Slice of Life

What would you do, if, let's say, you met your favorite actor? Would you scream, cry, have no words, faint, politely shake his hand and extend your gratitude? Such is the philosophical question (if only a superficial one) one might ask while in Hollywood, where this sort of fantasy can be served up in reality, at your local grocery store, or getting coffee off Sunset. Such was the case on Saturday morning, when my sister and I walked into our local Ralph's grocery store, and as we glanced to the right, we spied a very familiar profile. Here in the flesh, was our very own Michael C. Hall, our beloved serial killer - Dexter Morgan.


Let me tell you about Dexter Morgan. Before I watched the first episode of the (potentially grotesque) series, I was highly skeptical that a network could produce a worthwhile show surrounding a serial killer who killed other serial killers, while managing to maintain a complex cast sifting through situations you'd actually care about. This storyline could have surmounted to a largely egregious lifetime movie, on schedule next to shows featuring screaming women and vast amounts of blood. But writers of Dexter have done no wrong, and continue to keep the plot line enticing with just one question they want to ask: "Are you prepared to like a serial killer?" I can say, that yes, I am. I like him, I really, really do.

So, did I scream? Fortunately for him, I did not, and although I had a camera in my bag, I decided my best course of action would be mustering enough courage to say hello. On this early Saturday morning, he was wearing a baseball cap, and I imagine it was partly to avoid recognition and also, because he probably hadn't taken a shower that morning and therefore was less inclined to take a photo with hyperventilating fans. So, as he finished paying for his coffee, my sister and I stood to the side, and as he walked towards us, I piped up, "Michael." The expression on his face was more Do I know you than Oh, Shit I've been recognized and he obliged us with a handshake as I said, "Hi, we're really big fans of the show." With a humble and quiet "Thank You", Mr. Hall walked away in that familiar stride I've seen every episode on Dexter. With our parting, I walked into a nearby aisle, and silently freaked out behind the chips, celebrating in high-fives and OMG's with my sister, who couldn't believe our luck.

Coffin Nails/Food For The Silverfish

Yesterday ended with the glorious culmination of a prolonged search for a rarefied treasure. In my formative years, I was a carnivorous reader (and can still largely claim that title), spending magnanimous amounts of time in my elementary school's tiny library. In this library, I discovered a passion for fairy tale's and corresponding literature, such as a poem devoted to the woe's of a greedy child and the lengths her sister goes to save her. Comprised of goblins, golden hair, fruit and a moral in there somewhere - the scene would enact itself out in my head. Then I graduated and didn't really think about this story or other tales I had read. Years later, in college, these stories reappeared in my conscience and I had to have them back. I scoured the internet, I went back to my elementary school (thrown out - or something - that crochety old librarian!) , but the books I had loved were gone. I wasn't finished. I was armed with just the plot line.

Photo by Javier Cruzado

Yesterday, I laid out the plot of one title, called Shadow Castle to a co-worker (ok, I knew two of the titles, this one and The Woodcutter's Daughter). It sounded to her like Plato's Allegory of The Cave, and she urged me to Wiki it. Instead, I got online and thought - I'll look on Amazon - just real quick.

I love Amazon, it offers many opportunities with its money saving options and grouping of booksellers from across the U.S. We go a long way back, and I've never had a bad experience, only impatience while waiting for items to arrive in the mail. So, there we were, face to face - me and my favored website, hoping it wouldn't fail me now. There it was, Shadow Castle by Marian Cockrell and Olive Bailey (back in print), and others such as George Macdonald's likened tales to Tolkein, but I still didn't have my poem filled with Goblins. I went back online and typed in elements of the plot via Google. Through some obscure discussion group, I found it - Christina Rossetti's Goblin's Market. How come I couldn't find this all before?

