Los Angeles is only the 27th Craziest City in America.

L.A. – Where people plaster the sides of historic buildings with pictures of the Mad Hatter, and chase Twittering food through city streets.

The Daily Beast ranked the nation’s 57 largest metropolitan areas based on “psychiatrists per capita, stress, eccentricity and drinking levels.”

#27, Los Angeles

Psychiatrists per capita: 28
Stress: 22
Eccentricity: 5
Drinking: 53

Colorful Character: Candace Frazee and Steve Lubanski have transformed their home into a Bunny Museum, a shrine to over 23,000 bunny collectibles that include bunny-themed furniture, light fixtures, kitchenware, toiletries, books, and games.

Apparently, Cincinnati is #1 when it comes to crazy.

This proves my theory that all of those people that I see mumbling and stumbling on the streets of L.A. are actors from Ohio.

Photo from jek in the box’s photostream

Just what we need in the land of uber water using St Augustine lawns, a homeowner that rips it out and puts in native and Mediterranean type plants that thrive in our wet winter dry summer climate.  Good thing they don’t live in Orange or Glendale where those sorts of actions are frowned upon and a homeowner could be sued by the city.  (In fairness the dude in Glendale put in fake astroturf but the intent was the same…no lawn watering in a drought).

I like this yard, socially responsible yet has the look and feel of a cottage garden.

Long live individuality and the space free of an HOA!

Pic by me and get’s bigger with a click.

A subway station? Here? Such a debate would have been absurd at a sleepy little corner like Wilshire & Crenshaw.

The year was 1934.

Photo from the USC Digital Library

When I was a Pop Warner-sized punk back in the early-mid ’70s my mom was dating a guy named Jim who was with ABC Wide World of Sports in some capacity and thus he knew a guy named Carroll Rosenbloom who happened to be the owner of a professional football team you may have read about in the history books that used to live and play here (what a concept) called the Los Angeles Rams, which was my fave team, of course, and pretty much as beloved as the Dodgers, up until Rosenbloom drowned in 1979 and his wife Georgia wasted little time and tears moving them to Anaheim the next year after the team triumphed through  a strange season to come pretty damn close to winning the 1980 Super Bowl. But that’s another story.

Anyway. One day my mom comes home from work and hands me a pamphlet promoting something called the “Olsen Brothers All-Sports Camp” taking place for a couple weeks that summer in a faraway place called Logan, Utah. On the front is a picture of Merlin Olsen and his brother Phil in their Rams uniforms, the two having played side by side in 1971 and ‘72.

“Jim says if you’d like to go, he’ll pay for it,” she said.

I indicating my willingness by jumping up and down screaming joyfully, so too young to have any clue that Jim’s generosity was not only providing a vacation for me from them, but also a vacation for them from me.

And so it was that I flew first class to Utah with Rosenbloom’s son Chip and Rams General Manager Don Klosterman’s son (whose first name I can’t remember) Kurt (thanks for the reminder DK!), and I came to stand eyeballs-to-kneecaps with some of the sports gods of my youth: Jack Youngblood, Harold Jackson, Jack Snow, Jack Reynolds (lotta Jacks going on, eh?). But I worshiped none more than Merlin lordhavemercy Olsen, who was my biggest hero, literally and figuratively.

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No, this little lady I came across this morning isn’t tagging the traffic light pole at the corner of Jefferson and Mesmer in the Del Rey/Playa Vista cusp of the city. Rather she’s de-tagging. I watched for the time it took my red light to turn green as she meticulously scraped off with her keys the mostly illegible bright orange script hastily scrawled there by some blighter who probably had no idea that sometimes what’s thrown up must come down. Bravo.

This is the scene in front of my apartment building on Woodman Avenue in Sherman Oaks last night around 11:00 pm (with apologies for the grainy cell phone picture). Apparently the woman driving the flipped over SUV was making a left turn into her driveway and someone came around the corner from Moorpark and crashed into her.

Amazingly, everyone was okay and when we arrived on the scene the woman and her son were standing on the curb, chilly but seemingly unharmed. I’m not sure what happened to the driver of the vehicle that crashed into them, but the police said  everyone walked away unharmed. The silver (rental) SUV on the right belongs to my bff, Andrea, who was totally psyched to have found a parking place right across the street from my building. “Guess I should have purchased collision insurance huh?” she said.

Have you wished you knew how safe each street is for cycling? Thanks to Deputy Chief David Doan, Mihai Peteu, Sergeant David Krumer, Paul Bringetto, Tait McCarthy, and Lyke Thompson … we have displayed all the collision data from 2008 recorded by LAPD (involving cyclists.) A single red dot represents a collision, and a larger red dot with a 2 or a 3 or a 4 in it represents 2 or 3 or 4 collisions. As you can see, East Hollywood, the defacto center of bike culture in LA, has plenty of accidents.

