Los Angeles To-Do Checklist

I'm freshly back from the Los Angeles Times Travel Show and ready to tell you all about the good times had by all. I plan to get to that over the next few days, but various social obligations and pre-birthday festivities have cramped my time for an elaborate re-cap just yet. So I'll save the Robert Young Pelton and Andrew Skurka videos for later this week, and instead entertain with a quick rundown from my other favorite travel mag.

In an undated article I came across last week, National Geographic Traveler lists its 30 must-dos for the City of Angels. While I agree with most of them, in my 10 years of living here I've yet to hit 11 of 'em. Getting out my to-do list right now...

1. Hollywood Entertainment Museum. Status: Unconquered. Seriously? Number 1? Even though I haven't been there, I don't think this would have even made it to my list of top 50, mainly because I can't recall a single person -- tourist or resident -- who's even so much as mentioned it to me.

2. Abbott Kinney. Status: Conquered. Done, done, and shall gladly do it again!

3. Inn of the Seventh Ray. Status: Conquered. Check out my Yelp review (search for "StJenna") for why I always drag tourists to Topanga.


4. Catalina Island. Status: Conquered. Been there roughly half a dozen times, and I've always had a blast. If I do return, it'll be to visit the as yet unconquered Two Harbors, or to dive the other side of the isle.

5. Flower Market. Status: Unconquered. And I don't have enough desire to see pretty flowers to get up at the buttcrack of dawn.

6. The Spa at Shutters on the Beach. Status: Unconquered. If there were ever a time that I need a massage, it's now. But of course, if there's ever a time I need a massage, it's when I'm flat broke. Ah, someday, Shutters, you will be mine...

7. Pink's. Status: Unconquered. I know they have veggie dogs, but I just don't think there's any hot dog -- tofu or otherwise -- that's worth standing in a two-hour line for. I'll pass.

8. Fred Segal. Status: Conquered. For five years I worked two blocks from Fred's, so I've been there on occasion, but I've never been overly thrilled with the place. No need for a revisit.

9. TV Taping. Status: Conquered. I don't even watch TV at home -- you want me to watch the unpolished form? And you want me to laugh? At Yes, Dear? I'll pass.

10. Page Museum/La Brea Tar Pits. Status: Unconquered/conquered. I've smelled the tar pits many a time, but I've yet to step foot in the museum itself. Hmm... where's that to-do list?

11. Chinatown. Status: Conquered. Why, oh why, did they close my shop with the bestest selection of shoes in town? Proof that nothing good lasts forever. And aren't most of the stores Vietnamese-owned now?

12. Movies at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Status: Unconquered. How in hell is it that I've never done this? Scribbling frantically on to-do list right now...

13. Museum of Jurassic Technology. Status: Conquered. Eh, I guess it was worth the visit, just to say "Been there, done that." But I was underwhelmed, especially after so many friends hyped it to me.

14. Cafe Chapeau in Larchmont Park. Status: Unconquered. Never even heard of the place, but if they're supposed to have killer flapjacks, I'm game. Pass the strawberry syrup, please.


15. Rodeo Drive/Robertson Blvd. Status: Conquered. Rodeo blows, but I'd head back to Robertson for some of the cheekier boutiques -- oh, and to finally blow a wad on a pair of Stella McCartney's.

16. Grand Central Market. Status: Conquered. I so miss working across the street from this fiery, feisty heart of old LA. How many co-workers did I drag from their dreary cubes to experience the circus of color and flavors mere yards away? Adding back to checklist right now...

17. The Egyptian. Status: Conquered. Cool, yes, but worthy of a Top 30 list? I think the Silent Movie Theater has more going for it in terms of uniqueness.

18. Cathedral of Our Lady of the City of Angels. Status: Unconquered. Scribbling again...

19. McCabes. Status: Conquered. Very cool, glad I did it, prefer Amoeba's shows. Usually.

20. The LA River. Status: Unconquered. I smile every morning as I catch a glimpse of this trickle of nature on my daily commute, but I've yet to venture down to the heart of the city itself. Reminder: Must do with crazy fish-catching friend from aquarium.

