2/10/05: The Grumpiest Man in Southern California

When I moved in to my particular Los Angeles neighborhood, one out of every two guys rocked the Beck look - "vintage" Member's Only jackets and scrupulously sculpted bedhead. Now, three years down the road, the pencil necked hipsters are aping that Bright Eyes tool. How any male with a single molecule of testosterone can go by the handle, "Bright Eyes" is a mystery right up there with Will Smith's sexual orientation. But I digress...

Silver Lake is the name of the 'hood. It's a place that those who live in the more fashionable, money earning precincts to the west of here refer to as "funky" when they're being charitable and "that place where all the dykes and meth dealers live" when they're drunk and belligerent. Of anywhere in the endlessly sprawling collection of vaguely defined neighborhoods that is Los Angeles, Silver Lake is my kinda place. We've got bars offering beefy cocktails for under five skins and dollar PBR pints from five to eight at a place called the Short Stop (which is technically in adjacent Echo Park). There's purty scenery including declivitous (real steep) hills, mountain views and homes by Richard Neutra and R.M. Schindler along with gratis Mondays at noisy music joints like Spaceland and The Echo. On the downside, we get the wind pushing in from the desert in the summer, which can make for a dusty, face chapping few months.

L.A. is a city of the uniform, and Silver Lake seems to be the locus for it. Go to a party and ninety percent of the crowd will be in emo shoes and nearly every dude will be sporting one of those ultra-wide leather wristbands made famous by WWF hack Iron Mike Sharpe. These days, it's a safe bet that most will be talking about the Pixies reunion or the upcoming Gang of Four reunion.

Anyway, last Friday was the prototypical Silver Lake night. We got word from CW's friend Paul that the aforementioned Beck was playing a surprise show at The Echo and decided to be proactive by showing up at 8:30. It seemed like an open secret that the hipster scientologist - or do they make him say, "scientologist hipster"? - was gigging. As a result, all of the neighborhood luminaries were out, including face-kicking rocker Anton Newcombe and Joe, my favorite bartender. I was there with the aforementioned CW, his girlfriend T, along with Darren, Traci and Paul, who let us in on the whole thing. Mountain Bike Todd and Missy didn't make the cut, and were stuck waiting outside for nearly three hours. When they finally did get in at 12:15, Beck was ten minutes in to his fifty-minute set.

Needless to say, the show was frickin impressive! L. Ron lackey or not, the guy has a truly frightening amount of talent. Ninety percent of the short set consisted of music from the new album, which is a return to the funk after the ennui-fest that was Sea Change. It didn't hurt that he had a hypnotic dancer on stage who was more comfortable in her skin than almost anyone I've ever seen. I had to force myself to watch the musicianship cuz my eyes kept drifting back to her smiling, rhythmically gyrating countenance.

After the show, Darren and Traci took a break for some street meat, then we stopped by Little Joy, a bar so divey that one of the walls is held together with duct tape - think Sophie's minus the artwork. Next it was off to a party at one of the many band houses in the 'hood. It was pretty lame. They were out of booze. Even the bottle of Malibu was empty.

The rest of the weekend was devoted to work. I earn my marginal living as a script reader, which basically means I'm paid to provide studio execs with cheat sheets so they can pretend to have suggestions or witty insights when "taking meetings". As an aspiring screenwriter it can get a bit depressing, but more on that in another post. This weekend the material consisted of an incoherent crime/drama called "Arson", a touching piece on inner-city life in Philly called, I shit you not, "Hoagie Alley" and a dull as dirt sequel to the forgettable "October Sky". Look for none of them at a theater near you. In between scripts, I kill time by doing a bit of writing of my own or by coming up with ridiculous titles for fictitious porn films - my latest being, "Screwnami".

After three years in LA I still feel like a tourist, which is probably a good thing. I continue my search for the perfect taco, the ultimate dive bar (of which LA has scant few) and have long since given up looking for good bagels or sarcastic people. This whole city is way too friendly, and don't let me get started on the folks in Pasadena. The first time someone struck up a conversation with me at the supermarket I almost slugged them. Now I just nod politely and pretend to be in a hurry.