Thanks to Bikeside for this super helpful bit of data porn!

Today’s LA Times story about Councilman Tom LaBonge’s recent motion to clarify the rules regarding parking at failed meters (i.e., you should not get a ticket for doing exactly that), reminds me of the time I parked outside Amandine at a failed meter.   Luckily, or unluckily, enough, a cranky parking enforcement officer was giving a ticket to the car behind me.  When he was done, I asked him to look at the meter and to note it for the city and, oh, yes, to have it on the record as broken in case I received a ticket from another officer.  Or, as it turned out, from him.  He told me that he could (“barely”) see the “FAIL” flashing, but “if it’s working when I come back, I’m going to have to ticket you.”  When I pointed out the stupidity of such a policy – since he obviously saw that it was not functioning – he shrugged and told me that my tickets would include instructions on how to file an appeal.  Yeah, put the “enforcement” in “enforcement,” that officer did.

The city is supposed to tell you that parking at a failed meter is perfectly legal, and that, in such instances, that little cement spot along the curb is yours gratis.  However, the city seems to keep this meter policy hidden away like a dirty secret – I couldn’t find any municipal code or other authority that states as much.  Perhaps the city’s Parking Violations Bureau should respond to this very Frequently Asked Question out on their website?

Even if you do know the rules, though, there are a number of parking enforcement officers like my Lovely Rita who either don’t know or don’t care, and will ticket you anyway.  Perhaps more commonly, many (excluding my parking enforcement officer) are understandably unaware of the fact that though your meter was defunct when you parked, it somehow found a second life somewhere deep inside its cavernous metal just as they were driving by in their street edition Zambonis.  Theoretically, the best way to beat this type of ticket is to first, park your car at the non-working meter, and then, second, to report the malfunctioning meter (call (877) 215-3958) and/or submit the meter information online via their circa-1998 web form.  For me, that’s not quite enough.  Since my awkward interaction with my Rita, I have tried to remember to take cell phone photographic evidence of the dead meter in case I do get ticketed, on the theory that I’m guilty until proven innocent.  Oh, that is a FAIL on many, many levels.

Photo of a lonely meter courtesy xxjetlab via the Metblogs Flickr pool.

On occasion I’ve been known to vigorously rip down unauthorized signage because I’m one of those assholes who takes issue with those assholes who don’t give a shit about illegally blighting our fair city for their own selfish gain.

The law that such basterds fail to observe is Los Angeles Municipal Code Section 28.04, which states as follows: “You cannot be a dick and put a sign up on anything that’s public or utility property, not simply because it’s lame but also because you’re then going to irresponsibly leave that stupid sign there to decay until it becomes someone else’s problem; and seriously no one went to your garage sale anyway much less one that happened two months ago.”

Well aware of that legality, the discovery this morning of the sign, pictured above, found at the median between Highland Avenue and 4th Street was at first modestly disappointing and then semi-rich in irony in that whoever installed this “Need Repairs?” placard did so by damaging its victim tree with a series of screws sunk into its trunk — and all done purposefully high enough to prevent anyone less than 7-feet tall and/or without a ladder handy from removing it. To add their ignorance to the tree’s insult and injury, these aren’t just any arbors. This and every one of the 82-year-old palms that line the center of Highland between Wilshire and Melrose are collectively known as something that goes a little like this: Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Landmark No. 94.

So I called the number on the sign to ask the 818-based handyperson what was up with the double fail, but all I got was an outgoing message that told me I’d reached a guy named Jay and to leave a message. And since he couldn’t tell me to fuck off directly, I assumed him to be an otherwise fine and decent fellow just trying to make a buck in these hard times. With that in mind, after the beep I politely encouraged him to take that trip back over Cahuenga Pass at his earliest convenience to make repairs, so to speak, and take down that sign and any others he may have hung in the vicinity lest some far less tolerant and more angry Hancock Parkians start calling him and/or the office of our sign-hating city attorney.

Just in case he chooses to ignore my suggestion, I’ve put in a request to the Bureau of Street Services, too. Wonder who’ll get there first?

"TK-421, Why aren't you at your post?" "I needed a Latte."

So, this caught my eye, but it caught it on Facebook. My friend Melinda snapped this from her cell and posted it there with the title, “Storm Troopers need coffee breaks too.”  She was kind enough to let me share it with you. (I have agents in the field!)

Where else but Los Angeles can you happen across a Stormtrooper making a call on his cell from a coffee shop? Well, where else on Earth. I imagine it’s fairly common on the Death Star.

