FROM BRENDAN NEWNAM, HOST OF THE DINNER PARTY DOWNLOAD, DISPATCHING FROM LOS ANGELES: Alistar Cooke had one of the greatest jobs in the world. He gallavanted around America for decades and produced a weekly “Letter from America” for the BBC.The letter was usually a blend of observations and anecdotes about life in Cooke’s adopted country. A few years back Brendan Newnam, a Philadelphia patriot, found himself in LA. It’s been two years and he still doesn’t understand what happened. In order to help him process his life in Southern California he’s agreed to share with Philebrity an occasional Letter from Los Angeles in the spirit of his radio forefather Alistar Cooke (AKA that old dude that used to host Masterpiece Theater.)

Or something like that.

Best,
Brendan

In today’s letter, Brendan tells us about death by Bentley, the vehicles of choice for faux-rugged Angelinos, and Christmastime at the titty bar. To listen, press play in the player above, or right-click here to download as an mp3. After the jump, Brendan’s letter in text form, in case you do not like the sound of a human voice.

Dear Philadelphia, 

“Until one has crossed a barren desert, without food or water, under a burning tropical sun, at three miles an hour, one can form no conception of what misery is.”

Of course, my situation was a little different: For one, the tropical sun wasn’t burning, since it wasn’t yet 9am: It was merely smoldering. And secondly, the speed with which that desert traveler was going via wagon – three miles an hour – was about three times faster than I was going. I was in gridlock, and despite what you think about traffic in LA, gridlock is the exception not the rule around here. Sure, traffic is thick, but no worse than rush hour traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway. In fact, it’s a little better. That’s because people here are generally in their own world, and therefore very accommodating of others who are spaced out. This means that crossing seven lanes within 100 yards to make your exit is a totally acceptable practice out here. The upshot, surprisingly, is smoother traffic. On the other hand, like decent bread and clean air, turn signals are nonexistent out here.   

But turn signals weren’t responsible for the traffic: Murder was.

Just a few hours earlier, on the 101, someone put 11 bullets into a car and its driver. Within an hour, the highway was emptied of cars and filled with a band of cops spaced a foot apart from each other dragging the road looking for bullet casings, skid marks, clues. Diverted, thousands of cars spilled onto side streets thickening them until they congealed. In a town where every commute is a delicate ecosystem that can be upset by an inopportune left turn or a 10 cent spike in gas prices, closing a highway is as disruptive as an earthquake.  

Later, when I found out that the person who was shot was driving a Bentley, I thought to myself, “Has the revolution started?” Maybe the week’s news of rich guy malfeasance had provoked a maniac? But it turns out that the two-door 2005 Bentley Continental GT with glittering silver rims was stolen. It was spotted at about 3:15 in the morning after it had struck the freeway median. Another motorist stopped to help, and eventually broke the driver’s only window to find the shooting victim slumped over the steering wheel with several gunshot wounds. In lieu of a license plate, the car had a paper tag with one word on it: “Dream.”  

In case you haven’t heard, people’s cars here are an extension of their identity. The lack of public gathering spaces and pedestrian city life make traffic one of the few places to see and be seen. And the prevalence of valet culture means that people need to make sure that their car being delivered to them after a night on the town is an invitation not a punch line. Of course the problem with cars is that, unlike clothes, most of us can’t afford an assortment of them to draw upon for the appropriate occasion. Therefore when buying a car in LA, one should heed Goethe’s warning: “Choose wisely, your choice is brief yet endless.”
 
Case in point: Recently, through no fault of my own, a friend of mine moved to Los Angeles. He’s in “The Industry,” so I guess his move was inevitable. Being a New Yorker, he didn’t have a car, so he needed to buy one. Since money wasn’t a concern, his car choice was all about who he was going to throw his lot in with here in the Southland.
 
Should he do what’s expected of him as an enlightened thirty-something with a real job and buy a Prius — the hybrid car with the physical charms of an orthopedic shoe; the true triumph of substance over style, replete with a hatchback to make it easier to store the dozens of canvas bags you keep buying and forgetting from Whole Foods? A little too feminine and Berkeley perhaps, for a young Bachelor.
 
What about a veggie oil Mercedes? They’re not hard to find around here. Driving into Silver Lake is like flying into Frankfurt in the seventies. One in four of the cars you see  roaming the hills here is an old Benzie spouting fumes that smell like French fries. If you’re not up for filtering your own oil, you can buy it on the black market. Illicit oil swaps go down like drug deals in parking lots all around the city. 

