Land of illusion, imagination and impression.

Clothes punk is bountiful along LaBrea and Melrose where consignment shops are packed with the closet discards of generations. Travel east and south of Beverly Hills to where pink and purple hair, decorations of silver skulls and crossbones, and giant plastic earlobe studs define the personal fashion style of Hollywood hipsters. The vintage shop, JetRag, at 825 N. LaBrea, must have 250 women’s leather jackets in all sizes and colors, razzle dazzle aprons from the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s, more belts than you could shake a stick at, and a motley array of real and fake fur, not to mention racks upon racks of dresses, in a warehouse atmosphere at better than bargain prices. There’s even a back room filled with children’s clothing, too. Here, we found a very stylish and orginally very pricey 100% cashmere man’s coat in very good condition for $48 — and snapped it up. I passed on a 60’s Jackie Kennedy style long tweed coat only because I didn’t need it — as stunning as it was — complete with rolled collar, raglan sleeves and original buttons. The other find is the American Cancer Society thrift shop at 9300 Pico Blvd. between Beverly and Doheny. It is much more selective, full of Ferragamo shoes and designer clothing at a fraction of their original price, plus some home furnishings, too, and a comfy sofa for a companion to rest on. This is the L.A. I love.

Moving east of the West Side toward Hollywood and downtown, is Little Armenia and Thai Town, where little corner shopping arcades are filled with great restaurants that might seat 30 people, and the array of ethnic culture pulsates, contributing to what makes this a great city. There’s revitalization and regentrification going on in these neighborhoods that were, until recently, considered undesireable by the trendy elite and are now considered chic. The renters are being displaced as apartment buildings are bought up, fixed up, and converted to condos. The ramshackle stucco bungalows are infused with new life: fresh paint in every imaginable color of citrus, elaborate cactus landscaping, refinished wood-carved front doors. I noticed a strange phenomenon punctuating neighborhoods…a stand-alone door at the intersection of the public sidewalk and the walkway leading up to the house…just a door fitting into a door jam, as if the entry to the house began at the sidewalk…no fence, perhaps a few bushes giving the illusion of a boundary between public and private space.

In the land of illusion, imagination, and impression….why not?

A stroll among the starstruck.

Today I landed in Beverly Hills via Super Shuttle from LAX to meet up with the son who moved some years ago to the mythic land of my youth. He makes his living in the back office of a high rise on a corner of Wilshire Boulevard, smack in the Upper Kingdom of Opulence. He then goes home at night to the real world neighborhood of Koreatown, an ethnic mix of Latinos, Asians, and young professionals trying to put it together in a high cost city world. Waiting for his work day to end, I took to the streets retracing the steps I used to walk when I worked in BH at my first job out of college. The iconographic geography of power, glitz, tan, casual chic and svelte was even more pronounced than what I remembered. I followed a razor thin young woman in tights, knee high boots and short pleated skirt toting shopping bags emblazoned with Gucci, Prada and Versace, long streaked-blonde hair artfully arranged so as to blow perfectly in the afternoon breeze. Along Rodeo Drive, natty Japanese tourists were seriously shopping in Harry Winston and Van Cleef and Arpels examining the oversize diamonds, emeralds and rubies, while a family of oversize midwesterners took turns taking photos of each other in front of Tiffany’s. An impeccably attired power woman, clicking along in 3 inch heels in the opposite direction, cell phone to her ear, red lips pursed in purposefulness, exclaimed into the receiver, “they’re just perfect to do the deal.” At the sidewalk cafes, the Italian-suited men armoured for success, huddled in conferences so serious as if they were in final Middle East peace negotiations. Young women (or were they molded by a recent face lift?) driving the latest model Range Rover, BMW convertible, or Mercedes coupe — cars that don’t exist where I live. I was struck by the starstruck visitors, the ogglers, lookie-loo’s, and lollygaggers craning necks to see if they recgnized anyone famous. The immense display of wealth, the taunting of wealth, the ultimate adoration of materialism was so over the top that I found it humorous that anyone could take themselves so seriously in all this splendor. And, the walk reminded me of why I was so uneasy living in Los Angeles so many years ago, the lifestyle of the entertainment creators permeating the very skin of the city, promoting the values of all that is superficial and transitory (for entertainment magnates come and go). This magnet city for the seekers of fame and fortune gauges identity by what is worn, where it is purchased, the steering wheel emblem, who is the object of love and affection, where one is seen and by whom. At the western edge of BH, just beyond where Wilshire crosses Little Santa Monica, is the medical triangle. The little streets are filled with the offices of restorative dentists, cosmetic surgeons, aestheticians, laser treatment specialists, stylish salons. Through the window at the latte cafe, I see two blonde women tete a tete, deep in conversation. As they rise to leave, they lean on each other, stepping slow and carefully, and I see that despite good grooming, they are well into their eighties. I wonder what it is like to grow old in this youthfully idealized environment. On the windowsill is a magazine touting the simple life.