21. Beverly Hills Hotel. Status: Unconquered. I avoid pink like the plague, which could explain my aversion to this iconic landmark. Perhaps one day I'll be lured by the call of tea time. I hear it's choice.

22. Venice Canals. Status: Conquered. I've even fallen in, so I'd say two checks for this one.

23. Griffith Park (night views). Status: Conquered. Yes, the view is iconic. Now, if I can only drag my ass over to the new observatory before they refurbish it again, I'll be happy.

24. Little Ethiopia. Status: Conquered. I love food, but Ethiopian isn't at the top of my list. I consider it a bland version of Indian. Give me saag paneer any day!

25. The Grove. Status: Conquered. Seriously? An outdoor mall makes a must-do list? The only thing different about this one is the slight chance you'll get to see a slowpoke pedestrian get crushed by the trolley.

26. Karaoke in K-Town. Status: Conquered. No, it wasn't at the Brass Monkey, and I myself did not subject anyone to my singing, but I've been in a private party room and witnessed the drunken American Idol wannabes. That qualifies.

27. Farmers Market. Status: Conquered. Ah, my beloved Santa Monica Farmers' Market. How I do miss thee. Holy Guacamole, my eyes water just thinking of you. One day, I shall return...

28. Urth Caffe. Status: Conquered. What's the big deal with this place? I don't get it. Yeah, it's good -- but three locations good? I can think of better places to spend $10 on a sandwich.

29. Adamson House. Status: Unconquered. I have heard that this is indeed a hidden gem. Adding to list...

30. Philippe's. Status: Conquered. I've eaten there, but being a vegetarian, I haven't had the famed French dip. It's as conquered as I'm gonna get it.

Perhaps one day when Carpel Tunnel isn't sneaking up on me after 14 hours online, I'll have the stamina to create my own must-do list.

Esotouric: Los Angeles' Less Sunny -- But Ever More Interesting -- Side

There are days I want to skip town and never look back. And then there are days that remind me why my planned three-year stint in LA has lapsed into just over a decade. The pure seediness and myriad just-below-the-surface stories and neighborhoods that I continue to uncover keep me from hightailing it to an even warmer clime like Hawaii. And now, as if they'd done it just for me, someone's made a tour that showcases all the best of LA's worst.

Esotouric doesn't cater to the shiny, smiling out-of-towner hoping for a real-life glimpse of a celeb teen tragedy. Instead, this only-in-LA tour company takes passengers through the various underbellies of the city's many-storied past. The new Blood & Dumplings tour careens past notorious crime scenes and the hideouts of various ne'er-do-wells like neo-Nazis and murderous lesbians -- all topped off with a tasty bite from Alhambra's 101 Noodle Express, one of Jonathan Gold's 99 sanctioned area joints (with vegetarian options for yours truly). Where the Action Was gets hip to the once-happening rock landmarks, including Rodney Bingenheimer's now-defunct boite. They even cover my beloved Route 66.

Who wants to tag along?

Why Brits Are Better Drivers

I don't even want to imagine such an intersection in LA. Picture it: a merge-phobic armada of SUVs attempting a living version of a theme-park teacup ride while chatting up their agents/au pairs/massage therapists on their cells as they try to navigate a perpetual eddy of interlocking circles. Hell on wheels, I say, but the Brits in Swindon refer to it as the "Magic Roundabout."

Traffic circles are quite common in the Northeast, and we even have a handful here in El Lay (Venice's Windward Circle comes to mind). But there's a reason that they never caught on in the colonies -- the very same reason that Michigan's jug-handle left turns never made it out of the Midwest: Americans are too damn impatient and self-centered to yield the right of way.

We need better traffic patterns in our nation's largest cities, something to quell the smog-producing, stress-filled intersections that are such a blight on our highways. But, as efficient as the Magic Roundabout may be, I wouldn't risk my life entering one on this side of the Pond. I've endured way too many attempts to merge on the northbound 405/101 interchange (the worst in the country, according to Infoplease) to think we're capable of that.

