It took all day to find what I was looking for -- 15 towns and
a good 150 miles pass before finally pulling into the southern
coastal town of San Clemente, where Los Angeles becomes
San Diego - the two metropolis' separated only by a Marine
outpost, the formidable Camp Pendleton. Twas' not for lack of
trying that I could not find my destination til’ now -- perhaps this
is the trip where I am fully cured of all that California dreamin'.

The day began on Mount Hollywood as planned, but a five minute
walk from the observatory and my worst fears are confirmed. I
have finally come face to face with the smog, and all my pleading
with Mother Nature seems to have made little impact on the
environmental conditions.

Rather than waste time and energy on a climb up a mountain
with no view, I decide to continue to keep an eye on the weather,
and hold out for a clear day. In today's case, the Hollywood sign
is all but concealed in the smog's brown shroud.

I make my way downtown for breakfast, stopping by Rampart
Station to reflect for a moment. By now, I know full well that one's
mental images never match up to real life, this neighborhood is no
exception. A 60's styled building, a recruitment appeal printed on
a cheap banner has fallen down, hanging on by one end only,
perhaps somewhat of a symbol of the deflated energy in the LAPD
following the scandal. The neighborhood itself, while certainly no
Beverly Hills -- not even Beverly Hills 'adjacent' -- is no Brownsville
either. Just minutes from the heart of trendy Silver Lake, you
sense unrest, if only slightly.

A mess of horrible traffic later, I'm appalled to find that my favorite
place in all of L.A., The Pantry is no longer in the larger space next
door, now crammed into the corner space, old digs overtaken by a
new "internet themed" café. Bah! Is it a movie set, or is it real.
It's some sick joke in whatever case.

I flee towards a bathroom, stopping at Union Station, noir as ever,
down Alameda through the supposedly developing loft district, to
Whittier, and on to El Este, East Los Angeles.

What's not to love here? Vital and alive, and completely foreign
to what most consider California. It's a pity, at times like these, that
I am traveling alone, perhaps one day, I will summon the cojones
to explore on foot, au solitaire. I swing by Garfield High and El Mercado,
before grabbing Figueroa (back Downtown), past the tattered but
grand old homes in the Pico-Union neighborhood, and south.

A journey into South Central is depressing, and a touch unnerving
-- as Normandie continues south towards it's meeting with Florence,
vivid images of the rioting days race through my mind. Entering the
turning lane to make the left onto Florence, I glance around to take
in the scene - the expansive intersection of these two streets is
standard issue -- gas stations, not much else. Little foot traffic,
but then again, there isn’t much of that anywhere out here.

The famed Watts towers - disappointing -- standing lower than
nearby powerlines -- all fenced off, no sign of life, save a horde of
young men idling in the overgrown vacant lot next door. I decide
against further exploration.

On to the 105, which will take me away from all of this -- to a different
type of depressing entirely, beach town after beach town, filled with
beautiful people with bleached roots and tanned arms -- how can a
sloppy kid of irish descent with such white skin and that filthy
smoking habit keep up with these Joneses? I find myself longing
for New York, but as always, the beautiful (sometimes bizarre)
architecture and stellar landscaping in so many California towns leave
me breathless.

Apart from this, beaches Manhattan, Hermosa and Redondo have
little to offer - well, not true - they all have Jamba Juice.

--

The San Diego express train glides along the base of the cliffs,
past where I sit half way out the pier - very meditative. It was
certainly a long time in coming,- after so much beach-town blandness.
Rancho Palos Verdes offers a brief respite from coastal monotony
with impressive cliffs and views from atop.

Standing at the Korean Friendship Bell, I remember The Usual
Suspects, who conducted business here -- the decorative underside
of the bell tower is stunning, the view more so.

San Pedro is absolutely what they say it is, a low-key working town
-- but the Port, the Port, the Port! Magnificent in size and scope,
endless lines of containers being loaded and unloaded, I hop onto
the bridge over into the Port proper after a precursory stop at the
hideously and fabulously trashy Ports O' Call Village (doesn't the
name say it all?. New Jersey's got nothing on this place.

