Good Morning, Planet Earth

Another reason to love L.A. (as if you needed another): iHop.

Over 50 years ago, in 1958, Toluca Lake (a pricey chunk of The Valley between Universal Studios and Warner Bros Studios) witnessed the opening of the first INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES.

Any other city — your New York, say, or your Cincinnati — would have been content with a NATIONAL house of pancakes. More than content: smug. Not Los Angeles.

With its vast, beckoning Pacific horizon and the lofty mountain vantages ringing ’round, Los Angeles has always looked beyond itself, beyond California, beyond the nation and, yea, beyond the parochial confines of a continent.

Well, then, you ask, does at least the Western Hemisphere claim our allegiance? Is half a planet big enough for our House of Pancakes? We say to you: Oh? Are we then citizens of a mere hemi-sphere? Is your brain encased in half a skull? Do you play hoops with half a basketball? Will your peanuts remain seated in but half a shell? Nonsense! A hemi-sphere is one hemisphere too small for the great encompassing heart of the Angeleno. Los Angeles, home to the world, is at home in nothing less than the entire world. Our pancakes recognize no borders. Our pancakes are INTERNATIONAL.

How Did He Get So Smart?

A lot of you are asking now, “How did he get so smart?” The more ambitious are asking further, “How can I myself become so smart?”

The answer is: Read fine books like Kevin Roderick’s The San Fernando Valley, America’s Suburb. Surely there is some fine independent bookstore near you that stocks this highly smart-inducing photo-filled look at The Valley, its history and culture, its groves and Bob’s Big Boys. If they don’t have the thing sitting right there on the shelf, do not scowl; they will gladly order it for you at no additional cost. Buy it, study it from cover to cover, and then you will be well on the way to matching our admittedly intimidating degree of erudition. Of course, by the time you finish The San Fernando Valley, America’s Suburb I will have read another book and will still be ahead of you, but you will have made a start and that’s what counts.

The San Fernando Valley, America’s Suburb
By Kevin Roderick
(Los Angeles Times Books, Paperback, 240 mall-crawling pages)

Banks That Kill

Clive Owens stars as Agent Salinger in a new adventure runshoot film called The International. Here is Agent Salinger plunging his face into a sink filled with water and ice cubes. He is investigating Banks That Kill.

Naomi Watts stars in it too. She playes Agent Whitman. Agent Whitman has a husband and kids, so she doesn’t kiss Agent Salinger but she does tenderly finger his earlobe where a bullet tore it up. Her role in the investigation of Banks That Kill is largely supportive. For instance, she makes repeated phone calls to an assassin victim’s wife (“Please, do not call me anymore.”) and gets hit by a car driven by the assassin who is named “The Consultant” and is played with verve and pep by Irish actor Brian F. O’Byrne.

Agent Salinger visits the Guggenheim Art Museum near Central Park in New York City. Unexpectedly, it turns into a bloodbath.

Bank employees try to kill Agent Salinger. Agent Salinger makes friends with an assassin named “the Consultant” (played with verve and pep by Brian F. O’Byrne) and they both shoot back.

Agent Salinger and “The Consultant” acquit themselves quite well. For example, they shoot one of the bank employees who falls down to the lobby of the Guggenheim.

“The Consultant” finally exsanguinates in Central Park. Agent Salinger goes to… I want to say Istanbul. All the bankers die.

Them Fish Can Think

You may feel safe from killer whales while you stroll through Sierra Madre. Forty miles of dry land, plus a couple of mountains, would seem adequate shield from the “biter-grabber” of the deep, wouldn’t you think?

Well, think again, lubber. Marauding cetaceans are no respectors of clines. The citizens of Sierra Madre made their peace with Orcas long ago. Recognizing the ubiquity and mischievousness of the SeaWorld wannabees, the elders of Sierra Madre employ a team of full-time Orca Feeders to patrol their city-state with buckets of chum and long-handled Orca-spoons.

When orca feedings are taking place, signs such as the one in the illustration above appear. Those who enjoy the spectacle are thus alerted to come a-runnin’ and gather ’round. The wiser, those who have seen “Shamudemonium,” turn away at once.

For then them whales destroyed our boats
They rammed them one by one
They stove them all with head and fluke
And after they was done
We few poor souls left half-alive
Was clinging to debris
I’d stake me life them fish can think
As good as you and me

Now John is blind, Jim’s lost an arm
And Caleb’s lost below
My leg will heal but other men
No more aloft can go
So I’ll not man your boats again
Though you drown me in the sea
For I tell you sir, them fish can think
As good as you or me

Opaaa!

If your hot air balloon, taken off its course by a maverick wind, makes an uncheduled stop in Lombard, Illinois, an unprepossessing western suburb of Chicago, do not yield to despair! The dark cloud (albeit dispersed by the maverick wind) has this silver lining: the Greek Islands Restaurant ot 300 East 22nd Street.

