Gallery Opening a couple of months ago at the Hollywood space on Hollywood Blvd.  It was pink.

My maid is coming in the morning and I need to get the place straight so she can actually clean. Instead I decided to go through pictures of my brunch in the valley, I meant Brunch In The Valley and adjust levels and curves and post them here for you. I apologize Rosa, tomorrow (manana, see, I’m learning) you must straighten and clean.

My Brunch in the Valley. Shirt by Paul Smith, shorts by Jetrag and me, glasses by Target, brunch by some place on Ventura that had great praline butter that I should have bought but I forgot, wristwear by twine that I was building models with and thought it would look kind of punk/hippie so I put it on.

It was pouring when I woke up this morning. I can’t remember the last time it rained this hard in Los Angeles, and I love it. When I went outside I felt like closing my eyes, lifting my hands toward the heavens and spinning around with several cameras filming me from multiple angles—instead I scurried quickly into my car.

Driving to Burbank was slow and the roads were totally flooded, but I still loved it. I saw recycling bins surfing down steep hills next to the 101.

I really need to start carrying my camera with me at all times.

I wonder how all of this rain affects the butterflies.

Did Grandma just sing the N-Word?

I saw Patti Smith at the Santa Monica Pier last night. I went with HW and LP and we had wine on the beach and listened for awhile, before being totally renegade and jumping the fence to get closer to Patti. The concert was free it was just too full, hence the fence jumping. You would think Smith’s fans would be peace loving aging baby boomers, but a lot of people there were dicks. I accidentally stepped on a womans toe and she wouldn’t accept my apology; she was super pissed (if you happen to end up here via Google, lady, I would like to retract my apology and offer a “Fuck You” in its place). LP had her arm grabbed by a woman who asked her to “please stop talking” after she whispered three words to me. And then a self-deprecating short dude got extra self-deprecating when HW got in front of him. But the music was amazing. I’m not a Red Hot Chili Peppers fan, but Flea was playing bass for Smith which I thought was sweet of him.

While drinking wine on the beach, we discussed the usual things; mostly that Miranda July is more productive than all of us, Miranda July’s connection in the Jeremy Blake / Theresa Duncan deaths, and how I didn’t really like Me and You and Everyone We Know but I do appreciate it. So, yeah, mostly we just talked about Miranda July, who is coincidentally one day older than me.

After the beach we took a cab to a bar in Santa Monica. I don’t know what is happening to me lately. Twice in the past two weeks, I have had a glass of Scotch and the next thing I know I am completely shitcanned. I don’t remember anything from the bar aside from signing up to karaoke Maps and not having my name called… then I woke up on LP’s sofa this morning without a shirt and no sign of the shirt I wore the night before.

Cheers.

Once again, Los Angeles, I’m yours.

I have to admit that after having lived in Hollywood for several years there isn’t much that surprises me. But, as I was getting into my car this morning (on a very dense urban street in Hollywood, mind you) I noticed a weird smell. I went to the other side of my car and saw that there was a dead shark on the curb, next to my car in front of a 6 story apartment building. The photo doesn’t do justice to the size of this thing; it is 5 ft. long. I stood there wondering how on earth a shark could end up in the middle of Hollywood and I still can’t figure it out.

I was struck by this image a few moments ago when I was Google Earth-ing. I thought “Huh, clever” of the management to put the name on the roof, which I assumed was for helicopters carrying stars to the Academy Awards. But then I remembered that stars walk on the red carpet, they don’t helicopter in from above. And I don’t see a landing pad anyway. Then what is this text for?

We are bombarded with advertising in Los Angeles. Our most famous monument was once a billboard advertisement itself. The benches we sit on while we wait for the bus (I’m talking about others of course, I’m way too rich to ride the dirty bus. And the driver can’t break a Twenty.) are emblazoned with the face of Snoop Dogg or Young Jeezy or whatever rapper has a new cd coming out soon. Then it hit me. With the popularity of Google Earth, are we to see a blitzkrieg of rooftop advertising? Rooftop advertising has already occurred in the flight paths around airports; roofs usually persuading you to this rental car company or that one, or this hotel or that one, travel-y things. This is a whole new territory though, no airplanes, no helicopters, just people desktop travelling from city to city.

