She's with the band but I'm not in one

Pamela Des Barres is a Los Angeles legend, and all made sense in the world when I saw her commemorated in the People issue of the L.A Weekly, which celebrates the movers and shakers in Los Angeles. Except this guy. I read her book I’m with the Band: Confessions of a Groupie while in high school, and my imagination ran wild with images of barefoot hippie nymphs traipsing around the shady groves of Laurel Canyon in the middle of the night. Young, stoned and beautiful, they would drift from bed to bed, party to party. Even to this day when I drive down Laurel Canyon, I think of her recollections of Jim Morrison and Frank Zappa.

After moving to Los Angeles, I realized I needed to simplify my life with a lighter load, and went on e-bay to sell I’m with the Band: Confessions of a Groupie, among boxes of other things. The winning bid sold to a lady in West L.A. Her name? Pamela Des Barres.

I literally sold the book back to the person who wrote the thing. The one that evoked unbelievable fantasies to an impressionable teenager living in the Virginia suburbs. Perhaps Ms. Des Barres wanted a collection of all the different versions of her bestseller. Clearly my paperback was published in the 80s, with hot pink and neon green color blocking on the cover. I had her home address for shipping, but I wanted to take the opportunity to tell her how amazing her book was. Aaaaaand offer to drop it off in person to meet her. She gave a polite, “No thank you. Mailing is best.”

At first I wondered if she was offended that I wanted to purge her book from my shelves in the first place. But she was probably being cautious. I could've been a crazy person. I read Laurel Canyon, live in a cabin off that famous thoroughfare, and admit to being a little crazy for that hazy place in time, trapped in golden amber for newer generations to marvel at. I'm not saying the sixties didn't produce a bunch of braindead and whining baby boomers. And maybe in retrospect my youth will be defined by something other than technological breakthroughs in communication. Perhaps that should be enough, since we were the first to experience the life-changing advent of the internet and cell phones. But I haven't been inspired since the 80s. Pamela Des Barres may be famous for her talent in bedding the talented, but our current culture consists of American Idol, gruesome video games and Miley Cyrus. Pamela's generation wins by a landslide.

Cucina Cara Mia

Kate Moss is famous for having once said, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." While I've struggled and failed to adapt that mantra, it begs the question, has she has bacon? Furthermore, it's obvious she's never experienced Cucina Cara Mia, based out of San Diego. Their Nutella brownies were nothing short of abusive. Abusive as in: so good that I moaned and kept my eyes closed the whole time. Kate Moss would have been so disappointed in me. Then she would have done an eight ball. All I remember is a paper thin crust holding together a fudgy, muddy, hazelnutty bar of sin.

Exploring Florence and Tuscany

Linda Lou is a true bon vivant, living in San Diego by way of New York and stirring up all kinds business in her kitchen. Her Cucina Cara Mia goods are literally homemade, then sold in local farmer's markets. I remember wandering the hills of Tuscany and noting the similarities it shared with Southern California. It was semi-arid and hilly with clay-tiled roofs. I can easily pick up some Cucina Cara Mia goods in San Diego, pack a picnic and pretend I'm in Florence. Or as Linda Lou would say, "Firenze!"

Picca Peru on Pico - hurry, before hipsters ruin it!

Picca Peru on Pico

 When Los Angeles Magazine names their Top 10 Best New Restaurants of the year, foodies scramble for reservations before it's booked solid for months. They're not desperate to sample the food so much as they want to say they've sampled it to the desperate.

Picca Peru was one of the restaurants named, and the small plates of exotic Peruvian comfort were as delicious as they were photogenic. Lots of raw fish, creamy hot sauces and serious magic with potatoes. So allow the photos to do the talking, until you can try it yourself. Which hopefully won't take too long, with the hispters clogging the phone lines and all.

Seriously?

Salton Sea, CA

Hottest new drug in L.A. = ADRENALINE

Whitney Houston's death has L.A. rattled. Superstitious people worry that bad things happen in threes, and are waiting for the next two celebrities to overdose. I alternate between two answers:

A) A country's level of superstition is directly related to how educated they are as a whole, and we're in America so get a hold of yourself

~OR~

B) Don't worry, Whitney was the last one. If bad things things happen in threes, we already lost Michael Jackson and Amy Winehouse.