Sin Chicas, Silencio (Los Angeles, Day 7)

My cell phone is broken. A conspicous brown spot has appeared on the backseat of my once spotless six-month-old car. A fine film of sand covers the entire flooring surface of my home. There's gum on my wall.

But quiet has returned to my home. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that. I wouldn't necessarily say that quiet is better.

When I said goodbye to the chicas at the airport, I felt unexpectedly choked up. I was going to miss their crazy ramen songs and impersonations of impersonations of celebrities. I would no longer be peppered with questions about politics, environmentalism, or Greek mythology in the most unusual of surroundings. I'd also have to go back to work, dagnabbit.

I hope the chicas have taken with them lots of memories that they'll cherish for years to come. For me, my favorite memory was when the two embraced me out of nowhere and stared up at me with impish grins. When I asked what they were up to, they just shrugged and said, "Nothing, we just wanted to hug you."

"I'm going to enjoy this moment," I said gazing down at them as they snuggled closer while still wriggling with pre-teen antsiness. "In a few years, you're going to hate me." Why is that? they asked, such a thought still inconceivable. "Because most teenagers have disdain" -- they'd already heard this word many times on their trip -- "for adults. I did."

"That won't happen," Micaela insisted, shaking her head emphatically. "You're just a big kid."

I'll remind her of that sentence the first time she rolls her eyes when I offer advice. Oh, wait...

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family (Los Angeles, Day 6)

Las Super Chicas are slowing down, their seemingly limitless energy giving way to sleeping in and returning home early to see what movie Aunt Jenn can surprise them with next. We started our day late, with breakfast at my old haunt, Jinky's in Santa Monica, where we met up with the notorious Lenatic and her outrageous cackle. After scarfing our brunch ("I can't believe how much these two eat!" exclaimed a not-easily-impressed Lena), las super chicas were introduced to Rocky McDoodle, Lena's trusty red chow.

Next we headed across town to the La Brea Tar Pits (which translates, redundantly, as "The the tar tar pits"). The chicas couldn't believe that there was still trouble brewing beneath the surface, as evidenced by the gurgling bubbles -- and the stench. We watched the mammoth statues float on the tarry surface, then headed over to the excavation pit, where workers painstakingly cleared fossil specimens one speck of dust at a time. Not exactly a dream job for any of the three ADD super chicas.

A quick drive in Eartha KITT (our beloved chariot) brought us back to Hollywood and Highland, where we parked and headed through the maddened crowd of muggles awaiting the arrival of the stars of the Harry Potter franchise. Las super chicas had no interest in anything Potter, even though the eldest is, like, a huge fan and would have been thrilled to catch a real-life glimpse of any of the actors. Alas, she had to settle for watching the tops of their heads bob through the Hollywood Boulevard crowd before ducking into the El Capitan for the Ratatouillespectacle, where my friend Marilyn joined us belatedly. The pre-show consisted of the requisite organ playing followed by several live dance numbers starring some of the most popular Disney characters. The film itself didn't impress the younger chicas as much as the pre-show and the theater itself.

We had a few minutes to duck into stores for souvenirs, then, because we hadn't eaten enough all day, we headed to the Valley to meet up with some of Jessica's family and some of my friends. Along the way, we picked up my pal McK, whom the girls fell in love with due to their mutual tastes in music and television (Avril Lavigne, American Idol, etc.). Once at the Pomorodoin Sherman Oaks, we enjoyed a lovely meal with Jessica's aunt, uncle, and cousins, as well as my surrogate family, Julie and Tyler. As McK watched the girls' ramen dance and non-stop chatter, he turned to me and said, "You've survived five days of this?" His is a lifestyle that moves at a much slower pace than water slides and roller coasters.

