East Coast Snob's Guide to L.A.

This Friday, we went to the Frolic Room—an infamous dive bar on Hollywood and Vine. Everywhere in L.A. is painted with surrealism, but the Frolic Room was like walking into Phillip Marlowe’s fever dream.

The bar was dark and cramped, and the drinks strong and cheap—a classic recipe for a dive bar. The customers were just as sketchy as the Al Hirschfeld mural of classic stars. There was this one European man who penned portraits at the bar; when I watched him sketch one of our Emerson crowd, another man pulled me aside to show me his other work. He opened up this old leather novel to show me a drawing of a naked woman—Oh, okay. Well. That’s lovely. He then showed me an additional, cubist sketch that looked like it was done by a three year old. What?

There was also a weird man that dangled keys in Robin’s face and a guy with a long grey mane, and a cowboy hat. But there was jukebox that played Journey repeatedly, so it all evened out.

Last weekend I went out to test the theory that I was, indeed, living in Hollywood. The Los Angeles I’m stumbling through is dirty, uninspiring—it couldn’t possibly be the same portrayed in Sunset Boulevard, the Graduate, and (500) Days of Summer. The city’s flawed in those movies, sure, but in a beautifully bewitching way.* Humphrey Bogart would never shop at a strip mall, and Katharine Hepburn would look odd under the shade of  too-thin palm trees. Where is the Hollywood glamor? The drama?

It’s not on Hollywood Boulevard or the Walk of Fame, that’s for sure. 

*All these movies portray a flawed L.A. except for (500) Days of Summer. That movie lies like a hipster’s urban-outfitter rug. Zoey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon-Levitt  rule a trendy playground, all charm and no traffic. IT IS A LIE. Where is my (500) Days of Los Angeles?!?

Hollywood Boulevard feels what imagine Las Vegas to feel like: a charade of culture. Don’t those Elephants look like they’re made of styrofoam? What’s with the hieroglyphics? The Columns? It’s Hollywood’s largest movie set—a flimsy retelling of ancient cultures past.

 The cement hand-prints were fun, but also sad—fossils of the great actors past. Charlie Chaplin, Jimmy Stewart, Bette Davis—all accounted for, and all with strangely tiny feet. Look at Mary Pickfords as compared to Dan’s—they’re minute! Something odd is a foot (PUN).

 We followed the stars of the stars down Hollywood, searching for some food. The street was a marathon of neon and tourist shops, strip joints and quizno’s. I don’t understand why it’s the most famous streets that tend to be the most tasteless. Which comes first, the fame or the tackiness, who knows. All I know is I’ll have to search a little harder to find the true Hollywood.

If Hollywood glamor still exists, there’s only one place to hunt it down—the red carpet of course! The day of the Golden Globes, my new friend Jeff and I decided at Sunday’s (free) brunch that we should loiter around the Beverly Hills Hotel. We had committed to a day of celebrity creeping, straining our eyes to see into the tinted windows of passing limos. However, while sipping Starbucks across from the hotel, we were approached by representatives from Dick Clark Productions (because apparently that exists) and we were invited to the red carpet. In less then ten minutes, we were pushed through security and filed into bleachers. We were less than 500 feet from the carpet, a perfect view for six foot Jeff. 5’3” Kerri, however, had to see it all from her tip-toes. The ONE day I wear flats. The neck strain was worth it, however, once the stars started filing in. How silly to see all of my favorite T.V. characters (most of whom star in Glee) in person. What an Oddity to see Alec Baldwin approach the audience and shake our hands (the picture below is an accurate portrayal of my view through out the day). Quelle Suprise to see Christina Agulera’s bare bum…in person. And to see the Prom King and Queen of Hollywood, Brangelina in the flesh, was like seeing wax figures come to life. But really. They looked like wax. How can two people be so flawless? They must have the devil on speed dial. 

Although it was an interesting perspective from which to watch the Golden Globes, I think I prefer the couch to the carpet. It was an unbearably hot day, and while the celebrities were covered in shade for the ten minuted they were exposed to the elements, us plebeians were forced to stand five hours in the harsh sun. The boy beside me literally fainted—from the heat of the sun or the heat of Ryan Gosling is still undetermined. I was happy to come back, curl up in the cushioned seats of the Oak Wood’s screening room and make snippy comments from the safety of my own (quasi) home. 

Oh also, all that and no Robert Downey Jr. siting? At least there was a sign of my husband on Hollywood Boulevard.

In my husband’s hands at last.

This is the antithesis of a Culture Shock. Dan on a Mechanic Bull is exactly what I’d expect from California. 

And thus I introduce a new segment to my blog: Culture Shock. Now this bit isn’t to call attention to the culture shock I’m suffering from (that’s what the rest of the blog is for) but instead will hilight the moments I’m shocked to find myself enjoying L.A. culture.

