Peter Jackson probably stays at the Beverly, and he aint look like a high roller…

Now those who follow this blog (all hundreds of you) probably think that it’s just one unending glamour story at Knots Tied In Strings. Gambling in Vegas, after a couple of sexy parties in Los Angeles right? Well behind the razor sharp one liners and glamorous photography a different, grimier story could be told.

Well of course. I’m being facetious. Anyone who has traveled long periods of time through less than five star accommodation knows this. Traveling can be work, finding hostels, juggling bookings when you faffed around too much and once again left booking to the morning you are leaving a particular town. And then there’s the hostels. You get your gems, (Portland, respect) with well working wireless internet, nice staff and reasonable ventilated and clean rooms. But then again, right now I’m typing in a four man dorm room, which looks like some sort of workers quarters on a boat (Jon and Lauren are watching season one Baywatch on Jon’s laptop. Chuckling ironically. Or maybe non-ironically, I’ve begun to suspect that Jon’s enjoyment has crossed over. He just yelled out “Man, they even address women’s body issues!”) on sheets provided for me that almost definitely came from a Salvation Army sale. My pillowcase looks like Queen Latifah’s underwear. The pillow is made of that same material they put on boarding school bed wetters’ mattresses. The person who admitted us in had the charisma of a bowel movement. We even have to wear green wristbands for the duration of our stay.

Ocean Beach, San Diego. It’s good to be here. (Actually, I whine. The town seems pretty cool. Right on the beach, slightly alternative etc. etc.)

David Hasselhoff did not take well to his replacement

We’ve been in San Diego about two hours. Already sampling our hostels free barbeque. Another meal is planned for later on maybe, with a San Diego friend. Eating is kind of a big thing in the day. When you’re not up to much, whole days can be defined by a meal.

There are two ways that days can be told apart.

Jon: What day is it today James?
James: It’s Monday, we went to Venice Beach on Saturday, and that was two days ago.

OR

Lauren: We went to San Luis on a Wednesday.
James: No! It was a Tuesday. I know this because I had a burrito for lunch on Tuesday, right before we got to San Luis.

So we’re in San Diego, for roughly ten days or so. Jon sets off on his Texas leg on the 28th, and then we’ll be convening in Toronto around the 15th of October. I’m in the last quarter of my four months holiday. It’s strange to look back on all that’s gone before us. Four months can seem like endless holiday, and a lot has happened. But my grip on the good life sometimes slips slightly with real life and a new city careening towards us.

Moving right along.

I think Jon covered Vegas wonderfully, but I want to add in one thing. It was tiring. After three late nights in Los Angeles, and two in Las Vegas, we were pretty asleep on our feet as we rolled back into L.A. Lauren and myself had tickets to Peter, Bjorn and John at the Wiltern and were dog tired. Lauren I think actually managed to doze slightly with a rock band at full blast about thirty feet in front of her.

The next day we did nothing. And it was glorious. I had a burrito. Hung out in Barnes and Noble for a few hours. Watched three episodes of House. Jon composed his Vegas tome.

Wednesday though, Wednesday was hardcore. A solid midday wake up and another episode of House meant we didn’t leave till two pm, where we made our way up to the Getty Centre in the Los Angeles hills. The Getty Centre is remarkable for a number of reasons, none of which being I had a hot dog and two diet cokes there. The centre was built by oil tycoon John Paul Getty, the first person in the world to mass a fortune of over a billion dollars. It was finished in 1987, roughly eight years after Getty had croaked and left this golden egg. You park at the bottom of the hill, and then are taken by floating tram (it’s powered on it’s track by air!) to the centre, which has some of the best views of Los Angeles.

Takin’ it to the hoop.  Venice Beach.  Los Angeles, California.

(It really made up for the previous evening when I tried to take us to the scenic viewing area on Mulholland Drive, only for us to get there after the road was shut. We tried to go up anyway, the road actually looked open, contrary to what the sign said: but it looked creepy. As Lauren said, “Look out that rearview and then imagine a man coming towards us with a knife.” Kind of summed it all up for me. It was spooky. So we never got to see that particular amazing city vista.)

The Getty Centre was amazing. Aside from the immaculately groomed gardens, great views and delectable hot dog and diet coke supplies, it housed four massive pavilions of art from Mr. Getty’s private collection, and works commissioned by the Getty Centre. It was like walking through an art history textbook at times. The 18th and 19th Century European Art sections housed work from Degas, Munch, Renoir, Monet, Van Gogh, David, Goya and countless others that I’m probably forgetting. It was amazing. I’ve never really gone toe to toe with great art before. It’s a strange feeling. Both overwhelming, and underwhelming in equal amounts, I was part wowed, and then a little analytical of how when you take away all the mythology and history and countless words devoted to a particular painting you’re really just left with a piece of canvas with some paint on it.

Post Getty Centre, we went for a driving tour of Beverly Hills, where every house is a mansion. (Apart from one house, we saw one house that was really muddying up the neighbourhood.) It’s a pretty nice place Beverly Hills. So many cars! Just parked everywhere. We even saw a house that looked a lot like the Walsh’s pad from Beverly Hills 90210. I saw two people of race, a Mexican tradesman, and a black limousine driver.

We even stopped for a while at the famous Beverly Hills Hotel. Apparently there’s a scene in Beverly Hills Cop where Eddie Murphy pretends to be Michael Jackson’s manager to get a free room. I had to sheepishly admit to Jon that I’d never seen that film. He’s dealing okay with that, but our friendship might take a while to recover.

Which one of these cars do we drive around in?  Beverly Hills.  Los Angeles, California.

It was flash. Justin Timberlake had recently made press for punching a photographer there. Everyone looked fancy. Lauren and Jon tried to walk into a conference room to try and get free nibbles. They were quickly found to be imposters.

I starting talking in a ritzy accent, threatened to moon a lot of people, and in one hilarious skit, pretended that a coin was a monocle. Lauren called me out. I was being a goof. I was uncomfortable in such wealth. It felt exclusive. It’s not often that a white male can feel like the odd one out. But for me this was one of those times. It was a culture I recognised, but I wasn’t part of the club.

I didn’t take my pants off though.

After a drive down Sunset Strip, and dinner, the day was called to a close.

Yesterday started for me with an amazingly good chicken sandwich. And then we proceeded to Venice Beach, and had a good walk down the home of Baywatch. The weirdoes weren’t out in force, but a homeless guy did remark that I looked like I was fifty. (I didn’t give him any money for weed.) We watched two guys play one-on-one basketball for five dollars, watched some paddle tennis, and ogled some guys lift weights.

Venice’s anti-graffiti campaign was met with applause.

Then Lauren and I saw Arcade Fire and the LCD Soundsystem at the Hollywood Bowl. The Hollywood Bowl is a superb concert venue, but yet I won’t further weight this blog down with superlatives on how good the concert was. If you want to hear me moan ecstatically, send me an email.

So… yeah? I guess I’ll go troll for wireless and get this blog up online. Another episode of Baywatch just started, and from the laughs coming from the other bunk, it sounds like a killer episode.

So left out right now.

Posted by James

Tags: Humour, Los Angeles, TV