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There was a thread on the Viper Room and at least one person came out against it specifically because it was in the city of angels.

Thing is, I'm going to be moving there within a couple of years. I will most decidedly not be in the entertainment industry (I'm a nurse), which I'm hoping will be something of a bullshit buffer. I'm interested in hearing what people think of the city. I know that a lot of people hate it but I'd like to hear why.
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Interesting that nobody responded to this one...
Personally, I hate it cos it's soul-less... no sense of community, very ghetto-ized (eg You will not meet a cross section of people, each area is very segregated and cos you have to drive to each place there really is no mixture of race,economic, gender mixing at all). It's suburban American to me but suburban US with the added drama of HOLLYWOOD and all that kitcsch its-all-about-glamour-dahling mixed in... urg.
Also hate that driving to everywhere thang...
And its SO not about who you know there... i have hung with the best of them, in the coolest of places and still been miserable... superficial, suburban and 'fronting'.... thats my two cents...
I don't know if i could live there, but it is one of my very favorite places to visit. driving out Sunset through lush, tree lined, forbidding beverly hills, and bel aire out to pacific palisades...imagining the riches and fame behind every's fantastical. overall though, the isolation is a major turn-off. very hard to feel connected there. and the posing does get tiresome. Also, major complaint: no one in LA dresses for ANYTHING. It's as if they think if there's no red carpet, they're free to trot about in their juicey couture and adidas -- anywhere, at any time. really so very UN-glam and boring. Washingtonians have more style sense.
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i'm here right now.
my first night out to one of mario's nights (alas, he was absent - already in new york to open for nina hagen) was devoid of any of the trouble we were looking for. faggots dressing WAY too young for their age or otherwise trying to hard. my favorite... one of the plucked, preened, and primped sported a black t-shirt that said in BIG white letters... WEST FUCKIN' HOLLYWOOD
the weather, though... hard to beat it.
great point... about the fags dressing too young... or the older Holmby Hills fags dressing like Sigfried and Roy... and the lollypop women (you know the big round heads and the stick bodys) and the over tanned... and the still stuck in the Disco era women on the boardwalks with sweatbands.... the weather is EASY to beat... Florida, Mexico, Caribbean...ya hearin me ....
i use to live in the Westwood section of L.A. back in '99..

..then i moved over to Venice in 2000..

...then i got the hell outta' there 6 months later.

"Hell.A." does have some good points to it: the weather, the beaches.

..but everything else about it is bad: the air, the attitude, the people, the club scene, the people, the fact that you need a car to get ANYWHERE around there, the people, the cops, the horrid gang violence, the people....

....did i mention the people??

..everything seems to be based on status, there.
you HAVE to have a car...or some kind of high materialistic possession in order to be recognized out there.
..& i find that greatly disgusting.

i've never seen so many cell phones in my LIFE, 'till i moved out there.

...i'll end it like this: some will like L.A., some will love L.A....
...then there are those - like me - who loathe L.A..


...& look at the bitch NOW!
"Wigstock:The Movie"
my first time in LA we are at this nice hotel which was on the side of the little hill and we are sitting by the pool where you had a nice view of this gorgeous cloud of smog... very nice

and then I was with a group of people hanging out and we were going somewhere during the day and I said "How far is it? Lets walk..." and they all did the "no comprendo" look where you sort of cock your head to the side and just blink

I learned all about Scientology...

LA is pink satin where as NYC is midnight blue velvet...

it was a quirky little adventure even for this jaded NYer...all in all I had a nice time


feed the fire of your desire...
In no particular order...

-- The old Ambassador Hotel.

-- Sneaking into the decaying Union Pacific train yards downtown.

-- Mulholland Drive in late November (from a 4-wheel drive vehicle, of course.)

-- Aimee Semple MacPherson's temple in Echo Park.

-- Hangin' out at Danny's Okee Dog on Santa Monica Blvd.

-- The Malibu General Store and that Mexican orchid guy's wonderful greenhouses nearby.

-- Griffith Park, especially its observatory.

-- Chuck E. Weiss, Syd Straw, Ann Magnuson, and all those other misfit former easterners that live there now.
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The Getty, for that so-far-out-of-human scale/American Royalty(Divinity?) boost.-No, really, only a dead gazillionaire could afford to put on tiny little, totally steep art shows in comparably intimate spaces, almost hands-on -although the Getty museum (citadel?) is technically outside the city limit.