After bidding farewell to blood and surrogate families alike, we traveled over the Hollywood Hills to return McK to his home, las super chicas entertaining from the backseat by regurgitating various pop-culture shows. They then asked the question that would seal McK, who knew the answer, as their favorite person of the whole trip. "Do you know where Paris Hilton lives?" Las super chicas claim to hate Paris, but their unwavering fascination with her and their desire to spend money on merchadise with her likeness say otherwise. Now they insisted that their eagerness to see the Hilton homestead was because they wanted to toss eggs, which wasn't about to happen on my watch. We did, however, drive by 1467 N. Kings Road, while the girls protested ever more loudly how much they despised the heiress. Yeah, okay.

After dropping McK home, we returned to Playa del Rey and I forced the girls to shower -- no way were they waking me at 5:30AM with showers and hair dryers. While one cleaned up, the other, supposedly, packed, but there were still personal belongings strewn about the living room when we finally turned out the lights and the last of the giggles were suppressed.

Video: The Ramen Dance


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

I Think They're Turning Japanese (Los Angeles, Day 5)

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." This is the movie quote du jour that las chicas learned.

We spent a rather relaxing day, compared to the previous ones. My shark-diving pal Patric hooked me up with his fishing buddy at the Aquarium of the Pacific, where we got a behind-the-scenes tour. We started out with an up-close shark feeding, where bull sharks, zebra sharks, sawfish, and other toothy pelagics swirled about to get their daily nibbles. Then Steve took us back to the main quarantine area, where we saw animals awaiting their turn to be put on exhibit, or simply enjoying life as they couldn't out in the open ocean. One in particular was a blind sea lion, who would have been Purina shark chow himself had he not been taken into captivity.

We got quick peeks at the animal food prep area, the diver staging area, and then onto the above-tank viewing area, where we looked down upon the ginormous exhibition tanks that all the hoi polloi could see only from below. Then Steve asked what the chicas' favorite animal is, to which they answered, "Sea horses!" Moments later, the girls' grins were wider than a porpoise's as they saw the hundreds of miniature sea horses, some less than a day old, galloping around in their tanks. We even saw leafy and weedy sea dragons, relatives to the sea horses but more like silky plants, say las chicas. Perhaps the thoughts of ramen are finally getting to them: Like Japanese tourists, they viewed much of the aquarium through the camera viewfinders on their cell phones.

After our VIP treatment, we headed back to join the masses, this time viewing the exhibits with the commoners. The girls were excited to finally meet Rungus, the binturong I'd told them smells like popcorn and looks like a cross between a cat and a monkey, complete with whiskers and prehensile tail. But their favorite part was the lorikeet exhibit, where dozens of the brightly colored birds fly free in an enclosure, even landing on guests bearing cups of nectar. Las chicas so adored this part of the aquarium that we returned after the first movie, and skipped a longer viewing of the puffins and sea otters. Actually, I take that back. Their favorite part of the aquarium was, of course, the gift shop, where they spent the better part of 40 minutes.

We strolled the boardwalk a little bit, taking in such sites as the Queen Mary and lighthouse in the distance. Then we headed north to sate their hunger for the legendary ramen, which they haven't been able to get out of their heads ever since I mentioned it the first day. They asked what flavors were better, Oriental or Roast Chicken, and they were shocked to learn that those would not be options at Ramenya. When they got the menu, they had trouble deciding what they wanted, unable to find anything that would satisfy them both, since they'd be sharing the vat of soup between them. When the bowls finally arrived, they couldn't believe how big they were. The chicas' stomachs had finally met their match.

Then home we headed for a viewing of The Princess Bride, which went over well, despite having to rewind multiple times so they could pick up on key plot points. Their questioning and interruptions were nicely complemented by those of the grandson in the film, whom they wisely chose not to criticize.

Now they're performing minor surgery on each other's blisters in preparation for an early night to bed. Then they'll have to produce either a thank-you note (for Patric and Steve) or a journal entry before they get their nightly bedtime myth, which they now beg for.

Only one day left, and still a few fun places to squeeze in.