The problem is time. Satellite images we view are up to 10 years old. So strategists would have to be, err, strategic in their marketing. Logos only, no trendy shit. No spokespeople, they may be unrecognizable/irrelevant/boring/dead/Eddie Murphy ten years in the future. But I think it could be done. Most cityscapes are a very dreary grey when viewed from the air. Think how much a shiny red Coca-Cola logo would jump at you as you were planning your trip on Google Maps.

Also. Architects may have to start considering our buildings from other vantages. The roof plan needs to be further scrutinized due to our new birds eye tendency. No longer can we put all of our time into section and elevation. Point:

Hard to even recognize. It looks like it could be a power plant or maybe a ride at Magic Mountain. The folds and curves of the Concert Hall all but disappear from the air. It’s plain, boring. But, it cuts cost. I can’t imagine trying to convince a client that we needed another $100K of Stainless Steel so Google Earthers wouldn’t be disappointed. But it’s something to think about.

Corbusier almost certainly designed Villa Savoye with Google Earth in mind.

A	B	C
D	E	F
G	B	H
I	J	F
B	G	F

A=Freeman House, FLW.
B=Carlson-Reges Residence, Michael Rotondi.
C=Lawson-Weston, Eric Owen Moss
D=Bubeshko Apts., RM Schindler.
E=How House, RM Schindler.
F=Kings Rd. House, RM Schindler.
G=VDL Research House II, Richard Neutra.
H=Norton House, Frank Gehry.
I=Venice Beach House, Antoine Predock.
J=Chemosphere, John Lautner.

Recognize it, Angelenos? 

Most of the time. But there are little things. Things. Things that drive me completely fucking crazy. And it seems that they all happened to me today. For the record, I grew up in Texas with wide open spaces and fields and pastures and small towns. I couldn’t wait to get out. I was a cityboy before I had ever seen a city. Now I would kill to spend 10 minutes in a pasture. So I can’t help but compare some of the things I hate about LA to my home state of Texas.

Number 1. Parking. In Texas you may have to park kinda far away as parking lots are fucking gigantic, but you are never in danger of not being able to park at all. Like today at the Farmers Market. I needed fish and wanted to get lunch. But there were no spots available in the middle of a workday. None. I had to wait about 20 minutes to find a spot. That means that I had to waste 20 minutes of my 2 hours free validation just waiting. I didn’t plan on being in there more than 1 hour 40 minutes, but it just sucked that I had to think about it and have the little anxiety about not having any cash on me and getting caught at the parking tollbooth and not having the $2 to get out. Also today. I had to go to the post office in Hollywood. Because of my eBaying I am going to the PO everyday, but I usually go in Burbank which isn’t quite as bad. I pay the parking meter (umm, no parking lot at the fucking post office) which has a 30 minute maximum. That’s OK, that means that they are trying to keep those spots for Post Office Patrons only. The problem is that they only have 3 FUCKING windows open so you are bound to be in line for more than 30 minutes and you are checking your watch cellphone every 5 minutes because you don’t don’t don’t want any more parking tickets. In Texas you might hate being at the Post Office too, but you will never be in fear of it costing you $45 in expired meter tickets.

2. Don’t stand so close to me. New York is worse on this one, which is a big reason that I could never live there. And this guy at the Post Office kinda looked New Yorky. He was in line behind me and was really really close to me. The post office is big, it isn’t as though we ae stuffed in a train during rush hour. To make it worse, he was chewing gum loudly. To make it even worse, I could smell his gum. It wasn’t even freshbreathy gum like spearmint, it was like grape or cherry or someting. And the sound and the smell were making me want to turn around and say, “Look Bubble-icious, take 2 fucking steps backward and give me my fucking space” but I realized that 2 social faux pas (how in the fuck do you make faux pax plural?) don’t make a right. So I just gave him a dirty look instead.

Those were the highlights of my Los Angeles disgruntlement. I guess not super-major but just annoyances. And they aren’t enough to drive me out of a town I love. The love list is real real long. I think I just need a weekend house in the country. Question: Where do rich Angelenos buy weekend houses? Where is there open space, privacy and serenity within a few hours drive? I can’t think of any. Tell me. Now.