This afternoon I thought of the lovely blonde wood, and blue and white nautical interior when I lit a Yankee Candle (“Willow Breeze”) with a match from the last of the Greek Islands matchbooks garnered at that fine dining establishment. Many is the spanakopita that has fallen to my knife within those cozy confines. Many the lamb whose gamboling was abruptly cut short to appease my raging appetite. Not much could make living west of Chicago beautiful, but Greek Islands contributed to making it bearable.

Often, while still trapped in the Chicago area, we promised our beseeching child we would one day show her the wonders, however limited, of Chicago’s “Greek Town,” where could be found the original Greek Islands Restaurant. But the promise went unmet. Why drive so far when the same thing (but brighter and more spacious) was availabe no more than four miles away — and with FREE PARKING? Ethnic flavor? Urban color? What are these put against proximity and easy (free) parking?

We’ll shed some tears when the last Greek Islands matchbook is all used up and must be discarded — yes, it will be tossed aside since we are not the sort of mildly scary creatures who collect matchbooks. We will save the last match to ignite some cheese.

The Nice Work Observatory

The hastily constructed Nice Work Observatory was able to record sightings of the legendary Comet Lulin this night.

Despite near total lack of astronomical equipment the resourceful staff of the Nice Work Observatory were able to turn a 5′ step ladder, a roll of duct tape, a Beatles CD compilation, and a pair of Pentax 16×60 binoculars (plus a step stool for the shorter astronomer) into a serviceable star-gazing apparatus. After hauling the Nice Work Telescope (disassembled for easy transport) up to Saddle Peak far above the black sweep of Santa Monica Bay, the astronomers set up shop and were able to look at Saturn close-up and personal and mark the path of Comet Lulin as it left the Solar System at a brisk — somewhat insulting — pace.

As part of the Nice Work Observatory Outreach Public Educational Program, two drunken motorcyclists were allowed to view the bright orange planet and the blurry green comet through the  Nice Work Telescope after which the annoyed head astronomer made the necessary recalibrations to re-locate the planet and passing ice ball.

Comet gazing was an on-again, off-again affair due to clumps of clouds that flew in, parked awhile, then sped off into the night sky on unguessable errands. The astronomers took the opportunties afforded by these occlusions to become reacquainted with old friends, Castor and Pollux, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Aldebaran, Orion, Rigel, Betelgeuse, Taurus, the Pleiades, Leo and the good ol’ North Star.

Every Earth Day Day

Our neighbors high in the valleys of Topanga have a motto, “Every Earth Day Day.” Nobody knows what they mean by that ringing affirmation (or is it an imprecation?), but that’s okay; we love our Topangish neighbors and support them 100%.

One possible interpretation of the slogan “Every Earth Day Day” is as an instruction to look to the eastern skies in this our northern hemisphere (my personal favorite) and squint for the Comet Lulin. All this squinting is best done after dark, needless to say (a phrase which is, ironically, always needless to say). Better still if you do your sky-squinting sometime after 9pm. Bring along some binocs or a telescope. The Comet Lulin is no Comet Kahoutek. It requires amplification.

You can find the astral visitor by following the instructions ON THE WEBSITE YOU SUMMONS BY CLICKING THESE WORDS. Or, just go look for Saturn a-wanderin’ in the sky — it’s the brightest light to the east (and a teensy bit south); also the orangest one. The very faint 5th magnitude green smudge to the left right of Saturn and a short FTL rocket trip above it — Hey! That’s Comet Lulin!

Pre-dawn Donuts

As neo-Angelenos we wonder always about the traffic patterns: When, we ask, are the highways clogged and when are they free-flowing? Is there a discernible pattern to the jams or are they random? A partial answer — another  datum anyhow — came to us this morning as we drove Madame Nicework to her early LAX departure: Four a.m. is a good time to drive in L.A.. On Monday, at least. Or maybe only this particular Monday. Who knows?

Besides the clear sailing on the 405, we early birds reaped another benefit: We were first in line — indeed, we comprised the totality of the line — at the fabled Googie-style doughnut stand, Randy’s Donuts. You’ve seen the doughnut shaped building in music videos (“I Love L.A.” of course) on TV (Buster trying to eat the enormous plaster donut on Arrested Development – See Below) and in movies (um…can’t think of one… wait a second… okay, I googled up a couple of movies with Randy’s Donuts: Into the Night and Mars Attacks.). The Time Out Los Angeles travel guide — a pretty useful guide, by the way — chose the Randy’s Donut image to represent the whole metropolis.

Returning to the Valley via a circuitous route (including a drive alongside an ocean made visible only by ships’ running lights), we enjoyed the sunrise gradually distinguishing a lowering sky from the walls of Topanga Canyon. Now we are enjoying morning donuts (1600 calories each) and a cup of coffee that soon and very soon will lose the fight against the imperious sleep deficit.