Dead Hour: Photo by Jason Larkin

To read this poem now, I'd never have guessed I read it first as a small 3rd grader. It is not the definition of facile. I assume the tales' proclivity towards strange and creepy made its mark, as I tend to read things of chthonic nature to this day, albeit less demons and more dark. Only, my lengthy search reveals one thing - it is my tactile satisfaction of a book that enhances its enjoyment (i.e. crumpled pages of a well-read tome). It is poignant then, that the future of rarefied books and their availability (juxtaposed against cyber-want-it-now-mentality-craving culture) is coming to a crippling end. Publishing had another nail hammered into it's coffin yesterday, and I'm concerned. Who cares enough to maintain books integrity? Must they all shuffle into public libraries and private collections in lieu of Amazon's Kindle and iphone's online newspapers? Like the way of Lehman's and AGI, with reclining newspaper and magazine distribution rates, low reading statistics and the ease of our digital age, we're all in for a nosedive.

Looking Back: Photo by Garry Rafaele

Watching TV Is Not An Exercise

I worry about my brain.

Yesterday I wanted to pour coffee on my salad even before I sat down to eat it (maybe lumping that in with brain malfunction is a little presumptuous since I was eating tofu and spinach, and really who wouldn't want it to taste like something, anything else than what it actually is?). Nevertheless, I was having visions of doing this act while reading/eating in Barnes & Noble across from my office. Am I forgetting my vitamins?

Photo by John Baird

I don't have cable TV. I have TV, I just don't have the multi-channel surf wonderment that is 150 channels of digital information at its best, with the exception of all gaming options of Tomb Raider (only you, Lara). Anyway, thanks to my empty pockets, I won't pony up the funds to pay for the 145 channels I will never watch, even with the option that I will get to watch Showtime's Dexter Season 3 (I love you Michael C. Hall!) with a $80 dollar upgrade (I don't love you that much). So, with just 28 channels of network TV, 20 of which are in Spanish, I'm left with two choices, KCET's channel 15, or Fox's channel 11. Fox loses because The Simpsons are not on, and therefore, at 8:30pm at night, I'm left with KCET's public programming. Lucky me, it's about brain fitness and rightly called The Brain Fitness Program hosted by a former famous actor, whose name I can't recall. Where are those vitamins?

Photo by M.S. White

Dr. Jason Karlawish has a lot to say, so I'm listening intently, but as all programming goes, they cut to commercial and I realize they're hocking a Brain Fitness Video (Like Brain Age? Um, no. I imagine Richard Simmons - Fitness for Your 50's). I was watching based on the promise of educational content; free unencumbered access to it (where's my tivo?). I'm out. I think I'll stick to chess, I hear that can be good for your brain too.

Reporting: From The Streets

Ingenuity is often the result of dire straights.

Stranger To Me, Stranger To Them

Once every two weeks or so, my sister and I turn to each other and automatically know that what we need at the moment is a gigantic burger surrounded by mannequins dressed as cowboys and cowgirls alongside a 'smoking' campfire and a bull ride to match. Thus is the state of our local watering hole and tourist trap, Saddle Ranch. The best spot at this place is outside, as the inside is dark, crowded and for some reason, always smells like apple pie. Nothing wrong with that, but the real draw is the people watching. Sunset Boulevard is just a few feet away once you're on the deck of the restaurant. You can catch an eye-full of the camera-toting mid-western troupes, crowding in atop a double-decker, or pitifully shitty bus, gleefully driving by as they gaze with thoughtless looks at their surroundings. They stare at us and we stare right back, give our heads a tilt, and laugh. We are all on the same page at the moment, we are all tasting the superficial sights and sounds of Hollywood. These conspicuous traveling groups triapse around Hollywood in sneakers and hawaiian tees, visiting every man-made contrivance known as a landmark, including Saddle Ranch (Sex and The City anyone - look it up). Tourists are hilarious.


You can watch tourist group think all over Hollywood. Driving past the Chinese Theatre is a good start, especially during a premiere! Mostly pudgy, sneaker clad tourists push themselves together and crowd the streets, trying to get a peek at any celebrity they can. On days where there are not premieres, an emaciated Spider-man poses outside the theatre, next to a very chubby Marilyn Monroe, a demon on stilts, cinderella, Chucky and a frozen golden man. Sometimes Spongebob and Homer Simpson join in alongside a a tree on stilts as he tries to blend in with the flora so he can bend down to scare passerbys. I imagine these charactes make a pretty penny from all the photos (you're supposed to tip!) they work for each day.