The downtown abandoned after 8PM. So reminiscent of the 80's in Anycity USA.

Feeling like everyday is a russian roulette with an earthquake.

Here is what the city is to me in one pill: Riding the elevator in the Mondrian Hotel with Billy Idol who is carrying his own clothes back from the dry cleaner and has a black eye, while I eat the bagel with butter I got from the hotel restaurant that cost $10 before I head back down to the pool to lounge in the 8PM summer sunset as it turns green in the smog hanging over the five different downtowns.


The weather is okay if you hate variety and love having to wear sweaters at night.

When I'm there I just get the feeling I can't find anything real. I'm not in to pretension, and celebrities to me are like some kind of puppets in the white order's zoo. The only zones that work for me are the ethnic aberrations you can't discern from the image the place offers of an oceanic suburban sprawl when you're flying over.
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Well said dear sage......"When I'm there I just get the feeling I can't find anything real. I'm not in to pretension, and celebrities to me are like some kind of puppets in the white order's zoo. The only zones that work for me are the ethnic aberrations you can't discern from the image the place offers of an oceanic suburban sprawl when you're flying over." Well said...
Totally how I feel... it gives me the heebeegeebees.... Give me the real edge and color and diversity anyday.... LA its just the Hamptons with more celebs and palm trees......
I find the unreality of it all part of its charm actually. Everyone walking around all plastic surgeried and fake. A lot of the women look like trannys there. The posing, the "fronting" can be amusing -- though only as a now-and-then novelty. And the 70s time warp near the beaches kind of excites me, as though I'll see Farrah Fawcett flying by in a Trans Am at any second. And the weather! I've NEVER been a winter person -- I only like it during the holiday season. Otherwise I'm all about summer and fall. After living through so many bone-chilling winters here I could certainly deal with a place that's warm all the time. It's nice to go to the beach year round and not just during July and August.

But the isolation there is smothering. Everyone in their cars and behind gates. Fronting. The segregation. In New York you always feel connected and a part of the human race because there's people on the street at times walking alongside you. Everyone rides the bus or the subway. You rub shoulders with everyone of all walks and stations of life. Out there everyone drives everywhere and only the lowest of the low ride the bus. It's all about status.

I never get the feeling that I'm in a big city when in L.A., even though it's the nation's "other mecca". No skyscrapers. Very suburban. It's like driving through Queens.
Variety Magazine published an excerpt from famed screenwriter Joe Eszterhas's new bombshell tell-all memoirs about Hollywood. Quite a scathing portrait of L.A. and an ugly picture of Malibu too. When I think of Malibu I always see an incoherent Barbara Parkins in a Pucci caftan wallowing in the surf on dolls. Guess it's not really that fab.

Skies not always blue in Malibu
Tue Jan 27, 7:00 PM ET

(Variety) Most people are aware that screenwriter Joe Eszterhas decamped Hollywood for his native Cleveland. But most haven't heard exactly how a well-paid screenwriter sours on Malibu. In this excerpt from his new memoir, "Hollywood Animal," he explains.

"There was always some damn movie being filmed at night on the beach below us in Malibu keeping us awake.

And Joey found a used hypodermic to play with on the local playground.

And we were forced to buy what we called our "Brinks Mailbox" because one of our neighbors, starstruck, was stealing our mail.

And an Alaska Airlines jet crashed a few miles out at sea and the beach beneath us was awash for weeks with body tissue and suitcases.

And we'd fired one of our nannies because L.A. sheriff's deputies had caught her threatening and stalking the television actor Robert Conrad.

And yet, that wasn't really what was wrong. Something was very wrong, I felt, but none of those things, added together, summed up the problem. I was the problem. Something was wrong with me. . . .

In some deep part of me, I didn't want to be here anymore. I didn't want to go to the wall and fight the battles . . . and do the seductive, empty chitchat at Morton's. I still wanted to write screenplays, but I didn't want the rest of the package: the fights with directors, the paparazzi at the premieres, the limos, the best table at Spago, the weekends in Palm Springs or Laguna.

I felt like I'd befouled myself somehow, like I had turned into something I didn't want to be: the screenwriter as Hollywood Animal ... not as victim and servant and peon and whore ... but as the Hollywood Animal, the gun in my hand.