Videos:
Sea Horses and Cell Phones
Coral Crab Research
Sharks-to-Be

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Disneyland and California Misadventure (Los Angeles, Day 4)

I bet someone could make a bazillion dollars selling a book on how to kill time on theme park lines. For me, the saving grace for these hours in the sun has been that I've been rereading Edith Hamilton's Mythology and regurgitating while we queue up behind 40,000 other park visitors. Who knew that stories 2,000 years old could keep kids entertained? Since I used up most of the stories at Raging Waters, I had to fall back on the Trojan war. So yesterday, Las Super Chicas (they've been upgraded from the pedestrian "Las Chicas") learned about Ulysses and the great wooden horse and, when those stories were over, the great wooden rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (When they get back, ask them what the three most common sources for literal allusions are. I don't think they've realized they're actually begging to hear stories that they're going to complain about reading in school.)

In the mornings, the Super-Slow Chicas take their sweet time writing in their journals (they're currently two days behind), showering (my whole home smells like eau de theme park), and marrying their Tamagotchis. When we finally get moving a few hours later, they look at me as if I'm the cause for our tardiness. Since I'm not big on repeating myself, I'll stand near the door without opening it while they gaze up at me with eyes that say, "I know we're forgetting something. But we can't remember what!" Then Jessica will remember that the butter is still out or Micaela will run back to scoop a wet towel off the couch. After a few more minutes of my silent game, we're finally ready to leave.

Yesterday's culinary adventure was Thai, which Micaela still calls "thigh" but which she now loves. (They both still beg me to take them to "raymon," aka ramen.) First course: chicken-stuffed wontons with semi-spicy Thai sweet sauce. Verdict: Empty plate in less than four minutes. Second course: LSC shared their own concoction of glass noodles, broccoli, and chicken, having balked at the crazy Thai veggies listed on the menu. They knocked all this back with a shared Thai iced tea, which Jessica declared "smoke in a glass." Third course: coconut sticky rice and fresh mango. Overall verdict on Thai: "I don't think they have this in Connecticut," said Jessica. I assured them there was indeed Thai in the Constitution State, but the mango might not be as fresh.

Then we were off for the glorious kingdom of Anaheim. Las Super-Slow Chicas made insinuations that we weren't going to have enough time at the park, since it was after three. But seeing how tired they'd been the day before after only five hours at Raging Waters, I thought this would be the best course of action, now that the hottest part of the day was over and we'd be safely out of the triple digits on the thermometer.

On Disneyland's Main Street, I pointed out the only permanent religious object in the whole park: a mezzuzah. Stories vary as to why it's there, but I thought the kids would get a kick out of it.

After waiting in line for our 200th ride, Micaela commented that "people are looking at us." No kidding. It may have been something to do with the fact I was quite probably the only person in the park entertaining her charges with ancient mythology. Or perhaps it was because those around us had overheard my decree that any chica who does acrobatics inline or who bumps into a stranger gets flicked in the forehead. I could see total strangers mentally willing the chicas to forget their surroundings so they would bump into the disaffected emo boy behind us or the super-cute surfer boy in front -- everyone wanted to see some flickin' action. And guess who finally gave them the satisfaction. Yup, none other than Super-Chica Haas, who ran head-on into the stringbean surfer, who in turn looked both excited to see what would happen and embarrassed that he'd been part of the cause. When Micaela ducked her head to keep from getting flicked, she instead received two sharp pinches to the gluteus maximus (or "glucius maximus," as she calls it).

Micaela's look of disdain is legendary, perhaps even more so than the story of the Trojan horse. But one way to wipe it from her smarmy face is to threaten to record it forever with a camera. Presto! Instant giggles.

After just three days, Las Super Chicas are already speaking like me (prepare yourselves, parents). They've taken my habit of switching around words (e.g., "muffins of English") to create their own sayings, my favorite being Jessica's "pul of ap" for "apples." They've also taken up singing songs about my cats, using "fluffy" as a synonym for "great," and talking like Pee-Wee Herman (sorry for that last one).