In all my years traveling across the U.S. and living in two of the top tourist destinations, I never once remember actually making a point to go on the duck tour (Miami - look it up) or ride on a bus destined for celebrities homes and the Hollywood sign while sitting next to sweaty strangers as we bump along the Sunset Strip. I always prefer the less traveled route and local coffee shops. So why the bus? I will never understand the draw, except on the most basic level of knowing that these patrons are foreigners and simply need something convenient. I imagine that one of these days, I'll decide to test out and visit the tourist traps; Everyone should see a bit of the characteristic traits of their 'hometown'. Till then, I raise my beer to those who add to Hollywood's extraordinary atmosphere and chose to brave the masses and rub elbows with all those fellow tourists before me!

A Man Among Strangers

The Emigrants destiny: The foreign country has not become home, but home has become foreign.

~Alfred Polger


I almost choked on tears when I came across this thought by Mr. Polger. Nothing truer could be said to those who've traveled far and now reside in stranger places than those where they were born. I believe that it is far greater to leave your home and add experience to your character, than to never change and never wander far from the things you know; as leaving home is sure to change you in ways you'd never believe. It's like hating onions your whole life, and then suddenly loving them.

Mr. Polger brings up a point that is all too familiar to me now, as it is with disbelief that I feel I couldn't live anywhere (for the moment) except L.A. My love has grown for the city's quirks and ambitious atmosphere; the hungry wolves and sun-tanning beach bunnies, dirty bars and bum friendly Hollywood Boulevard. It is a far-cry from my somewhat wholesome small town beginnings. Home will always be home, but it's comforts don't offer much to me now.

Dov Charney Hates L.A.?

The class act that is Dov Charney, the child porn photographer and all-around sleaze, continues to be his offensive self. As you can see, in the front yard of his porn emporium, aka Charney's L.A. home, sits a bronze statue giving the bird to downtown L.A. To a city that's given him so much - naive girls, factory workers to sexually harass and a tolerant advertisment policy - you'd think that hand would be a little more welcoming.


I'm confused, are the girls of L.A. not so agreeable lately? Did he run out of parting gifts?

Hazed Horizon

Tonight it's cool, the city enveloped in fog. I've snaked my way through Pasadena and now head home, back to Hollywood on Highway 101.



As I drive past downtown L.A., I can see the skyscrapers tower above me, advertisements and signs atop the buildings effectively blurred by vapor. The traffic bellows but it's quiet as I travel, as if the brume submerges the sound.

No one is out, save for a woman with a platinum blond mohawk looking to cross the street at Franklin and Highland. But I am taking side streets. I drive through the dark; and finally, I am home.

Roll Credits

A unique L.A. phenomenon: Unlike the rest of the country, much of L.A.'s movie audiences sit through the closing credits; I'm not in the biz, so this stand-still simply gives me time to get out of the parking lot before the masses head out and create a painful parking lot traffic jam.

An LA Observer shows us what's up: "In L.A., a movie isn't over at the fadeout; we want to see who was the best boy, who stood in for Julia Roberts and who got the catering gig. For Angelenos, the movie isn't over until the Dolby Sound System logo has appeared, and the house lights have come on.

I used to believe L.A. movie crowds watch the credits with as much interest as the story action because they want to see how many people they know making below-the-line appearances. To recognize names, to claim relationships, is a gauge of professional status in an industry town; it's a competition as much as a curiosity satisfier."

The networking never ends in this town.

