July 12, 2007 Issue
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Classified Chestnut Hill Local Online Editor Don't Miss an Issue, Tell us what you see or Winner of Two |
Unless you’re a masochist, no reason to visit L.A.
Los Angeles is the end point for those traveling Route 66, but because I started my road trip in San Francisco, I’ll be traveling the Mother Road backwards. In the six years I’ve traveled the road, I never made it past Kingman, Arizona. In the past I’d been side-tracked by Las Vegas, Nevada and the Grand Canyon. And one year, 2005, when I almost made it past Kingman, I was stopped from traveling 66 because of wildfires and mild earth tremors. But this year I am going to make it. I just have to live through a visit to L.A. My travel partner, Dan, and I need a rest, so we stop for the night in San Luis Obispo, California. The Madonna Inn is a must-visit for any road-tripper. Why? Imagine your grandma decorating an entire motel with all the extra stuff she has stored in her garage, attic and basement. You know, the things you just might have needed for the last 30 years. And this is the charm of the place. The coffee shop and restaurant, beloved by truckers and goo-gooey couples seeking a romantic night out, has some of the best food served anywhere, and the clientele prove this place is truly a democracy. Even the grimiest of roadpeople are relaxed by the red lights that bring a freakish sanguinity to the giant paper roses that decorate the ceiling. I’m sure that as I devour my steak and green beans, one of these seemingly lifeless plants is going to reach out a vine, stick it into my veins and drain all of my blood, and that doesn’t bother me one bit; the champagne cake has already taken me to nirvana. The namesake of the place has proven a haven; Los Angeles lurks in the distance, and I am not looking forward to being there. Dan has never been there and he wants to see the home of Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan and ever other drunken celebrity who doesn’t know when to refuse too many free drinks.
You’re not an American if don’t hate the New York Yankees, Commies and LA. (Meanwhile, all of us red-blooded Americans know that motherhood, apple pie, baseball and guns are the fabric that keeps this nation together, right?), and this is where we both prove that red, white and blue all run through our veins. ***** We stop in Oxnard, California, on our way to L.A. to visit Dan’s sister, who’s just had a baby boy three days earlier, but she’s walking around the house cleaning, picking up toys and playing with her four-year-old daughter, Kylie. You never know she just delivered a baby. “L.A. is no big deal,” she says to Dan. “There’s nothing amazing in L.A. It’s kind of … blah.” “I know, but I want to see it,” says Dan, cradling his shiny new nephew. A few hours later we hop in the Jeep Liberty and head to L.A. The morning is overcast, and it gives Malibu this greasy dullness, like a glass of water right from the tap that needs time to clear up. The beach is enshrouded with clouds, and lurking all over the mountainside are the ugliest houses that fight for a view of the ocean. The waves aren’t big enough for surfing today, but that doesn’t stop the guys (and a few women) from wading out into the water and gliding back to shore. We drive through Beverly Hills; the traffic is legendary and it takes us a half hour to reach our hotel, The Standard, just three miles away. We check into the hotel. It has an Ikea-esque gloss. A lot of European curves and colors within the designs, but the floors creak wherever you walk and the walls and ceilings and floors are flimsy. This place should be called the Sub-Standard. We start to explore the city, and it doesn’t take long for Dan to say, “I’m really disappointed.” “What did you expect?” I asked. “I don’t know… not this.” The this is an expanse of suburbia that holds very little in the way of originality and character. L.A. is pretty much a suburb of the studios that live in the Hollywood hills and surrounding environs. There are malls with the same chain stores found everywhere across the U.S., and there are Starbucks and McDonalds and even more Denny’s than any human being should be exposed to in one lifetime. We visit Graumann’s Chinese Theater and look at all the footprints left behind by Hollywood royalty — Humphrey Bogart, Shirley Temple, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, just to namedrop a few. Pink’s, one of those highly-revered hotdog joints that every travel book and PBS road-food specials has hailed as the best hotdog on the west coast, is our next stop. The line takes more than a half-hour to go through, and when I finally sit down to “enjoy” my chilidog, I’m disgusted and let down. The chili was a thick, tasteless paste that stuck to my throat, and with each bite I could feel my esophagus closing up like a shower drain full of facial grease, body hair and various other detritus. This is the character of L.A. It leaves a coating of grease that stains your insides. There is no dinner for tonight. I don’t think I have enough room left in my body to digest it, and there’s no reason for anyone ever to come to L.A., unless you’re a masochist. This is L.A. — a city unworthy of its name. Chain stores, Rodeo Drive and commercially hip clubs that let underage celebrities in to party and make asses of themselves are no reasons to visit this place, unless you’re one of those people who find Entertainment Tonight and Extra to be the staples of your TV diet. Come and see where celebrities party and where angels fear to tread. This city has no soul to speak of at all; it’s an abomination of an otherwise peaceful, beautiful state. Dan and I are awakened the next morning by the sound of empty glass bottles being poured into a dumpster. — the sound of L.A. To be continued.
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