An ancient Hollywood equation says that in the beginning of a project, the screenwriter has the gun and when his script is finished he hands the gun off to the director ... and when the director's cut is finished, the director hands the gun off to the studio ... and when the studio has the gun ... the studio fires the gun and kills the screenwriter and the director with it.

Well, not me! I had the gun and kept it and could even aim it at studio heads and get them to throw their hands up and give me what I wanted!

Hollywood animal behavior. Another symptom of the same disease that had caused a producer friend of mine to slap his maid bloody for not moving fast enough at a dinner party, or another producer friend who viciously beat up his fiancee two weeks before their wedding date --- a date he kept, but with another woman.

You'll never work in this town again was blackmail and extortion, because there was always an "if" attached to that time-worn sentence . . . "If you leave CAA," Michael Ovitz had said to me, talking about his foot soldiers who'd blow my brains out.

And now I was engaging in the same sort of blackmail and extortion. I was a Hollywood animal, I feared, just as much as Ovitz, pulling the same gangster tactics on the town that he'd pulled on me. I had become what I detested.

"So do whatever you want to do," I'd written to Ovitz, "and fuck you," more than implying that he was trash, Hollywood scum, and I didn't want to have anything to do with him. Now I was off my high horse, muscling and browbeating the other players in the gutter.

I felt like I should send myself the same letter I'd sent to Ovitz. There was no doubt in my mind that the Ovitz jacket I saw myself wearing fit to a tee: Michael had even turned on Ron Meyer, his best friend, the way I'd turned on Guy McElwaine.
I found myself reconsidering and reevaluating my whole battle with Ovitz. Was it really wanting Guy back in my life that made me resist Ovitz eleven years ago? Or was it me saying: You're candy, frat boy. Welcome to Lorain Avenue. You don't have a chance. I'm gonna hit you in the fuckin' head with a baseball bat ... because I'm the real Hollywood animal, asshole, I'm the real Thousand-Pound Gorilla!"

The longer I'd lived in this town the worse I'd become ... until I was out of control, amok in Malibu. Wildlife. A barbarian hanging scalps and check stubs off his figurative dick. There was something about this cursed and glitzy town that infected you and fired you with delusions. Living here was like functioning on low-desert meth cut with just a crust of PCP.

L.A. was a separate nation, not a state within the United States ... but a separate nation between the United States and Mexico whose Twin Towers was the Industry. It was impossible to imagine this separate nation without the Industry because the Industry was its big, beeping, buzzing, glowing sacred heart.

Everyone wanted to be a part of the Industry ... as a screenwriter, actor, producer, gofer, gaffer, whatever --- it didn't matter. As long as they could be a part of it and suck off its glamorous, poisonous, siliconed, corrupt tit.

Jeremy, Naomi's 40-year-old little brother, made a lucrative salary. He was a brilliant PR man, a talented singer and songwriter. Yet one day, out of the blue, he suddenly decided to write screenplays with a friend. Why? Because if Ben Affleck and Matt Damon could do it ...

Jeremy read the trades too, tried to get invited to "industry events." He kept a list in his office of movie stars he and his co-workers had glimpsed in the outdoor cafés of the Sunset Strip.

A screenwriter! He was a screenwriter now! Boom! Just like that! Out of the blue! Even though he'd never written anything but songs and PR releases before. Even though he got so jittery sitting in one place for twenty minutes that he had to get up and pace around the room.

Naomi and I loved Jeremy and we feared this deadly suckhole of a town was sucking him in, too. He drove a hot car. He went to the gym each day. He was on his cellular all the time. He didn't check his at-home mail for a week, but he checked his e-mail at his office every hour.

The truth was that in the Nation of L.A. you ... didn't matter ... if you weren't sucking off the Industry tit. You were nothing even if it seemed that you were something."

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hattie remembers so well because those are all her crusing spots.
i gave it a shot and lasted 9 months, haven't been back since. the most unsettling issue for me was there was not enough history in southern california. la is just over 100 years old,
i found it to be a big yawn.

there were some good times there, but i'm not very good in a car.

If you Google the words "lots and lots of Hollywood Republicans," you get about 58,900 hits, which just goes to show you that the Internet is really one big swamp of wishful thinking, political and pornographic. Because the truth is, even if you allot one Google hit per Hollywood Republican, you've still got about 58,885 hits too many.