My first Culture Shock was Patrick’s Roadhouse in Santa Monica.

Robin and I passed this on our quest for the ocean, and it immediately drew us in (look at the place? Who wouldn’t stop there for breakfast?) Strangely enough, the place wasn’t actually Irish themed at all. In fact, apart from the exterior, there was no further mention of or hint at Ireland, or Boston, or…anything you would expect from a neon green building studed with shamrocks. Inconsistency cracks me up, and I immediately fell in love.

Not to mention the inconsistent decor was charming. Inside, it was decorated like an old basement you would find bootleggers hiding in during the Prohibition era. There were mismatched antiques, globes and archaic maps. Bull horns and sailor’s wheels. They played swing music, and had magnetic poetry at our table (although we didn’t have any particularly or suggestively dirty words so it wasn’t as fun).

There was also a statue of David in the bathroom, but I haven’t any photographic evidence, you’ll have to just trust me on that one. I felt creepy taking a picture of a naked man in the bathroom. 

And I left my camera at the table.

The food itself was nothing to write home about—but  Ma & Pa might just get a letter describing the freshly squeezed grapefruit juice! Liquid Divinity!

All in all, I was pleasantly surprised to find somewhere in California with a mahogany and burnt gold color scheme. It reminded me of the East Coast, but with better and cheaper avocado. 

It’s my fourth day in L.A., but it might as well be my first—it’s my first day on my own, anyhow, without my father as a co-pilot or Robin as a companion. Today, it’s just me vs. Los Angeles—and let me tell you something. Los Angeles is kicking my ass.

Today, I woke up with every intention of having a perfect day. I had the itinerary all planned out for productivity: wake-up, work out, watch Regis and Kelly. Drive to the L.A. Center to get the free coffee and donuts in my everlasting search to take advantage of every offer of free food. Then, after my free coffee, I would go and purchase more coffee at Priscilla’s, the proposed haunt of  professional screenwriters and industry execs. And Leonardo Dicaprio.

Let me tell you right now, Los Angeles isn’t conducive to my productivity. I woke up and worked out well enough, and I even caught Regis and Kelly (although Mark Consuelos was the co-host). However, the moment I stepped…or rather rolled…out of the Oakwood Apartments, my entire day hit a snag…a snag in the shape of a Hyundai Accent. 

It’s not the driving itself that’s difficult; I’m getting used to the turn lanes and the apparent blinker-optional rule, and I figured out my A.C., thank god. I’m not going to pretend I’m an ideal driver, and I don’t suggest you hire me as your Hoke Colburn anytime soon. However I  do get the general red light, green lights of it all.

What I don’t understand is how to get where you’re going. I can go where I’m heading, but I can’t get anywhere. Which is to say…I can drive, but I can’t stop. Because parking. is. impossible. It is now my theory that there is so much traffic in L.A. simply because all the cars are driving aimlessly trying to find a good place to park!

If I had a nickel for every “reserved” parking spot I was prohibited from, a dime for every side street’s curb I had to pull over to, a quarter for every dead end I was tricked into—I would cash it all into CoinStar and come out with mad bank.

I spent the better part of my day driving around trying to find parking for every destination I set. I found the LA Center well enough, as well as Priscilla’s, but then I’d get incredibly lost trying to find a spot to park. It was the one step forward, three steps back phenomenon I hadn’t witnessed since a particularly stubborn word problem in third grade math class. It’s highly, highly, inefficient.

The good news is I am incredibly skilled now at turning around, parking at curbs, and crying “Why, LA, Why?!?” to the heavens.

Suddenly it occurs to me that maybe I should have learned how to drive before 21. I guess it’s something that comes in handy…

Never before have I identified quite so strongly with the metaphor of a baby bird being shoved out of its nest to take its first flight—I’m flapping my wings like a maniac, but it remains to be seen if the desperate motions will actually turn into flight.

Well, if I am free-falling to my demise, I am determined to have a good sense of humor about it. I may hate driving, but I delight in adventure, so I have committed to the positive. In the spirit of my new sanguinity, a list of awesome things today:

1. The pinecones in California look EXACTLY like dead birds. Thus, my fascination with the recent flockalopse made me assume that California was similarly afflicted. I laughed really, really hard when I realized they were just pinecones. Since when did California have conifers? 

2. After finally finding a place to park in a residential neighborhood, I walked passed a sign reading “Warning: Cobra.” Where am I? 

3. I wore an adorable outfit. No one saw it, but it was adorable. If a tree wears red heels with a gold toe, but no one’s there to see it…does it still make a sound?

