I’ve been to three swap meets in the span of three weeks and I couldn’t be happier. You can complain all you want about traffic in Los Angeles (ahem), lament about all the pseudo-humans you meet here, but there’s one thing L.A excels at better than any city: outdoor flea markets.

Here are a few finds from the Rose Bowl Flea Market which has been existence for over 40 years.

While the Rose Bowl Flea Market is amazing, this outing left me disappointed. Not only was it too crowded and lacked any really good finds, the entire process has become so commercialized. You have to pay $8 to just get into the meet, with no pets allowed and performers who are hired to keep crowds coming through the turnstiles entertained - men on stilts, unicycles, that sort of thing. It just seems so…contrived.  On top of that, the food inside will take a nice chunk out of the wad of cash you’ve saved for those sweet antiques or chotchkies you’re after.

Still, it is definitely worth it - especially when you can find such treasures as “The Wandering Jew.”

I’ve saved my favorite find for last. I know you might be thinking - hello? Did you not see the incredible Sonny and Cher barbies above? What can be better than the plastic versions of the dynamic duo responsible for “I’ve Got You Babe,” (which plays like a loop in my head even if I sing it once)? Well I’ve got news for you, no pun intended.

Behold.

Bound editions of bound  bi-weekly New York Times newspapers spanning from the mid 1920s to late 1940s.

I KNOW. I almost went into cardiac arrest right then and there. Most of these beauties came to the swap meet from the libraries of universities, and were being sold for $20 each. After scouring to find one in the best condition and some haggling, we left with the March 16 - 31, 1943 edition of the Times, which came from the Stanford University Library in all it’s glory for $15.

As any writer can attest to, there’s nothing better than the scent of a musty old book. For a journalist, a bound edition of the Bible of Newspapers from 1943 smells like absolute heaven. Heaven I tell you. Full description and pages (complete with Old Gold cigarette ads and calls for Victory Gardens!) to come in subsequent post. Excuse me while I go smell my newspaper.

Welcome to the new and improved Writepudding.com. I needed a change, and so here we are.

Summer is almost here, but Los Angeles is suffering from some serious June Gloom, but I don’t mind because I love cold weather.  In fact, I hate summer in Los Angeles a lot. It’s disgusting, especially if you have to spend time cooped up in a car on a never ending freeway like I do.

I don’t think I’d be satisfied with any city’s summer unless I was in the South of France, on a boat, wearing nautical clothes and sipping on some champagne.  But since that’s not likely to occur any time in my near future, Los Angeles it is.

Woohoo.

All in all, it’s not that bad, because L.A. has some of the best summer events around, especially concerts at the Hollywood Bowl, where you can watch your favorite musicians play to the stars while you have a picnic at your seat. Then of course there are the festivals and while I’ve discovered many amazing festivals in my editing work, including the Cotton Pickin’ Fair in Gay, Ga. and the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in Linville, N.C., L.A has some great ones, including the Watermelon Festival, featured in these photos I took for LAist last year.

Once inside, you’ll more like you’re in the Southeast than Los Angeles, and that’s not a bad thing.

See more here

I love subcultures. Oh I do. I love them so much. This explains why I can watch endless episodes of Louis Theroux documentaries and never get tired. This is the reason why I look forward to Hoarders and 16 & Pregnant every week, as if my life depends on it. This is the reason why that when the chance presented itself to cover a Belly Dance Festival, there was no way I could say no.

You can find the article in the Glendale News-Press here: All The Right Moves, but here is a choice quote on the art and history of belly dancing:

“It doesn’t matter what year it is, this is never going to go out of style as women become more in touch with themselves, their own power and lives.”

Enjoy some photos!

There’s something you should know about me. I love prison documentaries and homicide/crime programs, especially on a lazy Saturday night.

I find them riveting. I’ll sit down to watch just one, and before you know it, I’ve spent eight hours learning about the New Mexico Penitentiary and the riots that went on there in 1980 (Thanks, MSNBC)

On one particular Saturday afternoon, I found myself watching a documentary on the L.A. County Coroner and how they deal with homicides. Of course, I couldn’t change the channel because a) It was about Los Angeles and b) I find the inner workings of government agencies that deal with criminals and death just fascinating.

This documentary was mostly about how the Coroner deals with deaths from gang violence, accidents, etc. and wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary, but something struck my interest enough to wander onto their website - which comes complete with a creepy gift shop named “Skeletons in the Closet,” mind you.

After a few minutes, I felt like I had struck gold:

The L.A. County Coroner has a database dating back to the 60s of bodies that have remained unclaimed, meaning no next of kin has come forward to claim and bury the body.

The wheels in my head started spinning with a million questions. But who are these people? How did they die? Why hasn’t anyone come forward? For days I thought about this list I had “discovered.”