About every four years, Republican fundraisers and strategists lose contact with reality and declare "impressive inroads" into the Hollywood community. "A lot of Hollywood stars and industry professionals are really supportive of the Republican agenda," some glassy-eyed Republican mouthpiece will declare, with Moonie-like cheerfulness. "I've gotten a lot of phone calls from some major names in the business," some Republican fantasist will chirp to some lazy, gullible reporter, "and let me tell you, they're interested in knowing just what this party is all about!"

It's a bit like poor Robert McFarlane, back in the Reagan administration, who arrived in Tehran on a secret mission to make "impressive inroads" with "Iranian moderates," clutching a Bible and a cake in the shape of a key. Except in McFarlane's case, there probably were some moderates around there, somewhere. And they probably ate the cake, too, since Persians are famous for their sweet tooth and aren't as obsessed as some of us out here in Hollywood are about sugar and carbs.

And of course, about every four years, the lumbering lard-draggers at the New York Times bestir themselves to write an article headlined, "Is Hollywood Still a One-Party TinselTown?"

Short answer: yes. Yes.

Why this is so, is an interesting question.

The easy answer, like all easy answers, is money. For most Hollywood celebrities and executives, money cascades into the pockets with such torrential velocity that it ceases to have any real meaning. It's impossible to make a traditional Republican-cloth-coat appeal to someone wearing a $15,000 chartreuse leather suit.

The most incendiary political document ever printed isn't the Declaration of Independence, it's an ordinary pay stub. On it is declared what you were originally paid, what the government snuck out when you weren't looking, and what you're left with. The pay stub is, in fact, the most powerful direct-mail piece in the Republican arsenal.

Most Hollywood types, of course, never see a pay stub. Their paycheck makes a lot of stops along its path to the original payee: first to the agent, who skims his 10 percent; then to the manager, who slices his 15; now to the lawyer, 5 percent please thank you; one last stop at the business manager, who collects his 5, pays Uncle Sam, and reissues a check for an amount roughly 80 percent smaller than it was at the start.

It may also have something to do with the vaguely geriatric concept of "hard work," which for most people involves either lifting and/or moving and/or welding heavy, sharp objects; or toiling in some airless cubicle in desperate need of money. It does not, unlike Hollywood, involve yoga and $1,000 shirts. Put it this way: The grips, dolly-pushers, set-construction guys, and electricians on any movie set tend to be on the rightward side of the political discussion. The other folks, who tend to sit in their trailers a lot, drinking bottles of French water and talking on tiny cellphones, are on the left.

I once made this point to a lefty actor friend of mine. He scoffed. "You know the real reason the crew guys are so right-wing?" he asked. "They all live, like, way out of town, out past the Valley, out beyond the San Gabriels, and they drive, like, I don't know, an hour or two to work every day, each way. So they listen to a lot of that right-wing talk radio, all that Rush Limbaugh stuff, and it just turns them into right-wing kooks."

"Why do they live so far away?" I asked.

"Because they can't afford to live any closer."


"Because they don't get paid much."


"Because actors and directors and producers get all the money."

"You mean all of those liberal Democrat actors and directors and producers?"

"Just because they're liberal," my friend said, "doesn't mean they're not rat bastards."

Which brings us to the real reason Hollywood is a one-party town. Let me tell you a story: Recently, the president of a large division of a large studio was given his walking papers. Nothing personal, of course "” the guy was good at his job (or, more accurately, as good as anyone else would be, tasked with the same pointless responsibilities) "” but the studio chairman had just installed a new president of the division under which the fired guy's division nested, and the new guy wanted to bring in fresh blood.

Usually, the new guy runs a bony finger down the organization chart and silently ticks off the names of everyone senior enough to gun for his job and fires them, thus ensuring that the new team running the studio has one powerful captain surrounded by terrified eunuchs. But firing people costs money "” there are contracts, you see, and stock options "” so the new guy has to be very careful to fire only those employees who pose an actual threat, by dint of their intelligence or courage or originality or some other personality defect, and not waste money on the drones.