Megalomaniac: A Religion Is Born

It is no secret that Scientology is an extensively rooted practice in L.A. Increasingly, and under the radar, Scientology continues to build its' presence and influence in one of the most powerful cities in the U.S. Their freak flag keeps waving (aka Tom Cruise) in an effort to boost good PR, but as John Cook at Radar points out "after an embarrassing string of high-profile defections and leaked videos, Scientology is now under attack from a facelss cabal of online activists." Will Scientology be declared a cult, as Germany did this past year, or will it rise as a legitimate religion, thanks to their long list of celeb believers? When the line is drawn, where do you stand?

Radar has done its homework. L.A. is nothing like Clearwater, but there are resemblances. Clearwater is the Scientologists' established 'spiritual mecca', denoted as such thanks to a landing (yes, landing) by L. Ron Hubbard back in 1975. The pulp fiction writer and subsequent cult leader led his followers on an eight-year sea voyage throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, finally settling on the coast of Florida and establishing a small town designated to the fine art of achieving a scientologist's wet dream, the ultimate spiritual state and financially costly highest level. On the day that John Cook of Radar visits, something is clearly wrong, as the streets are empty and soon enough, they've got scientologist photogs following them every step of the way. John is informed that 110 cameras survey the downtown area in addition to the new 'friends' now tagging along. Clearwater is prepared for its enemies.

Back in L.A., scientology is rapidly taking root, if not already cultivating its chronic infestation. Unbeknownst to many, scientologists are buying up real estate around town, networking contacts and turning many Hollywood power players into devoted followers. An example of what this means is provided by Alexander, a former vice president of Universal Studios, who defected, and says that in his former life, 'he was so consumed with Scientology that he carried around a Church-issued beeper that alerted him whenever his minders decided he required counseling.' Around Hollywood, you can spot a Scientologist fairly easily, as they generally wear an issued uniform of khaki pants and a plain navy blue tee, shuffling to the next building with downcast eyes. Driving in front of the Hollywood Scientology buildings and dorms, nary a person can be seen. The dorms almost look deserted, but the contrary is true, they are meant to be inconspicuous. They are, and frighteningly so, as covert operations like, "Operation Freakout" are manifesting in the media. Lives are at stake. Hubbard famously "promulgated what he called the "fair game" policy, whereby anyone judged to be an antagoinist "may be deprived of property, or injured and tricked, sued or lied to, or destroyed." A statement later withdrawn because it was "bad PR."

This crazy city of L.A. is filled to the brim of what appears to be a heady concoction of subversive activity a la Scientology. Aside from this, I have a hard time believing that extensive paranoia, described earlier and aptly reported in Cult Friction, is the result of true spiritual freedom and a sound mind. Even John Cook, our unsuspecting reporter, who came to L.A. to watch Scientologist protestors unload their opinion, gets a snapshot of the fear they effect, just read his article. The stories of harassment continue to float to the surface, but I hear nothing from the streets of L.A.; the idea that Scientology is so powerful around town that nary a person will talk for fear of disappering one day is effectively disturbing. I worry about a group who puts so much energy into 'saving' the locals, yet does not openly reveal itself; I'm sentient but apprehensive; should I be paranoid of them? Looks like Anonymous already went there.

TAP THIS

L.A. hardly has a sparkling reputation for clean water. Just recently, we all learned that if you are one of the few that dare to drink the tap water in the city (or pretty much across the U.S., but bets are you'll find more barbituates in L.A. water), you're probably ingesting a pills' worth of steroids, antibiotics, anti-convulsants, mood stabilizers and sex hormones. So, in order to combat this influx of unwanted ingestion, UNICEF has made it's goal to bring clean water to the world, and L.A. is now part of that plan. It might be a tad sad to say, but their catchy commercial tune made me curious, so I ended up on the website. If the world needs saving, I don't think anyone will turn to me.

About the project: It's our single most bountiful resource. Yet, water is a daily privilege millions take for granted. The little known truth is that lack of clean and accessible drinking water is the second largest worldwide killer of children under five.


To address this situation, a nationwide effort is launching during World Water Week called the Tap Project, a campaign that celebrates the clean and accessible tap water available as an every day privilege to millions, while helping UNICEF provide safe drinking water to children around the world.

The Tap Project.