Screaming on the Maliboomer

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Raging Waters, Raging Chicas (Los Angeles, Day 3)

America's Funniest Home Videos would do well to place a permanent camera on the Flowrider attraction at Raging Waters. As we waited in line, those before us provided some much-needed diversion in the 95-degree Valley heat, but it was two tweens in particular who had the crowd in hysterics. Micaela lasted a few seconds before she was tossed back like a ragdoll in the spray. Jessica lasted a little longer, but got caught up in an eddy where she spun around like a dreidel before her board got sucked away.

Had I not hurt myself after the very first ride (slipping on a mat), I would have tried the Flowrider, too, which I'm sure would have made for footage that would have kept Ilene in hysterics at least until Micaela's high school graduation. But, alas, I had to sit out a few rides until my pulled muscle felt a tad better, then I rejoined the girls in aquatic antics.

While waiting on a ride with Poseidon as the mascot, I began telling las chicas some Greek myths, mainly to keep them from singing, as they had on the other lines, and also to keep them from trying line acrobatics on the crowd-control barriers. They couldn't get enough of the stories, so if we have a chance, I'll stop by a bookstore and see if I can find a book that might interest them. I considered renting Clash of the Titans, but I don't think they'd be able to get past the ancient animation style, so they'd probably bore quickly.




Jessica: Take 1
Micaela (Picking a Wedgie): Take 2
Jessica: You Have to See It to Believe It
Micaela: Revenge of the Flowrider
Las Chicas Gritando

Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas in Santa Monica and at the Hollywood Bowl (Los Angeles, Day 2)

We started off the day way early -- too early, some might say. The girls, still jetlagged, awoke before 6AM, an inhuman time by my standards, but they were good and kept as quiet as possible. We finished watching our movie from the night before, then got ready to hit the beach. First we headed to the Santa Monica Farmers' Market to stock up on supplies for the Hollywood Bowl later that evening. Jessica and Micaela couldn't believe they were actually allowed to sample items, and we spent quite a bit of time at one cheese stall in particular, trying several varieties of gouda, from mild to sharp, jalapeno to herbs & spices (we bought the medium). I also introduced them to the best darn guac in the country, Holy Guacamole, and the two loved it so much that we bought a container for our picnic. Cheremoya, kumquats, and a slew of other fruits and veggies were also sampled.

Although they opted not to try the savory crepes, we did go back to Acadie for dessert (strawberry and chocolate crepes), after trying Baja Fresh, where we lined up every type of salsa available for a taste test. Since we only had a limited amount of time (and energy), I gave them a choice between visiting the Santa Monica Pier, with its overpriced and lame rides, or Venice Beach. All I had to do was say "shopping" and the latter was chosen. After driving around for half an hour looking for a spot (no way was I going to pay $30 to park, even on the Fourth), we left Eartha Kitt (my beloved Prius) in the Venice Canals, where we happened upon a makeshift boat parade, including two women dressed as ducks tossing water balloons at the crowd.

We made our way down to the beach, ogling the weirdos at Muscle Beach and ducking into a few vendor stalls to check out t-shirts. After romping in the waves for a little under an hour, they returned to the blankets where we took a power nap under a hazy Venice sky. Before heading back to Eartha Kitt, the girls got henna tattoos, fretting the whole walk back to the car about how much their designs were smudging.

Next stop: The Grove and the historic Fairfax Farmers' Market, where we picked up some bread for our cheese, more cheese (fresh mozzarella), chips for the guac, and a few other sundries. We watched as crowds darted out of the way of the The Grove's two-story trolley ("A lawsuit waiting to happen," says my friend Justin), then headed to Hollywood and Highland, where las chicas stuck their fingers and feet in the prints of every movie star available, even the ones they didn't know. We saw Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta's stars just feet away from each other on the Walk of Fame (yesterday we passed Venice High School, which acted as Rydell High in both Grease films), strolled past the Kodak Theatre, peeked into the Babylonian Court, then headed to the shuttles, which chauffeured our tired butts up the hill to the Bowl. There las chicas learned what I meant about "stacked parking" and finally understood why I didn't want to park at the Bowl itself.