So our guy's out and he knows it. He's not bitter at all. Being fired, obviously, is proof of his value; if he hadn't been good at his job, they would have promoted him. But he is more than a little broke. He has a house in the Riviera section of the Palisades (the best address in town), a vacation place in Telluride, and a wife who has confused "having a job" with "writing a novel." He needs a steady, fat stream of cash coming in to match the steady, slightly fatter stream of money flowing out, mostly to the American Express corporation.

The financial ace up his tattered sleeve is a bushel of stock options that are, in our bubble-economy parlance, "in the money." So right after he gets his walking papers he calls up his old friend, the corporate treasurer, in New York. "Hey, buddy," he probably puts it, "you and I go way back, we're pals, our wives and kids know each other . . . I've got these options I want to cash in. I know you can't legally tell me exactly what to do, but I'd appreciate it, since we've been friends for so long, if you'd indicate to me if I should exercise them now, or if the rumors I hear are true and there's going to be a buyout of the studio, thus increasing their value tenfold, and making me a very rich man. A rich, retired man. What do you say, pal o' mine?"

There is a long pause on the line. And then the corporate treasurer says, "My friend, I shouldn't tell you this, but just because you're you, I'll tell you unequivocally, that it doesn't matter at all."

"So I should exercise the options today?"

"I'm telling you that it won't matter one way or the other."

So the guy exercises his options. And it did matter one way or the other. The following Monday, a large media conglomerate announced a buyout of the studio, increasing the share price by a factor of ten, then, a few months later, by a factor of fifteen. Personally, I like to think that the corporate treasurer had the buyout-agreement documents on his desk while he was telling his old friend, 3,000 miles away, that it "won't matter one way or the other."

That's the way we operate. We're cruel, sure. But we're subtle.

So why didn't the treasurer tell his friend to hold on to his options? One possible explanation: It would be illegal to do so and corporate treasurers are notoriously honest.

Done laughing? Good. Let's get to the real reason he didn't: He's mean. He's a mean, jealous guy and he didn't want his "best friend" to be too much richer than he. A little richer, okay. A lot richer "” and we're apparently talking in the tens of millions, here "” not okay.

Also, he knows that in Hollywood behavior of this kind has no consequences. Those two guys, it should be noted, are still close friends. Sure, they might have hit a rough patch around, say, the time the stock price hit $108 per share (up from its quaintly respectable option price of $6), but they've worked through it, see? The definition of "friend" is so elastic in Hollywood that it includes the definition of "enemy." This town is so small that everyone eventually brutalizes everyone else. We're like rats in a coffee can: nowhere to go but at each other.

Fear, then, is what keeps us marching in lockstep. Hollywood liberalism isn't so much a matter of conviction as it is of keeping one's head down. Any form of eccentricity isn't encouraged unless enough people are already doing it, which sort of contradicts the meaning of "eccentric" in the first place, and leads to unpleasant things like thousands of Mercedes-Benz SUVs on the road, green-tea pills, and Howard Dean yard signs.

It's also, on a spiritual level, a form of bet-hedging. Say what you like about the Democratic-party agenda "” which is, essentially, all about having peaceful U.N.-sanctioned gay weddings in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge "” it's a nice agenda, for nice people. It's idealistic and generous and childishly hopeful, and if you've spent all day lying on the telephone and screwing your client out of his money and yelling at your assistant for bringing you the wrong kind of water and paying your Guatemalan maid sub-minimum wages, then maybe you, too, might need a little John Kerry in your life to make you feel good about yourself.

And isn't that what Hollywood is all about? Feeling good about yourself?

Don't bother bringing the Bible and the cake. The Democratic party has already been here, with something much more valuable.

Mr. Long is an NR contributing editor and author of Conversations with My Agent.
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I kick the empty Jack in the Box carton off the uneven sidewalk. Nobody walks the streets in this town. Passing the transient motel with its 50's motif and chipping paint i smell the stench of broken dreams on Sunset Blvd. Hollywood is unapologetic with its lure of bright lights, desparate with its fake promise of fame. Neon Lights flash "headshots", "photo re-touch" and "pawn shop" next to the predictable promise from the City of Angels - "Spiritual Healing". A location truck swipes the corner giving me once again the belief that the Hollywood dream does thrive - for some. Yet the bright California dreaming sunshine also casts dark shaddows.
Ghosts of disillusionment soak my soul as I walk these streets. A heavy mix of wannabees struck down by the hit and run years desparate to catch the fleeting number plate of fame.
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Yeah, I expected a long shot of Humphrey Bogart in a trench coat and fedora exhaling a huge puff of smoke from a Lucky Strike.

