Paris has the Eiffel Tower. Seattle has the Space Needle. NYC has the Empire State Building. 15 euro, 22 bucks, 32 bucks – respectively.
So you want to see Los Angeles from way up there too?
Well, L.A. has City Hall and it’s FREE!
Meet David Tran, Founder of Huy Fong Foods, home of Sriracha. An immigrant. A self-made man. The Hero of Sriracha-Gate. With a 650,000 sq. ft. factory and over 100 million pounds of red jalapeno peppers ground and stored in there each year, the Willie Wonka of red pepper sauce sure made his vision come true. Now everyone can get The Golden Ticket to Mr. Tran’s factory, because anyone can get a tour.
I recently visited the Los Angeles County Museum of Art on a “free Tuesday”. Everything was free except for the Frank Gehry exhibit. He’s an architect. Oh, and the food. That wasn’t free either. For the love of architecture, I was a little perturbed. It was $25 and I just can’t afford that right now. So, I figured the next best thing is to give myself a self-tour of his buildings on my own. After all, I live in L.A. He lives in L.A. So, no doubt, I would have carte blanche to see any of his buildings he built in L.A. There are a lot.
But this story isn’t about Frank Gehry. Or architecture.
Continue reading “CHRISTMAS AT THE EDGEMAR WITH A SHOPPING CART TREE”
“Tomorrow we hike down to The Nazi Camp!” I tell my friend who has just flown in from Vancouver.
It’s Fall and she’s got to get out of the rain. L.A. is where she chooses to be for a few days. It’ll keep her warm, dry and a little bit happier to be somewhere different.
She scrunches up her nose at me mentioning the “Nazi”part; a typical reaction expected any time after Hitler let loose on the world. Nevertheless, after way too much rain, she’s up for anything. Especially a hike. Also, I sense she may be a tad curious.
When I think of great museums I think NYC, London, Paris, even Rome sometimes. But who thinks of Los Angeles? Well, I don’t. Furthermore, when it comes to free museums, I wouldn’t place Los Angeles into that category either.
Until The Broad opened. September 20, 2015.
Pronounced “Brode” – long “o”.
Eli Broad. Ever since I moved to Los Angeles I’ve noticed this name dangling down the backdrop of all things L.A.
Los Angeles Schools: Can you help us out a little?
Broad: How much do you need?
Los Angeles Arts: We need a hand out. You can be on The Board if you want.
Broad: How much do you need?
Los Angeles: Can you build a museum, store your art, sustain the museum and let everyone in for free?
Broad: Sure, how much do you need?
Well, I don’t think it went quite like that. But you get the idea.
Seriously! No more grumblings from you, San Franciscans, about us in the City of Angels. We know you think you have the best, the most and the biggest. We know your beloved Giants won the 2014 World Series.
But we got the steepest street. The steepest street in California, even.
So, suck it San Fran!
The street? It’s called Eldred Street in Highland Park. Wait, San Franciscans, you haven’t heard of Highland Park? Well, you don’t know everything, now, do you? And don’t argue with me that you have steeper. ‘Cause you don’t. This has exactly a 33.3% gradient. Your steepest streets? 22nd and Filbert. 31.5% gradient. We win!
Continue reading “STEEPEST STREET IN CALIFORNIA??? SUCK IT SAN FRAN! IT’S IN L.A.”
Bassel. Who is Bassel? I ask myself as I pull out my text machine to get a snapshot of this.
This guy is wheatpasted on a utility box on Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Studio City. I don’t see a street artist’s signature – nothing that I recognize – nothing I can find, anyway. Was it, in fact, put up by an artist? or some political group? The image looks fresh, I think to myself. This is pretty recent. Later, as I walk back from where I had come from, I notice the same image on the other side; although, it looks a bit ragged. The eyes are scratched out. Who is this guy? I wonder again.
Yes. I had a date the other night. The date began with a tug-o-war – a “you pick the place/no, you pick the place” kind of game. I won. So he picked. I picked the last couple times.
I get a text from my date much later in the day, “The Red Door?” “Sure,” I text back, though I don’t know that I had ever heard of the place before. I’m too busy to research it. I don’t even find out where it is. He’s a smart cookie. I leave it up to him.
My friend and I, we have one thing in common. We both like skulls, skeletons and anything with bones that rattle about. She’s a nurse. I have no excuse.
So a couple of years ago she asked if I wanted to go to the Museum of Death here in Los Angeles on Hollywood Boulevard – the sketchy part of the Boulevard, of course.
I’m in!
What was in store for us, though, would be much more than what we expected. Except for our giggles, “icks,” and “oh my Gods,” I barely remember any of it because we got out of there so fast.
But now I’m two years older so I thought I’d give the Museum another try. A solo visit this time. And that’s what I did.
The very first single that I bought with my very own money as a kid was “Fame” by David Bowie. “Right” was Side B. I would dance all weird to it, not being able to really pick up any definitive beat or pinpoint any kind of melody to that song – much different than singing and moving to church music. This was my introduction to punk. I was intrigued.