We picnicked outside the amphitheater, where I knew there would be more space than in the benches, then heard the warning shot of fireworks that announced the start of the show. After hiking further up the hill (they really should give us crampons), we found our seats and settled in for a brisk night under the Hollywood stars. I could tell the girls weren't thrilled by the classical first half, which was dedicated to John Wayne on his 100th birthday. Micaela even cracked, "They keep talking about this 'inspirational' guy, but I have no idea who he is," even though she had her hands in his prints only two hours earlier. I filled them in a bit on The Duke, then gave up when the second half was announced and "Who's Gene Autry?" became the new chant. I threatened them with watching old movies the rest of the trip if they didn't sit still the rest of the concert. They enjoyed the second half more, with Riders in the Sky, the slaphappy cowboy troupe who wrote songs for Toy Story ("Woody's Round-Up") and several other movies, and who had a better sense of humor than the wooden mannequin who'd hosted the first part. Jessica fell asleep towards the end but woke up to witness "the best fireworks ever" (per Micaela).

Needless to say, they were both asleep before the lights went out at home, their final words being, "Are we going to Disney tomorrow?" Uh, no.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

Las Super Chicas Invade LA (Los Angeles, Day 1)

Las chicas landed in the sweltering Valley, skipping LAX for the more compact Burbank airport. After relating their ordeal of the overly attentive woman in the seat next to them (and having said woman almost overhear), Micaela and Jessica mentioned how they'd never before walked off a plane onto the tarmac or seen an outdoor luggage carousel.

We headed over to It's a Wrap, a second-hand store that sells clothing from TV and movie sets, but it didn't have the clothes labeled with the stars who'd worn the duds so we left pretty quickly. A few miles later we were at the Disney lot, which was pretty empty since it was July 3, which meant no lines at the commissary store. We strolled past sound stages and various historical Disney sites, then realized our stomachs were rumbling. At first we considered getting Mexican, but then, not wanting to drive all the way to Venice before eating, I remembered my favorite Japanese curry restaurant, Blue Marlin.

Las chicas dove into the medium-spicy curry and liked the spaghetti with wild vegetables and soy-butter sauce, but their favorite was the creamy risotto. Jessica liked the sauce so much that she ate a mushroom covered in it, then went on to try bok choy. I thought they were stuffed to the gills, but somehow they still had room for tempura ice cream, which was polished off in a matter of seconds.

Across the street we explored the Japanese market, where the girls squealed when they saw all the crazy dried fish products. We bought some candy and fruit-flavored sodas, then headed to the grocery store to stock up for breakfast. The girls couldn't believe the size of Ralphs, and when I told them there are bigger supermarkets, their eyes grew wide. With our English muffins and fruit, we then headed home, since we were all pooped. Halfway through a movie (Overboard), we gave up and hit the hay, intent on getting a headstart on the next day.


Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They're Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio

I Heart Eartha Kitt

No, I'm not referring to the actress who played Catwoman on the Batman series from the '60s. I'm referring to my car, the Barcelona Red Prius who has come to mean as much to me as Dirk (my iPod, for those who don't already know). Like the Roomba before her, Eartha has made my life easier, more relaxing, thanks to her eco-friendly attitude and space-age features.

Eartha earned her name threefold:
1. My first car, a 1980 T-roof Firebird that was also red, had been named Bertha by my sister before getting handed down to me ten years later.
2. She's environmental (as much as a practical car these days can be).
3. She talks to me, a la K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider.

And now she lets me park for free. I could already benefit from the California HOV stickers by taking the carpool lane, even when riding solo, but now those same stickers are a free pass for any meter in Santa Monica. Who knew? I certainly didn't, at least, not until this weekend, and then only after plunking a buck fifty into a meter for half an hour of stop time. But at least I know for the future.