Try to catch the new Frank Gehry designed 'Disney Muisc Hall.' If you stand around on the back side of it you can actually get fried from the reflection of the sun off all that metal. I always recommend taking a ride to the Getty palace grounds. Even if there is no great art show up just being up on the citadel on a nice day is a high. The rising demographic slice in LA now that the city is trying to pay attention to is hispanic women. It won't be long until they are the majority. Within LA the movie industry keeps becoming more and more of a parallel dimension. What can you say about any slice of the local scene (music, theater, etc.) that is fed more by teevee than by the local scene itself?

Anyway, Anna, we know what your mission is out there. So we don't expect you to be doing much sight-seeing outside of the romp room.
Seven that is SOOO funny that u mention the Disney building it was THE only thang I wanted to do there... my blokie there kept saying "what do u wanna do?" and all I could ask for was a trip to my fave supermarket - ralphs and see that building downtown.. what a majestic piece of architecture.. .loved it! Wish it were slap on Melrose or smth though instead of way downtown.. but loved it...
It was a fucked up weekend.... bloke crashed the car (real amazing he could walk! - his mustang looked like an accordian), friends chick jumped from the top of a building an killed herself, blokes dad got taken into hospital with heart problem, blokes cousin diagnosed with cancer... and to top it all I did laundry and fucked up all the blokes clothes... after the drama of all of this i never got to 'collect' on my 'mold' which is waiting for craft day proudly on top of his fridge. Was drained by the whole weekend and felt it all rather bleak. (Thank God for the good shag moments at least).
gawd, what a beautiful town. can't imagine leaving either, michael, yet as they emptied New Orleans with incompetance, it's some neocon's wet dream for nyc also.

first time merlin arrived by ship into New York Harbor this life time, i ran up to the deck to see the Statue of Liberty and everything was fog in, pea soup style. no post card moment like the above. thanks daddy.
A Tale of Two Cities. To me NYC and LA are not as different as everyone else claims. Both towns have extreme juxtapositions of lofty illusion and hard reality, and that very mix is what attracted me to NYC in the first place. Both cities are ground zero for flocks of people seeking stardom, and both have their metaphoric boulevards of broken dreams. Is it the urban blight that turns people off LA? There used to be plenty of that right here in Manhattan, though not so much anymore. Ditto for the armies of plastic surgery addicts -- here in the Big Apple we call it the Upper East Side. Both cities feature lifestyles that are insane and unnatural but addictive. Skyscrapers vs. palm trees ... are they really that unrelated?

Of course I've never lived there and I'm not sure I could. One feels much more connected to humanity on any given pedestrian-laden street here than one does there with all the car drivers. But I tend to think people who endlessly trash L.A. are taking it WAAAAAAAYY too seriously. The very absurdity and artificiality of it is part of its charm. Think of LA as Pamela Anderson Lee, and NY as .... Kembra.
No, LA really does blow. I have extended family there, as well as my sister who's teaching in South Central, and it's always blown.

It's not just the miasma of artificiality, there's a distinct odor of apathy. Imagine a blackout like the one we had here over there. CHA-OS.

I luuuuvs me my New York.

LA BLOWS! LA BLOWS! LA BLOWS! Insert "sucks" for "blows" at your convenience.
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drove up into a brown cloud yesterday as i approached. the air here is unbelievably polluted but, thankfully, once you're underneath that cloud you can't really see it.
traffic and sprawl are gross as ever. i'd NEVER want to live here.

that being said...
went to a very cute club night last night.
they call it RHONDA.
it happens at guatelinda's - a mexican dance hall on hollywood blvd.
the children pump throwback looks with a heavy dose of irony - leg warmers, side ponytails, nerd glasses, checkered bandanas.
and the music was FIERCE!!!
up until 1 am it was all obscure old disco and electro. i could've counted the songs i knew on one hand and still had some fingers left over. and the dj's were youngsters!!
you were handed a jello shot as you walked in.
at one point they brought a bunch of red balloons onto the dancefloor, later a pinata.
we had a BLAST!

if you're ever in l.a. on a thursday night,
you would want to hit the dancefloor with RHONDA.

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