Within The Vicinity

Pay attention to your neighbors.

I once took a six-week fencing class at the Los Angeles Community College. On the last day of class, I discovered that I had been dueling with very talented and successful writers, one producer and several amateur artists. One woman had come to L.A., after a stint writing for a succesful Canadian sitcom. This the great thing about L.A., the company you unknowingly keep can be a vast and untapped resource. Companions that I had little ambition to take note of (how very L.A. of me), until we sat after class discussing our respective careers and our teachers foray into screenplays. I was taken aback, surprised at the lack of ego and pretention and their willingness to share whatever insight they could offer into the industry culture and their estimated success in the bewildering Los Angeles landscape. At a theatre performance, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? starring Kathleen Turner, I sat next to a woman who translated the show's events for the blind into a tactile experience. More recently, a co-worker of mine shared that unbeknownst to her until a week prior, the famous Korean actor named Rain (as in, famous like Brad Pitt) lived just a floor above.

Unfortunately, I have nothing to share here, but I want to point out that if you decide to move to L.A., don't become a hermit. I happen to love my lonesome ways, and given my experience in the fashion showrooms here, an experience I liken to a mock celebrity environment (cut-throat and untrustworthy as it gets, with drug use on the side), it has been hard to trust people in this town ever again. Slowly, it gets better. My sister is far more social than I'll ever be, and the high expense of entrance fees and drinks is enough to make you want to stay home, but she's deftly focused her career and her friends have only widened her prospects.

Photo by Liz Chrisman

This is not new news, but just a helpful reminder. Even to myself.

Hello, He Lied

Recommendinnnnnnnggggggggggg......

If only Lynda Obst had been my mentor......I am the bright foreign exchange student. A truly relevant piece of non-fiction and a great introduction into the minds of Angelenos in the business of film & fashion.

With Skates On

I've always loved skate and surf culture. Imagining that if I had only grown up in Southern California, the lanky blond girl on a skateboard riding off into the sunset could have been me - but I grew up in the rocky mountains. It's about hiking and the outdoors. White water rafting, rock-climbing, running, snowboarding. I never became the hippie this environment often spawns (healthy eating is a big concern, as is saving the environment in my hometown), but I certainly didn't turn into the Abercrombie&Fitch wearing preppy college student either (also well-known in my hometown - the local University looms over the city). I settled in the middle, I rode a snowboard. When I moved to California, my skate fantasy began again. If I was going to learn to ride, it had to be now and not when I'm 40. It's ridiculous now (maybe), even more so at an older age.

As a gift for my birthday, I received an Arbor longboard. Completely beautiful in its clear deck tape - to better show off the natural wood and stylized logo. Arbor boards are prized as an environmentally-friendly product; their company ideology advocates that "you can't just be "green" for the sake of being green. If it were that easy we'd all be wearing hemp." Their boards are made out of maple, wood and bamboo by-products created during construction. Their boards (skate, snow and surf) are breathtaking.

I learned. Slowly. One night on our way to a Brazilian dinner at a neighborhood restaurant - a perfect opportunity to ride my board down the street - I decided to take a chance down a hill. I was brought to my knees by my fast, uncontrolled ride and suffered a courageous scar. A knarly tear in my knee (see below), was the result. Damn. I am proud. I tried. My board nary suffered a scuff.

IL Pluie

It rains, it pours. We are lucky to feel so cozy inside on a Friday.

A Dirty Run

For two years, I ran everyday. Relocating across the U.S. both started and ended my serious running career.

Photo by Sandeep Nandy

Born and raised in Colorado, my roots go far into the ground there. I spent my whole life in Colorado, grew up with friends, fell in love with downtown Denver, had favorite cafes and bookstores. Then I met someone. I graduated college, married, and because my new husband was more transient than I - he proposed we move to Florida. Why not? I wanted adventure too. We settled in Miami, blocks from the beach. But something unexpected happened. This was not an adventure, it was an emotional catastrophe. I became angry, I cried. Although I just married the love of my life, he was new and somewhat unfamiliar. I had never moved, never been away from my family, from my twin sister. I did at least four life-changing events all at once: graduating college, moving, marriage, first real job, first time move away from family. I missed all that was familiar, and I hated Floridian culture (Miami is three times as transient as L.A. with even more drunk people roaming the streets every night). I began to run - a way to siphon the thrashing emotions. I pounded it out. I was in the best shape of my life. Then, we reached two years and decided to move again. Florida to California. I was burned-out, both physically and mentally; we settled in but I couldn’t shake a newfound distaste. I didn't want to run. I now connected exercise to heartbreak and exhaustion. I had pushed myself too far, what would I do now?

First, you go to counseling and second, you re-introduce yourself carefully to avoid injury. Running gave me clarity, time to myself and a feeling of unconstraint; could I get that feeling back?

I’d never run a race before, except against my personal best, but I found out soon enough that it might be worth considering. During my time of cautious re-introduction to running, a few friends of mine brought up the famous Camp Pendleton Mud Run. Curious and partial to doing research, that’s exactly what I did. I found that the four Mud Run’s in 2008, and one in January of 2009, were very popular and thus sold out. Bummer. Sold out status be damned, there’s always an alternate route.

It’s not Camp Pendleton, but Skyline Sports sponsors its own dirty run at Skyline Church. A dusty, hilly, hot spot near San Diego. That afternoon, determined to run again, I signed myself up for a run in the mud. I had four months. On the weekend of November 16th, the temperature reaching above 80 degrees, I met my sister and a friend for the ambitious event.