Time Out Los Angeles
By, er, Time Out, it says here.
(Time Out Publishing, Paperback,, 310 googie-filled pages)

L.A. Outlaws, by T. Jefferson Parker

My heart goes out to T. Jefferson Parker, author of lots of zingy crime books (including the Merci Rayborn series). Like me, T. Jefferson Parker goes by his second name, perhaps like me, because of parental eccentricity. Maybe my pity is misdirected; maybe T. Jefferson enjoys filling out forms that make no accomodation for us second-name-users; maybe he doesn’t mind explaining his second-name-use every time some clerk fails to find him in a store’s database. Maybe his first name is really only “T.”

Whatever the explanation (and I don’t buy the author’s own) I think the inner rage built up over years of second-name-use discrimination fuels the violence in T. Jefferson Parker’s grippy California thrillers.

Take his recent L.A. Outlaws. Here we meet Suzanne Jones, a feisty gradeschool teacher who moonlights as an armed robber. She imagines herself to be “Allison Murieta,” the great-great-great-great (I forget how many greats) granddaughter of Mexican outlaw Joaquín Murieta. As Allison she steals high-end autos at the point of her .40 two-shot over/under ivory handled derringer cutely named “Cañonita.” If that’s not acting out, I don’t know what is.

That’s not the violence, though. Suzanne/Allison only threatens violence, does not apply it. The violence comes in when Suzanne stumbles on the very bloody aftermath of a McGuffin sale gone wrong: bodies all over the body (haha) shop where the McGuffin deal was supposed to go down. Suzanne snatches the bag of McGuffins and splits. That puts her on the radar of a criminal mastermind who craves possession of the McGuffin bag and dispatches an outstandingly viscious hitman to get them back.

The hitman, a bad Central American named Lupercio, specializes in murder-by-machete. So you can imagine the arterial action soon to follow.

That’s all the plot you’ll get from me without waterboarding, ladies and gentleman. Though, I suppose I should mention that the cop — a guy named Hood — who is hot on her trail is also, well, hot on her trail: Hood and Suzanne Jones fall madly in love which creates all sorts of professional complications from both their viewpoints.

Me, I listened to the audio version of L.A. Outlaws, read flawlessly by not one but two actors (David Colacci as Hood, Susan Ericksen as Allison Murieta). But you can save money by buying the paperback and reading it aloud by yourself, using a deep voice for the policeman, and a high voice for the girl thief.

Note that when you click on the picture of the book covers above, or on the title of the book in the text of the post, or in the book info below, something cool happens: you get a window from IndieBound Books – an association promoting independent bookstores everywhere. The window will politely direct you to a nearby independent bookstore after you enter a zip code. Avail yourself of this fine service. You will support local business, help indie bookstores, and even send some pennies my way. All good things. Do it. Amazon has gotten too big for its britches.

L.A. Outlaws
By T. Jefferson Parker
(A nice cheap Signet Book, Mass Market Paperback, 440 machete wielding pages)

Pickle Escape

I risked my life to take this picture while driving one-handed at 80mph. So enjoy it.

Return to Portrait of a Bookstore

Daughtergirl and I so enjoyed our visit the other day to the Studio City indie bookstore, Portrait of a Bookstore, we felt compelled to drag Madame Nicework there today to experience the oddity for herself. This time we came equipped with appetites, for our intention was to do the old buy-a-book/have-a-nosh routine of our bygone Townhouse Books days.

Fortunately, we also came equipped with much patience. The way Aroma Cafe — that’s the restaurant engulfing the bookstore — works is this: You stand in line and stand in line and stand in line and stand in line until, one happy day, you find yourself facing the young’un behind the counter who cheerfully — or at least not depressedly — takes your order and money, for which you receive in exchange a stick on a stand bearing a number. Our number happened to be 2.

Back at the al fresco table you display your stick on a stand bearing a number (2, in our case) and — after you’ve played with you camera, read a chapter or two of your book purchase and gawked at the very gawkable Studio Citizens — a food service industry employee dashes up with your paninis and Asian salad balanced on her forearms.

Very good food it was, too, and well worth the character-building wait. Good book as well. Madame Nicework, who had assumed my browsing duties while I handled provisions, picked out Michael Wex’s Born to Kvetch for my pleasure. It’s all about the Yiddish language and it is chock full of both learning and laughs as you would expect in a book about Yiddish. Someday I may review it here. Until then, if the following 288 pages are anything like the first 15, it has a provisional NiceWork Seal of Approval.

Born to Kvetch: Yiddish Language and Culture in All of Its Moods
By Michael Wex
(Harper Perennial, Paperback, 303 pages)