If these superstitious people argue that all three musicians didn't die within the same year, and that there's some sort of time table for this made-up theory of threes, I revert to answer A. Angrily.

But to be sure, drugs are a hot topic right now. Between Whitney's death and Lindsay Lohan's...everything, people are either checking into rehab or going for a new rush. The Catalina Zipline Tour opened up in 2010, and have been nearly booked solid with thrill-seekers boating over from Los Angeles. Apparently, adrenaline is the new drug.

This surge is a guarantee, with five mountaintop ziplines, featuring views all the way to the California coast across the sea. The first jump off the platform has a drop that could kill you if anything went awry. When I was about to do my first jump, my pulse was in my ears. I had a dry tongue, numb fingers, and Hugh Jackman flashbacks. When I sprung off the platform and flew across the sky between two mountain peaks, I screamed all the way.

downtown Catalina Island

It was a rush, and an unforgettable feeling of freedom. Blasting through sea air, the sun on your shoulders, and deep belly screaming that sent wildlife running back to their caves. Adrenaline won't leave you with the munchies or a DUI, and all Angelenos could use a little break from Hollywood. Get on a boat!

passing dolphins and a whale en route to Catalina Island

tribute to Natalie Wood, who drowned off the coast of Catalina Island

art deco casino in Avalon, where the first "talkies" played!

back to L.A.

Nerd-free video game party?

What has this world come to? In this case Los Angeles. A place where even video game enthusiasts aren't the bespectacled dough-faced boys that draw over-sexualized cartoons of you as a present. Insert awkward laughter here. They know who they are.

Shifted2u was on the scene at the Vita Hill Social Club in Santa Monica, celebrating the pre-launch of the PlayStation Vita. They threw a bash to remember, and not just because the place was filled with nerds that were...hot. Imagine lounging on leather ottomans and cheetah-skin rugs, while testing the games. The rugs were faux, PETA. Calm down. Oh, and PETA? Faux is French for fake, and the "x" is silent, thaaaaanks.

As we played the Vita, and as I unsuccessfully tried to steer my character into a fire to see the graphics, we were nourished by slices of hot pizza, 50 Cent's Street King energy shots, Guayaki Yerba Mate (which some homeless dude accosted me for later, assuming it was Four Lokos), and Kind health bars. Oh, did I mention the open bar? Open bars should get their very own sentence. As should the team of Ghostbusters that were on-site. Yep, that happened.

Props to Shifted2u for a great party, and to all those nerds, bringing sexy back to gaming. In case it was ever there in the first place.

Diego Rivera = Overrated

I don't get the deal with Diego Rivera. Everyone sings his praises, though his art was rudimentary. Plenty of Los Angeles murals outshine his, except maybe in Venice Beach, where murals go to die. It was interesting when he married the eccentric and infinitely more talented Frida Kahlo, but otherwise, holy Crayola. Was it his soul that people admired? Becasue he may have been a painter "for the people," but he was also a gluttonous philanderer shameless enough to bed Frida's sister Cristina.  He can paint all the tubby, barefoot field workers he wants, but he seemed indifferent to human suffering, considering how much he caused.

Am I being too hard on the man who shares the same last name as Geraldo? Maybe. My favorite painter is John Singer Sargent, so it may be an issue of taste. I just know that when I walked into Tinsmith, a breathtaking Mexican gallery illuminated by handcrafted tin (pictured above) I couldn't believe that Diego Rivera was the best Mexican artist we could come up with. You can find this amazing Mexican craft gallery in Old Town San Diego.

The art in Tinsmith is an ethereal mix of the camp that's Dia de los Muertos and the exquisite refinement of Renaissance art. We're so busy praising crudely painted calla lilies, that we tend to overlook this unrivaled medium. Tinsmith is definitely worth a visit.

That's what I'm talking about.

This? Yea not so much.