The big old retro-pickup truck is the vehicle of choice for the set designer, the sculptor, the rugged Californians who’ve drank the Golden State’s electric kool-aid.  Of course not everyone has the masculine vanity required to drive a cherry truck that only gets 15 miles to the gallon. On the upside you can stand under the hood while you’re working on your engine…but you will be working on your engine.

Then, of course, there is the pull of the Westside – the sunnier, healthier, more mainstream climes of  Bel Air, Century City, Santa Monica, Venice, it’s where most of the entertainment industry lives and it’s where most of the money is.  There, production assistants drive Minis or VW Golfs. Execs drive range rovers and BMW SUVs. Emerging stars drive German made station wagons. And, as with everywhere, the mid-life crisises drive convertibles.
 I’m not going to tell you what my friend finally decided to buy, but suffice it to say that it allows him to stand tall before valets on the Sunset Strip and maintain street cred when leaving a house party in Echo Park – but just barely, and most of the Echo Park kids will probably assume it’s a rental.
 
My friend’s new car drove me to a couple of holiday parties. Living out here I didn’t realize it was Christmas until the Starbucks coffee cups changed colors from white to red.  What really brought it home was when I went to a colossal mall here called The Beverley Center, where in lieu of a traditional Santa Claus, you could get your picture taken with Hunky Santa and the Candy Cane Girls. It was my intention to buy gifts for an upcoming trip back to Philly, but after encountering the topless, buff Kris Kringle with his four busted beauties in red velour bathing suits I lost my Christmas spirit. Not everyone felt repelled though. Later that day friends of mine saw Method Man at the Beverly Center holding dozens of shopping bags and yapping into his cellphone.  What the bloodclot?  Indeed.
The first holiday party we attended was at the new headquarters for a TV commercial production company in the Hollywood Flats. They had just taken the wrapper off the place, and the empty industrial chic office seemed cold.

If there’s an economic downturn going on, no one has told the advertising industry. The party was fully stocked with free booze, bad djs, and a taco truck to save all the partygoers the trouble of walking a half a block to one of the myriad roach coaches parked throughout the city.

When the tacos were done, and the bar had run dry, we all lined up at the valet. No one was too boozy — despite being the home of Bukowski, this isn’t really a drinking town. People here would rather get to yoga by 9 then grab a nightcap at 2.

And of course everyone has to drive.  

The lack of a decent bar culture means you find yourself in the strangest places when you need to slake your thirst. Recently, after meeting a friend for Duck soup in Thai Town, we wanted to grab a holiday drink without reparking so we ventured down Hollywood Boulevard to Jumbos Clown Room, a beloved strip bar in a strip mall, located right where Little Armenia meets Thai Town. It’s a mild affair, No nudity, no lapdances and no djs, just scantily clad dancers and a jukebox. Courtney Love used to work at Jumbos and most of the women who dance there now are also entertainers: The goth who dances to Bjork, the suicide girl who dances to lounge, the athletic professional who one evening while climbing the pole upside down, kicked in a tile from the mirrored drop ceiling and held it in place with her stiletto heels for a good minute before the bouncer managed to get on stage to put it back in it’s place.

Here at least, the exhibitionism rampant in this city is acknowledged up front. And even more refreshing is the fact that Jumbo’s is that rarest of things in LA –a decent bar, like Dirty Franks or Bob and Barbara’s back in the day. It has cheap drinks, dim lighting, and a diverse clientele: The Asian business man, the burly carpenter, the latino dancer from another club, the metal heads, the lesbian couples. Soon my friend and I noticed that all of the dancers were wearing red. Over by the stage we saw a makeshift buffet with plastic cutlery, prepackaged brownie bites and an overdressed salad. When our waitress introduced herself as “Holly” it dawned on us, that we had stumbled into Jumbo’s holiday party. Dollars were falling on stage faster than usual, a pair of Santa hats were hopscotching around the room from head to head and everyone was beaming. For a moment it felt like it could be snowing outside and that the streets were filled with people hustling and bustling with arms full of gifts. We were finally getting that holiday feeling, the electricity generated by people in close proximity to one another buzzing with anticipation. Strangers bonded in reverie and the mutual desire to savor the joy that comes from a break in the routine.

Slowly my friend and I finished our bourbons, threw our change on the stage and made our way into the mild night. Surprised to find ourselves in LA. Feeling a little bit naughty and a little bit nice.


From the City of Angels to the City of Brotherly Love, I’m Brendan Francis Newnam.

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Brendan Newnam is a native Philadelphian, and used to be your barista at the Quarry Street Cafe. He is now living in Los Angeles as the host of 89.3 KPCC’s The Dinner Party Download.

Previously: Brendan Newnam’s Letter From L.A.: Los Angeles Is Burning

This entry was posted on Friday, January 9th, 2009 at 12:58 pm.