A Beer to Send us Off
It's our last night in L.A. I'm drinking orange juice straight from the carton, sitting indian-style on the floor of an empty apartment with a belly full of sushi and sake. Our two days here have been spent living like rock stars, which is fitting considering the next two weeks will be spent living out of a Miata.
L.A. is like a mistress to me. She's enchanting to spend a night with - maybe even a few - but I could never imagine living with her. Those few nights, however, are off the charts. Scattered amidst all the packing and last-minute cleaning were some truly unforgettable moments: savoring local IPA's and fried risotto cakes at The Darkroom, drinking New Belgium Flat Tire on an outdoor patio in Santa Monica, and soaking our feet in the warm Pacific waters during sunset.
But for every tricked-out Range Rover and gated mansion, there are about a million waiters and bartenders who just barely missed the cut. It's a city of dreamers, divided into those who made it and those who dreamed just a little too big. And that dividing line is nowhere near the middle. Still, the mania of this town is infectious. Listening to a few jaw-dropping tales from even the most unassuming of locals makes you realize that, regardless of what side of the monogrammed gate you're standing on, everyone feels a part of that dream.
And now, the slideshow:
|As a close friend and wise man once said, "double-double fries and coke."|
|The silhouette you see is actually Sean Penn. So much smaller in person than in the movies.|
|Enjoying a beer at some enormous sports bar. The photographer: Also Sean Penn. The dude was everywhere.|