This does, in fact, appear to be a Coffee Bean and not the Death Star Canteen, as described by Eddie Izzard. (Be Advised, that link leads to hilarity, but there is also liberal use of the “F-Bomb.” So, its NSFW rating depends largely on your work place’s attitude toward the word, “Fuck.”

So, I’m wondering if this is who he’s calling.

Pictured is Courtney Cruz, taken by Shannon Cottrell for the LA Weekly’s coverage of Star Wars Burlesque. Click the lovely photo to go to the article. That photo, incidentally, has been immortalized in Tattoo Ink. Click here to see the Ink, and LA Weekly’s article about that. (I don’t blame ‘em, I’d be proud, too.)

<Darth Vader Voice>Impressive.</Vader>

I pride myself on an encyclopedic knowledge of rock bands, so I’m stunned to find a fantastic one I don’t know–but there you have it. Biffy Clyro had to drop their fifth album before I heard of them–ghettoized amongst many a fantastic British-Isles band, I presume–but these unprepossessing Scots are so good I may go out to the Troubadour to see them tonight, even though I have a freelance article due tomorrow I’ve only half-finished and even though they’re not headlining (they’re opening for Manchester Orchestra). They swung by my work today to record a live session & play for some fans–they’ve got a very sturdy fan base–and it was such a pleasure to hear some refreshing new music.

Consider this a tip-off: if you like Red House Painters/Sun Kil Moon, Idlewild, People In Planes, early Keane, Snow Patrol or Jimmy Eat World, you’ll love these guys. There you go: something to do tonight.

PS: They’ve been known to do some hilarious covers, including Beyonce’s “All The Single Ladies” and Ciara’s “Love Sex Magic” featuring Justin Timberlake. Besides, look at them. They’re freaking adorable.

This has been a great, great season for revival shows. The Damned and Scream played last month. The Specials are playing next month. And this Friday, the Adolescents are playing at the El Rey. Word. Doors are at 7:00. Show is at 8:00. Youth Brigade is opening (as are The Crowd and Blockage). I am super excited. I don’t need to tell you guys how awesome the Adolescents are do I? I mean, if you know punk rock at all you’re already a huge fan, and if you don’t know punk rock you won’t like the show.

As for the whole “adolescent” thing, the humor is not  lost on us. Who would have guessed we’d all live this long? In fact, I believe Frank Agnew’s son is part of the touring line up. Oh the irony. Punk’s not dead; it’s just long in the tooth. Adolescence is a state of mind, I figure. And in that spirit, if you want tickets, leave a comment telling us the most adolescent thing about you. Winners will be chosen randomly. We have one pair to give away. And of course, if you don’t supply an email address, I have no way of contacting you, so um…supply an email address.

To the men and women of the city and all ships at sea! The American Diabetes Association (ADA) has announced its 2010 Tour de Cure Ship-To-Shore Bike Ride will take place May 2, providing cyclists the opportunity for reportedly only the second time in the history of the world as we know it to pedal across the famed 6,060-foot-long Vincent Thomas and the 5,134-foot-long Gerald Desmond bridges to raise crucial fundage for the ADA in its fight against diabetes.

The Ship-To-Shore rides begin and end at the Queen Mary and offer five distinct routes from 8 to 61 miles in length, including a 10-miler where cyclists will return to post-ride festivities via a harbor cruise. Each route will feature fully supported rest stops with food and refreshments. To participate, individuals must raise a minimum of $150.

As a fan of taking my bike (most of the time legally) where it’s usually not allowed, you know I’ll be raising the money so that I can cross those bridges when I come to them! Hope you will, too.

fried chicken, greens and mac and cheese.

Okay, really I actually hate okra, but it’s a sort of acid test for whether a place is a real soul food restaurant, in my book. If there is no fried okra and no cobbler, well…it may be good, but it’s not really soul food. Anyone who knows LA well knows that Soul Food Kitchen is pretty much the sina qua non of soul food, but for those of us in the far reaches of the Valley (Chatsworth to be exact…here be dragons) Inglewood might as well be Savannah.

Oh happy day! Now we have our own soul food place in Northridge. Today I finally checked out Amelia’s on Nordhoff (behind the Guitar Center across from Bev Mo). OMFG. The fried chicken was unbelievably good (see the picture for evidence–can you make out the packets of Tapatio and honey? nice). First of all that was one obese foul, ladies and gentleman. It was not cheap for take out, but it was literally enough food for three meals for me. The entree came with a sizeable wing and a breast the size of my head, thank you very much, as well as two sides. The greens were good. The mac and cheese was slammin’. The fried chicken was pretty damn amazing. I ate until I was stuffed like a tick.

They also have a new weekly meal service delivery option they are offering. In case you know anyone who needs fattening up.

Amelia’s: 19520-4 Nordhoff Street, Northridge, CA 91324, Phone:  818-717-8782