these. We don't. I'm sure it's coming soon...but must it look this similar to a "people hotel"? I don't think Rover reviews the thread count before checking in, but you never know...this is LA...

Check out the "D" hotel on line, "A Luxury Resort and Spa for the Distinguished Dog." (http://www.dpethotels.com) You will not be disappointed.

LA Thugs Launch Plums at Moving Cars

At first take, I thought I was being ambushed by a small time, Westside street gang while making my way onto the on-ramp of the dreaded 10 Freeway. (Freeways in Los Angeles = Interstates in the Tri-State Area) "The 10" is the only major highway that runs East/West across the city. Translation: it's a parking lot 99% of the time. City planning here is an entirely other story...and with the state budget deficit increasing by $2 billion per day to simply maintain the status quo, I don't foresee any major infrastructure improvements being undertaken in the near or distant future.

Anyway while talking via headset to a fellow tri-state transplant, what seemed to be a very large bullet or missile shot into my windshield at warp speed causing me to slam on the brakes, duck, yell, and shiver with fear while crouching below my steering wheel. It was to be my first brush with the gang activity I so often hear about (Crips, Bloods, Tupac...) NOTE: I was going to post a link here to a site about LA gangs that I've reviewed before (for my own protection) but BOTTOM LINE, I'm too paranoid to do it.

At my frenetic reaction, the fellow transplant asked me if everything was okay. "Sure, if by okay you mean ABOUT TO MEET MY MAKER!" I said. I pulled over to the side of the road (a very dangerous decision seeing as though I was now in the middle of the on-ramp to "The 10") and nervously took a closer look at my windshield. After further inspection, I realized that the glass was intact and the missile was in fact a juicy, splattered piece of fruit. A PLUM. They're in season now and, I admit, very tasty. LA street gangs are now using fruit as weaponry! (Either that or it fell from a nearby plum tree- as if plum trees really exist...) No need to fret brother and sister Angelenos, I've already alerted the LA Times via Twitter. I assume they will be reporting on it soon. If not, feel free to forward this posting to your loved ones. You never know whose life you might save.

In case you are really Out-Of-The-Know, here is a link to what a plum looks like, should you come across one (the perp that met its doom on my windshield was of the red skin and light-yellow flesh persuasion): http://www.uga.edu/fruit/plum.html

Angeleno Canines

A Bulldog on a Bench...Main Street, Santa Monica
Oscar, Manhattan Beach

YogaWorks' Take on the New Year's Resolution

Having domesticated in Santa Monica for almost a year now, I have fallen prey to the most obvious of cliches...I'm a YOGI. I love, love, love YOGA. Those who know me have listened to me drone on for periods of 30 minutes or more about the benefits of a regular practice, those both seen and unseen. Clearly I embrace the LA yogi stereotype freely and without reservation, in fact with pride. To that end I would like to share with you an email that I received from my yoga studio, YogaWorks (which has locations in NYC as well as the West Coast) regarding New Year's Resolutions that I found particularly insightful. Enjoy!


"RESOLUTION

"Just don't give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there is love and inspiration, I don't think you can go wrong".
- ELLA FITZGERALD

We all know the old cliche about resolutions - you quit smoking on Jan. 1 and are back off the wagon by Jan. 2. The type of resolutions that crash and burn before even getting close to Valentine's Day could be described as "January Penance" or "Stuff I'm making myself do because I'm bad." First of all, you are not bad. Everyone else just spent a month eating sugar cookies and watching movies in their pajamas instead of going to the gym, but it's been dark and cold and it's okay to cut yourself some slack. If you want your annual goals to be successful, it's best to choose them from a place of kindness.

When you think about changes you would like to see in your life over the next year, keep in mind your deepest values and focus on dreams that get you excited. For example, say that spending more time with your family feels important to you. You may love the idea of having a group dinner, but cooking can feel like torture after a long day of work. Rather than drumming up a precise schedule of meals and ingredients that you need to stick to (does not sound fun), instead make your resolution simply getting more excited about cooking. That might involve pouring over beloved old cookbooks, exploring new ones, and thrilling over the nurturing, sensual possibilities of providing beautiful meals as an act of love.

For many of us, this past fall was a tough time, and the last thing we need is to be even harder on ourselves at the start of a new year. By choosing resolutions that will bring more of what your soul personally craves, whether it's spiritual connection, warmth, passion, adventure, or healing, your success is inevitable."

-excerpted from YogaWorks LA News - Jan/Feb 2009

You Gotta Start Somewhere...Running Charades

One of the most obvious and somewhat disturbing differences between New York City and Los Angeles is SPACE. There's just more of it in LA, both inside and out. For this reason, people spend a considerable amount of time entertaining at home. Dinner parties and bar-b-cue's abound. The most appealing part of the evening for me is usually the game. Sometimes of the board nature (Balderdash is a recent obsession; one that I imported to NY for the Christmas holiday), but more often games are selected that require no tools other than your own physical being, for example Running Charades. It's like regular charades but on crack, which I find highly appropriate for LA. As if the dominant industry in this town wasn't competitive enough, now our "games" need to be cut-throat too.

It goes like this: Each player comes prepared with a list of ten or so books, movies, television shows, plays, songs, what have you. If you are already charade savvy, your list contains a theme (last time I played I devised a list made up entirely of films staring Burt Reynolds...it was the high point of my evening as I spent much of the rest of the time feigning both excitement and devastation as other people guessed correctly and bolted from the room). The person with the list sits in the hallway while players from opposing teams are located in separate rooms to avoid eavesdropping or more accurately answer-stealing. A player is sent (usually running) to the clue-giver for the first title on the list. Once a teammate guesses correctly (the same rules as regular charades apply) he or she runs full steam to retrieve the next title. And it goes on and on until all ten titles on the list are named and a winner is declared. The game remains oddly quiet but for the sound of feet running back and forth from the clue-giver or the occasional celebration of a particularly difficult answer or in some cases an unfortunate but frequent head-on collision in the hallway. Do not be fooled by the silence, the intensity is high.

The other popular game around these parts is MURDER. I kid you not.