As beginners go, I felt ill-prepared for even a three-mile run, let alone one that included 20 mud puddles and a 500 foot incline (a little fact I found out about just before the outset). Clean and in a white t-shirt no less, I checked in, got my free t-shirt, checked my bag and pinned on my race tag. One hot dog, three waters and several bathroom trips later, I lined up at the starting line - 3, 2, 1 – and I was off. Our friend darted ahead but my sister and I remained in stride. I just hoped I wouldn’t need the medic. Fire hoses sprayed gallons of frigid water over us as we pounded the pavement in a roundabout from the parking lot onto the dirt trail. Now sopping wet, I faced the first immense mud pie, which turned out to be superficially deep but nevertheless left sticky mounds of dirt around my ankles. Water stands met us at intervals, a relief from the dust runners kicked up at dry patches of the track. People lost shoes, started walking, joyously jumped into puddles and politely passed their competitors. My sister and I continued to stick together, splashing water and ensuring generous amounts of sludge stuck to the other at every opportunity. I was having fun. 18 puddles, one pipe crawl, countless hills, 500 feet and a rocky mud slide ending in a neck-high puddle turned small lap pool; I finished the race at 39 minutes and 36 seconds.

The 5K was hard, no free-wheeling feeling in this run, no adrenaline packed bursts of energy, just a need to finish, and finish dirty, maybe with one shoe left stuck in the mud at 450 feet – a victorious nod to fighting in the trenches. At the end, I was happy and relieved. I was elated, accomplished and inexplicably energetic. I came out on the other end revived; I faced a challenge, finished a race, muddy shoes my badge of honor – ready to run again.

I still run. I run sporadically and for fun. It's not quite the same, but it's not different either. I neither hate it nor love it, but it feels good.

You Forgot Your Shirt

Does anyone ever watch L.A. local morning news and think that maybe the female anchors just turned up to the set after clubbing all night?



I realize I live in the land of great tans and cosmetic surgery, but why FoxLA needs to broadcast serious morning news with women clad in outfits more appropriate in a line outside Hyde is really beyond my understanding.

About Town

To stand outside the doors of a luxury designer boutique in Beverly Hills is to be engulfed in waves of frigid air conditioning and tempted by immense spaces draped in cashmere and diamonds. Such is the life of the wealthy. Such was my walk on Saturday.

With my sister in the hands of my favorite stylist at Umberto Salon off of Canon Street, located parallel to Rodeo Drive, I decided to take a walk around the clean and very pleasant neighborhood - I had some time to kill. Rodeo is essentially one street of highly expensive luxury designer boutiques mobbed by tourists and celebrities alike (albeit less often as paparazzi are to be found lurking behind cars here), but there is nothing that competes with it's tranquil atmosphere on a sunny afternoon in L.A.. First, the parking here is generous, as there are several underground parking lots (so as not to disfigure the landscape), offering two hours of free parking. Restaurants abound, many noted for their famous chefs and gorgeous food along with their high-end clientele. There are the Beverly Hills locals, who seem crisp and fresh next to their tourist counterparts wearing khaki pants with camera in hand. Many languages are spoken here: French, Japanese, German, whom I often mistake for Americans, as they too wear Khaki's and cameras (I'm working under the assumption that Europeans dressed up). Starline Tours, a bus service to tote tourists about town, glides through the street every so often, and you can hear its director describing the sights for his passengers. His passage is quick and rarely disturbs. Today, there is a small kangaroo on the street, fenced in and with a collar, to promote Australian tourism. He paces back and forth and nary notices the dogs who try to sniff him through the fence or the pedestrians petting his backside. He is very soft. Then, there are the shops.

Photo by Tom Drury

Obviously not a mistake, the boutiques are everything you'd want them to be and what you really come to Rodeo drive for. Their ostentatious luxury is intoxicating. I feel giddy being so close to clothes that take hours to make, cut from quality high-end fabric tidily cut for the best fit and shipped from Italy and France. MaxMara, Versace, Gucci, Michael Kors all have their doors open wide to reveal racks and tabletops offering cashmere scarves, crocodile heels and tailored suits from Fall and upcoming Spring collections. Security guards stand erect in front of their doorways. I pause just briefly in front of these stores, the air conditioning pumps waves of cold air towards me, welcome in the heat of the afternoon, immense ceilings dwarf the people inside, the inventory is intimidating - I rarely put my hands on threads so fine.

It's a great time to shop here because even designer stores have marked down their merchandise. Although, an $8,000 dollar jacket is still expensive at $4,000. Wolford lingerie, noted for their selection of hosiery and a brand that is replicating Chanel's two-tone tights from their most recent shows, has a shop here and sadly so does Juicy Couture, a store I abhold because I see mostly whiny teens gather here begging their Fathers for cash. Chanel is the most quiet...Versace the most opulent...BCBG the most modest in space and design...and Sharky's Mexican Restaurant (it's really sit down fast food) the cheapest place to eat.

Photo by Mynhardt Van Pletsen

Most stores have chosen a palatte of white or black, draping their walls in either color to open the space or make it intimate. White feels luxurious, black feels like a secret. Chanel picks a black backdrop to highlight their diamond encrusted roses shining in display windows leading to their front doors. It's breathtaking. Lily Allen recently sang, "I want fuckloads of diamonds," she might start here. Sales employees are generally genial and willing to help you shop. Since I am partial to just sorting through clothes myself, I appreciate that I am left alone through most of the stores (but maybe it's obvious I'm not looking to buy). All in all, it's a richly quaint village, and for a day, I feel as though I'd rolled in 1,000 count bedsheets but without the price tag.