Beginning Sunday, March 16 through Saturday, March 22, restaurants will invite their customers to donate a minimum of $1 for the tap water they would normally get for free. For every dollar raised, a child will have clean drinking water for 40 days.

As the world's leading children's organization, UNICEF understands the critical role water plays in a child's survival.

Currently, UNICEF provides access to safe water and sanitation facilities while promoting safe hygiene practices in more than 90 countries. By 2015, UNICEF's goal is to reduce the number of people without safe water and basic sanitation by 50 percent.

Happy Drinking!

Looking For Oranges On An Apple Tree

Self-interest rules in Hollywood in a predominant and present way, namely, in your relationships. The person you meet at work, in cafes, on the street (given the odds) thinks, "how can you make my life bigger, better and wealthier?"

You can't take lying out here personally. When I realized for the first time (several times over really) that I was lied to, I was hurt that a person I trusted would do that to me; BUT this is the way people manage their relationships. Conflicting self-interest and need confuse L.A. relationships. Guarding myself from motive is mentally exhausting. This is a thorn in my side.

Surpised by usurption and deception, I have many deep cuts. Try not to be surprised and don't have high expectations. You have to work through the rough to find the diamonds.

He Threw A Piece of Fruit At Me??!! WTF?

Driving in LA is like getting acupunture - all you want to do is scream but you're stuck for the next 30 minutes. Call it character building, as your patience is will be tested. A drive only a mile away can take over an hour, bumper to bumper, with some douchebag stopping to park, take a left turn, or simply try to squeeze himself in ahead of you. People take their time, question which way to turn and generally stop thinking when they get in their car. Then it comes to this - someone throws a piece of dried fruit at me, a piece of fruit?!

Honking in L.A. is sort of a no-go. We're all in the same pot, slowly making the trek home after work, so it's unfair that one of us is rocking the boat and pissing people off even more. But c'mon, don't stop during a green light to decide whether or not you want to make a right turn, and then do it at the last minute so the person behind you misses the green light. Same rule goes for left turns, the moment you have a chance to turn, you better fucking move.

The New York Times gives the traffic problem perspective.

Why does your address say Glendale?

My sister is looking for an apartment. Not hard to do in and of itself, but when your fighting for a decent priced apartment in a good area, and are most likely up against the other 2,000 people who just relocated to L.A., it's gonna be dog eat dog. Relentless, agressive behavior counts. So, take a look at the newspapers, craigslist, get the password from a friend for www.westsiderentals.com, and call around. Expect not to hear anything for a few weeks. Landlords are tough to get a hold of, don't even bother to leave a message - they won't call you, they don't have to. They'll be another one of you the next day. I found that the best way to find your new home is to make the drive and circle your coveted neighborhood like a stalker. By far, this is the best technique to get results. Otherwise, bunk with a friend for six months and pretend your an actor. Unless you are, then get used to surfing couches; you'll be too broke to afford anything.

Livin' La Vida Loca

In the wake of deciding whether or not to start this blog, I came across Everywhere magazine, and in it, an article detailing How We Learned to Love Los Angeles. This was the perfect cue. People need to know that L.A. is more than a defunct concrete jungle.

Interpreting the Parking Lot

I will get to getting down in L.A. soon, but first I want to share some generalizations offered from Noah Hawley - "Los Angeles has two sides: East and West. The West side runs from the Pacific Ocean to La Brea Boulevard. It includes neighborhoods such as Santa Monica, Bel Air, and Beverly Hills. The East Side stretches from La Brea to Downtown. It's made up of Hollywood, Los Feliz, and Silver Lake. The two sides couldn't be more different. The West Side skews older and smells like money. The East Side is younger and smells of unwashed jeans. People from the East Side won't date people from the West Side. (Who wants to make the drive?)" - and that, in it's entirety makes up the geographical basics of Hollywood. Be warned, you will discover that a trip to the grocery store is not an easy task. Driving time and parking will determine what you do. L.A. is a car culture, with the traffic jams and road rage to prove it.