Last night I journeyed to Santa Monica, a 8-mile strip of streetlights wrapped in bright blue lights, tiny vintage shops, and beach cruisers. The pier is home to a neon farris wheel that swirls yellow, blue and florescent green into a black night sky. In front of most of the houses is a buffer of palm trees, high bushes swaying lightly, and imperfectly pieced together spunky wooden fences that don't scream"Keep Out," as the Beverly Hill high rot iron gates do,  but  guard the secrets each peculiar shaped beach abode holds.  

Sandwiched between the mansions of Malibu and the turban-wearing, electric guitar playing roller bladders of Venice, Santa Monica is a family friendly little town that might be mistaken for Edmond's Wash. if it weren't for the weed dispensaries dotting the main drag. We moved south into Venice beach to Abbott Kinney st. Here,  we found the brig. Despite this bar's  reputation for stiff drinks, my $5  cosmo failed to give me anything more than a sugar high. Plus it came in a glass about 90% full of ice. The night was far from a bust though: we moved to a gay bar about three blocks down, making it in moments before last call. We didn't have to wait at the bar and I met a teddy bear like fellow from Tacoma, Wash. Near felt like I was home in Capitol Hill. Afterwards we crammed in Simon's car and headed to the Mar Vista home he house-sits. Inside we devoured Vegan snack, met two wise old cats,  and a slipped into a hot tub nestled deep in the rear corner of an overgrown garden. 

This morning, Corey and I went to The Harvest Cafe in Brentwood. A charming little restaurant with dressed in brink and oak paneled walls, the Harvest Cafe's brunch blew me away. I devoured an egg white omelet of fresh organic veggies blanketed in tomato basil sauce. We rode back listening to George Watsky and drinking the sun of San Vicente Blvd. 

Hollywood Farmer's Market

The name sounds like a cruel oxymoron, I know. But believe it or not, Hollywood actually is home to a sprawling four-block hub of local farmers pedaling fresh organic fruits and veggies. Bustling with people on Sunday afternoon, the market leaked wafts of earthy green sprouts, juicy citrus and sweet musky incense that hit my nose the moment I stepped off the metro red line. Ah new found nasal bliss! Near cured my hangover. 

The market resembles an outdoor Pike Place, plus a street devoted to ready to eat entrees, most for under $7. Sadly, because Sky Vodka from the night before still sloshed violently in my stomach, I couldn't really muster the strength to go for one of the browned chicken and veggie kabobs letting off a thick savory steam from the grill in front of me. But next week, I vowed, I'll be ready. 

I boarded the bus home with my Trader Joe's tote filled with peppers, onions, mango-nectarines and a spinach-like leafy green vegetable that seemed to be popular with the long-haired, tanned supermodel looking shoppers sporting long sundresses and gigantic sunglasses. All, I might add, for under $10. 

I plan to return to my little Hollywood oasis next week. 

Evenings at the Treehouse

This night marked evening number three of cheap wine and priceless conversation in the wood paneled, bohemian living room that smells of incense, otherwise known as the Treehouse. (Simon wants to rent it out to filmakers, perhaps ones interested in making seventies themed pornos?) 

Last night, I met some of my roommate Roman's cinematographer friends in my living room. We devoured a traditional German dish, Italian Beer and a Pinot Gris with a cartoonish label. I know that Roman is just a subletter like me, but he seemed so at home with  one of his oil slicked hair friends in thick rimmed glasses, fitted denim and a nearly sheer white button up shirt. The cheese cloaked casserole we are  might be described as the weird and delicious offspring of macaroni and cheese and scalped potatoes and ham. Greasy, and expectational. After dinner his friends talked movie jargon and I zoned out on a olive green seventies style couch with a C-Section gap spewing yellow foam padding. 

 Tonight, I met a black watermelon seed eating Israelite who's name is Kent--oddly enough, the same as my best friend's red neck boyfriend, a US road tripper named Jeff who hopes to visit a ghost town in death valley CA, and a dude named Richard who attends (or fuck, attended?) Harvard. I liked him far more before discovering either of these details about his life. 

Anyways, I think I ought hold off on passing judgement, because Richard, like everyone else I have meet at the Treehouse thus far on my Los Angeles odyssey, is pretty fucking cool. Last year my roommates and I spend to many nights far, far, away from each other absorbed in the glow of our personal computers. 

I think that it is good for me to drink wine and surround myself with interesting new faces. And maybe just exciting and fun. I do not always need to think about what is good for me, as if I were a terminally ill, mentally unstable fraught, fucked up piece of brittle, breakable porcelin. 

The City of Angels

Touched down in LA last Thursday, freezing in a jean miniskirt and smelling like airplane seat. 

No sooner than our arrival at  baggage claim did my first obstacle present itself: cleaning up the ruptured shampoo bottle mess that bathed my outermost suitcase compartment in sticky, white goo. Awesome, I thought. Welcome to Los Angeles. 

As I tried to wipe out my suitcase, running back and forth between my luggage and a quickly depleting stockpile of paper towels in the bathroom, I noticed I a team of baseball players with Saint Martin's University stamped on their bat bags and up the legs of their sagging grey sweatpants looking at me like I was crazy. As they lazily hung around the baggage claim conveyor belt, I frantically scrubbed out my personal belongings. 

Once we finally left the airport, things went smoother for madre and I. And by smoother, I mean that we went the entire weekend without (permanently) losing anything thing over $100, contracting food poisoning induced diarrhea, or dying in an automobile accident. Albeit only barely did I live to bear testimony to the last of these. My mom drives like a blind woman with a hoppy the kangaroo attached to her foot, jumping eagerly from the gas to the break pedal. Boing! Down we roar down Santa Monica Drive! Boing! We streeeeach to a halt moments before crashing into the rounded, black polished ass of a Jaguar at a stoplight. 

 Anyways, I bought a bike from a french guy with a blonde pony tail and a resort-like condo in Marina del Rey, got my mom to spring for mango margaritas and moved into a wicked apartment in Westwood. 

Chalk it up to a big success. 

At my internship today, I learned that I the Cambodian government is currently on my shitlist for  canceling a sweet beauty pageant that would have featured female landmine survivors. Many of these women got their legs blown off because of we-will-totally-supply-your-corrupt-ass-government-with-weapons-if-it-serves-our-interest-Western Imperialism. More on that, and my internship, later.  

I also learned it is physically impossible to stuff six saltine crackers into your mouth in under one minute. Try it.