4. An Old Man at Starbucks asked me to help send a picture of his granddaughter on his phone. I helped him for twenty minutes, and simultaneously taught him twitter. People are so friendly here.

5. I just realized that our convenient store is studded with the headshots of child stars. I also saw a five year old getting homeschooled in the conference room at the Oak Woods. Again, where am I?

Tonight I’m heading to Santa Monica for my first stab at networking/socializing in L.A. I’m attending an after party for a photo exhibition—very cultural, and hopefully good practice for working a room. Although, I think that old man I taught texting to would agree I worked Starbucks pretty well today.

I don’t like to throw things away. I mean, I can part with  candy wrappers, half-eaten subway sandwiches, even a stray penny here and there, sure—but nothing sentimental.

Unfortunately—forever a Romantic, or at least a Nostalgic—everything is sentimental to me. My room is teeming with old essays and drawings, my dresser dawers jammed with fashion mistakes of middle school past— and of course there’s “Puff”, my ironically named rag that once resembled a zaftig rabbit, but after 21 years has lost his shape.

I’m one camera crew shy of Hoarders.

Now, this presented a problem when packing, and my mom insisted I dispose of my old Sperry’s.

Those Puppies weren’t going anywhere. Well, no, they    went everywhere and that’s the problem. These were the shoes that traveled through Europe with me.  They trekked through the mountains of Croatia and the squished in the sands of Barcelona. They climbed up the Spanish Steps in Rome, and down the tubes of London. Battered, beatened, but still dignified in tweed, these shoes became synonymous with my own spirit.

And you know, people complimented me on them a lot.

This was my final plea, hoping my mother would save the soles of my condemned topsiders.  But she wasn’t having it. They were more hole then they were fabric and they smelled God awful. I would just have to buy a new pair…

And so, a new shoe was bought, and a new tradition born. The Traveling Sperry’s.

For every big adventure I embark on, I will buy a new pair of boat shoes. And while tweed and corduroy were perfect for the officious Old World, I needed something different for the very different world of L.A.  I need something…blithe. 

  Or Blue. Blue would do. These will be my Californian Clodhoppers. If all goes well, they will  anchor me to the East Coast—prep culture, sailing, and the good ol’ salty sea—as well as let me bob around the West Coast and see what California has to offer.

After all, we must put our best foot forward…and what a well-dressed foot it is.

"Hollywood has all the personality of a paper cup"

Raymond Chandler’s Atlantic Article “Writers in Hollywood”—Nov. 1945

Since I first read Farewell My Lovely in 2007, I have revered Raymond Chandler as my Hollywood Hero. Witty, cranky, and heavenly misanthropic: he’s everything I could hope to be. 

Chandler, and to a certain extent Easton-Ellis, simalteously offers both hope against and validation of my worst L.A. fears. He’s become vitriolic and calloused—his words a bitter tobacco spat onto the page—yet he’s so staggeringly talented. The schizophrenic tone, constantly wavering between sincerity and irony…that is my jam. And that is something I attribute to Los Angeles.

Additionally, this article is depressing as hell. If this is what Chandler had to say in 1945, during the Golden Age of Hollywood, can you imagine what his opinion would be now? 

Even I’m more optimistic then this; I can’t throw barbed comments at Sorkin, and I can’t turn a blind-eye at movies like Black Swan or True Grit. I don’t know if Hollywood’s gotten better, or just stranger since Chandler’s time. But there is definitely something good percolating in Los Angeles…and that’s not just the earth quakes getting to me…

Two days. Two suitcases. Two concerns: air travel and earthquakes.

Well, no, nobody’s going to buy that. That’s just the tip of the iceberg of concerns…

I’m about to become one of the many Americans to embark on the great tradition of Westward Expansion. Despite my reservations, I’ve somehow found myself sitting on my living room floor, among far too many pairs of high heels, packing for my move to Los Angeles. The City of Angels? More like the City of Anxiety.

Let me just recap why it’s such a ridiculous idea for me to move to L.A.:

1.   I’m notoriously averse to warm weather

2.   I got my driver’s license a month ago; I’ve maybe driven 3 times since then.

3.   I’m unusually afraid of earthquakes

4.   I love the rain, the snow, and WEATHER (refer to point 1)

5.   I’m an East Coast Snob.

Los Angeles has become so mythologized in my mind, that thinking ahead to Monday is more like daydreaming about this great hypothetical that reads more like a joke then an actuality. All I can visualize is patent red heels clicking down the Walk of Fame—a modern day Dorothy, perhaps? 

Oddly enough, neuroses aside, I do love traveling, and I assuage all of my qualms by equating this trip to another weekend adventure, a pitstop. But L.A. is not a pitstop. It’s the nucleus of the film world. It’s the inevitable.

If I’m going to be a screenwriter, this is my new home.

God help me.