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South Bay and Beyond - Thursday, October 21, 2004
So. I have recently moved to Playa del Rey, California, a tiny beach town near Los Angeles. Even though we are literally 5 minutes from Los Angeles Internatioon Airport, most people (including friends in neighboring towns) haven't even heard of this place. And that's how I like it.
When I first thought about moving to Los Angeles, I hated the idea. I had spent time in my youth in the less-than-exciting suburban hells of Riverside, El Sentro, Rialto, Perris (California!), and was duely underimpressed.
When I first visited Playa del Rey, I realized that I could probably live here. The air was clean, the neighborhood quiet and community-oriented, and the "Big City" was just a mile or so away.
First, let me describe the surrounding cities, for a sense of bearings. To the North/East, we have Los Angeles. It's big. Playa del Rey is sandwiched between Marina del Rey (home of most Celebrity Rehab Centers and Yacht Clubs in Southern California) and Manhattan Beach to the south.
I initially got a kick out of Manhattan Beach. Everyone there seems young, beautiful and rich. This got old quickly. The town seems to be compromised greatly of "meat-market" pickup bars, stylish cafes with names I can't pronounce, and beach-party-excuse after beach-party-excuse. This only gets slightly worse further south, when you enter Hermosa: Home of Surfers, Dudes and Omifuckingodlikeforsure.
Manhattan Beach got old quickly.
Moving 5 minutes north of PDR, we have MDR. Marina del Rey, while similar in the amount of beautiful people, couldn't be more different in terms of the types of people one sees. Missing are the totally gnarly jeeps with surf-board racks, instead are the British Motorworks "My First Beamer" series automobiles. Behind most every one, you'll find Heather, Britt or Ash with a cell phone super-glued to her ear, undoubtedly talking to someone important at her primo marketting firm. While the food is slightly more comfortable and familiar than in some of the snootier L.A. regions, the crowd still stunk of pretention and lamery.
Moving north, 5 more more minutes. Venice Beach. Home of muscles, moochers and stinky dogs.
While the crowd is certainly more varied in Venice, I couldn't help but to be reminded of my hometown, Eugene, OR -- being asked for money, beguilted with stories of "my dog needs to eat, bra" and anti-Bush bumperstickerdom. Still, after the sun goes down in Venice, the nightlife isn't too shabby. The bars are filled with all types, and if you avoid the lame cafes with names that begin with "La" or "Il", you can have a fun night out on the town. Heck, I've even been hit on by real live girls in Venice. Apparently, I missed the how-to memo in the bars down South.
Well, all this writing is making my hand itchy and limp. I'd like to think it's all the writing. More to come on my new home soon.
Chow.
- Created:
- Thursday, October 21, 2004 at 1:17 PM