Considering the separation anxiety I went through upon trading in Coche (my unflaggingly loyal Honda Civic), I can't imagine what it would be like to give up Eartha. And now that Dirk has been resuscitated and has hooked up (literally) with Eartha to keep me in pure, commercial-free sound no matter where I roll, the thought of losing either makes my skin crawl. Toyota should have called the extended warranty a life insurance plan.

Valley Sky

As I hump over the Sepulveda Pass each morning on my way from the South Bay to the Valley, I marvel at the instantaneous change in climate, as if some giant paw has flicked an electrical switch from "foggy" to "muggy." The sun cuts through the gloom as if on fast-forward in some National Geographic documentary. But it's all real, in real time. That's the miracle of the LA basin's micro-climates.

From the patio of my office building, several of us looked on as the sky grew ominously gray, and I found myself hoping an East Coast storm was brewing. The palm fronds rustled just a few feet below us, as I noticed the incongruous reflection of pale blue skies painted in the glass windows of the office building opposite. We never saw that storm, although a co-worker swore he could see the raindrops falling several miles away.

A few days later, I thought we might finally be blessed with a true downpour. The sky was ashen, and I recalled the OC fires from several years back that left half an inch of cinder blanketing my car. Sure enough, a friend pointed out the columns of smoke billowing from the Hollywood Hills, where a line of flames rushed towards the far side of the ridge, not terribly far from the notorious Hollywood sign. But, being jaded Angelenos, we shrugged our shoulders and ducked back inside to our cubes. Yes, we're glad the sign remains intact, but it might have been more dramatic to watch a cultural icon go up in blazes as we watched live -- on streaming video, of course.

You Say Topanga, I Say... Topanga, Too

When I tell my East Coast friends that I'm going hiking, I often hear silence on the other end of the phone -- and not because Cingular has dropped my call again. It's not simply because most of my Manhattanite comrades are more at home within canyons of steel and asphalt than those of rock and foliage. It's because most can't imagine that I'd have anywhere to hike within the LA city limits.

Sure, LA traffic can make a leisurely jaunt to the seemingly nearby smog-shrouded hills into an all-day affair, especially if you're traveling up PCH on a weekend, but for the most part, nature is never very far away, from most any point in the city. And for back-to-nature rusticity coupled with stereotyped LA looniness, nothing beats Topanga Canyon.

Fittingly enough, I'd just seen Colin Hay, himself a Topanga resident, play at Largo two nights earlier. His wife -- a cross between Elvira and Janeane Garofalo -- seemed Topanga born and bred, what with her swishy hand gestures and attempt at playing the "air flute" (much more entertaining than it sounds). Hay, whose set was split 50/50 between music and comedic banter, quipped, "I met a woman in Topanga the other day who claimed she wasn't psychic." After the chuckles had died down, he added, "Later she admitted she was a little." That's as apt a description as any I could come up with for this quirky LA outpost.

And that's where I went a-hiking with pal Eric last weekend, under perfectly azure skies. The California State Park website claims Topanga is "considered the world's largest wildland within the boundaries of a major city." Once you're inside the park, that boast is easy to believe, as there's little sign of city life in view, except for the occasional McEnclave on a distant hillside.

Eric suggested we take the Santa Ynez trail, which, he led me to believe, had an idyllic waterfall at its end. After only five minutes of tramping on cracked earth, I knew he'd said that just to get me to agree to his trail choice, since I'd already groaned for two days prior about not wanting any elevation gain. He admitted that, given the time of year, the only thing at the end of the trail was most likely a "waterfell," but we soldiered on anyway, enjoying the perfect spring weather and occasional lizard spotting. (If anyone can tell me what kind of lizard this is, I'd be much obliged.)

After our jaunt, which was just under four miles, we met up with Tabitha at Froggy's, an old-time Topanga watering hole that would fall under "cafeteria" in Zagat's were it not for the wonderously quaint structure (built in the 1920s), picturesque scenery, and friendly waitstaff (would-be actors these ain't). When I finally returned to my South Bay nabe just after sunset, I felt refreshed, as if I'd been out of the city limits for longer than just a half day. Try doing that in Central Park.