Long Beach is pleasant, if little more than scads of modest
homes and a sterile downtown with one of those annoying pre-fab
"entertainment zones." Of course, there was the Queen Mary and
the Aquarium of the Pacific, but if there's one thing I've learned to hate
by now, its indoor "experiences" and fabricated "destinations." For the

most part, I learn more on one city block in New York, or Los Angeles,
for that matter, than I ever did at the Natural History Museum.

Frustrated, and now nursing a giant headache, I press on
southward, across some wetlands, and into Orange County.

I had been determined to prove them all wrong and declare Orange
County a wonderful place to visit, but at first bite, perhaps I have
assumed too much. Seal and Sunset Beaches disappoint, while
Huntington Beach is just moving at a pace faster than I can manage.
Resisting the urge to continue driving, I take a walk on the pier -- 10
paces, and I'm over my head. Try as might, I cannot overcome the threat
I feel from all these beautiful bodies. Surely, there's a year of therapy
somewhere in all this.

Exchanging traffic mayhem in Newport and Laguna for complete and
total lost-ness in Dana Point, and after picking up some Aleve for that
headache, I'm still lost crossing into San Clemente. But oh, there we are.
Down yet another artfully re-furbished Main Street -- I flee cutesy
shops and crowds of basketball playing kids and I'm out on the pier. It's an
old one, as piers go, the creaking of the wooden boards soothe my step --
the air is heavy, dampness lending a chill to the wind -- I could not care
less -- it's just me, my pen, the pounding surf, and the southbound
San Diego trains.

--

Between the mindbendingly boring and the overwhelmingly unimaginative
of inland Orange are all sorts of grotesque treasures and diversions - the
Trinity Broadcasting headquarters in Costa Mesa ("Happy Birthday Jesus!"
screams the neon sign atop the garish faux-palatial structure) - serene
farmland and barren hills in Irvine, a wonderful old airport, Robert
Schuller's Crystal Cathedral - shrine to excess in religion, the South
Coast Plaza. The Bristol ghetto in Santa Ana, and the Block at Orange.

Every mall, er, excuse me, "shopping and entertainment complex/
destination" has strobes circling wildly out into the black night - no
stars are visible. What a place - as far as pre-fabricated well-manipulated
atmospherics go - The Block at Orange takes the prize. I gravitate
toward the relative comfort of Borders, however, there is little relief.
Wild teens chase each other through the crowds out on the promenade,
I quickly escape to the relative comfort of the parking lot, stopping to
observe the skillful boarders owning the enormous pits and ramps at
the impressive Vans Skate Park, a rather intriguing sight.

I imagine all sorts of bad things to do in the parking lot of the Crystal
Cathedral, but once again, going it alone doesn't seem half as fun, so I
continue on -- Disneyland is just another suburban diversion from the
exterior, surrounded by cheap hotels and endless chain restaurants on
various themes, nothing, save Magic Mountain is able to rise above it all.

This is a strange place. It's as if everyone simply floats from mall-to-mall,
shopping at the Irvine Spectrum with it's Cinema 85 or the Lab "alternative
mall" in Costa Mesa, with live punk rock on the quad.

Or, maybe not -- after four rounds on the ramp at the skate park, a full-on
skater dude high fives his companions, waves goodbye -- "Yo! Gotta go do
my taxes, bro!"

I am somewhat reassured.

--

After an aborted attempt to get a table at the ultra-cool Bob's Big Boy in
Burbank (to be honest, I saw the line, and didn't even park). I give up and
headed back over the hill for cheapo Chinese takeout on Sunset. I stand
out on the Boulevard, feeling almost strange, separated from my car, naked
for all to see -- Angelyne stares down at me, seductively, reclining on high,
here above La Brea. I cannot tell, does she approve of it all -- is she one
with the mayhem?

Up next? The Valley.