The thoughts wouldn’t go away. I wanted to know more. I thought about how I could frame this into a story and who I could pitch it to.

Somehow at the same time, Spot.us, a new innovative journalism model was on my radar. I had been thinking about submitting a proposal to the site, which uses crowd-funding to support stories, for quite a while. Luckily for me, my thoughts about the coroner and Spot.us collided at the same time.

I immediately got to work researching, interviewing an L.A. County Coroner official, digging up facts, details and eating it all up all along the way.

The result?

A story proposal on the site which you can see here ( as well as on the sidebar of this site). Telling you that I’m excited about being a part of this is the biggest understatement of the year. This story makes me feel like my journalism dreams are finally coming true. For the first time in a long time, I feel so happy that I’m actually somewhat proud of myself, and that’s hard to come by for a writer, believe me.

If you’re reading this, and you also share a morbid fascination with me about where this vast city’s dead end up when no one comes forward to claim them (sometimes due to not being able to afford it), and how certain groups are helping fill the gaps where the city cannot, please consider donating to see this story come to life. Or at least pass it on if you can!

I promise to get you a “Body Outline Polo” on my way out of the Coroner’s office.

My idea of a perfect afternoon is a day spent at a swap meet. Since the really good ones only happen on specific days of the month - all of which I always happen to miss, my consolation prize always comes in the form of having tea, but not just the kind where you drop a sad, withered tea bag that has the remnants of what used to be called ‘tea,’ just like the crud you get when you poor the last of your cereal in a bowl, into your mug - the kind that comes with beautifully crafted China, high quality flavorful tea, melt-in-your-mouth tiny pastries and an aura of peace, calm and quiet.

I’d rather let the photos do the talking for themselves, but these were taken by me at “The T Room,” one of the most charming places I’ve ever been in Montrose. The occasion? Two cunning locas by the names of Alina and Nathalie kidnapped me for a birthday surprise last month. I could have spent forever there.

Photo by RodneyRamsey

I find it strange that every time it rains in Los Angeles, I feel compelled to write. Maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe I’m strange. Maybe I don’t belong in L.A., since the sun bugs me and the rain feels amazing, even if it means I’m stuck in traffic for longer than usual. Today it took me almost an hour and a half to get across the palm tree laden landscape. If you think that’s bad, the key word here is almost, as it usually takes more than almost.

The signal of rain in this city signifies the apocalypse in many ways. The vicious mudslides, egged on by the charred remains of fire season, start to wreak havoc, sending Angelenos in a spin. Unfamiliar with the danger of slick roads, they push on the pedals of their (mostly) fantastical, expensive cars, throwing caution and their livelihood to the wind. And so the pileups and minor accidents begin, slowing down traffic even more, if you can believe it.

Some don’t even go to work.

Some complain all day long.

Some have to make use of sandbags so their houses don’t get wiped away.

Whatever way you look at it, it’s a big event.

Me? I rejoice. I love the rain. I love the sadness and contemplation it brings, how it makes you want to hold on to the ones you love just a little bit tighter. I love that it forces you to slow down and think and how it reminds you that the world isn’t just about the next hot party or ridiculously expensive clothing store, at least in Los Angeles. It reminds you that the world is bigger than you, and I wish more people felt that feeling - that the world is bigger than them, than their cars, their belongings, their feelings. It’s nice.

Photo by  flattop341

On a whim one day, while I was searching on Twitter, I found an incredible lead for a story that I immediately pitched to my editor. It was about a Los Angeles area skating rink that had been having an LGBT skate night for the last 23 years, mostly kept under wraps to give that particularly community their privacy.

When the story was given the green light, I made my way to the skating rink after an 8 hour  day at work and a one hour drive across the L.A. landscape on a breezy Wednesday night. The next three hours at this rink, where I spent time interviewing around 10 gay skaters, as well as management and watching this fairly large group of people hammer out the most amazing moves on the rink floor can only be described as euphoric.

As if I needed any more confirmation that I had the word “journalist” imprinted in the strands of my DNA, this was it. I still have not managed to describe the high of talking to people about important issues in such a grand atmosphere and then going home and having the power to string all the words together to make it sound coherent.

When I left around 10:30 p.m., I was incredibly tired, wishing I could just blink myself home like Barbara Eden from “I Dream of Jeannie” but beaming from ear to ear. I loved every single minute of my time in that rink, I loved the interviews, the transcribing, the follow up calls, the writing, editing and of course the skating.

The finished result can be found here. I can’t wait to feel this rush again, which I’m hoping will carry me over to bigger and better things within the amazing realm of journalism.

Photo by Kevitivity

I was driving down the 405, which in addition to being a freeway, is also known as my second home, and out of boredom and contemplation, decided that I needed a break from the news talk shows I’m usually tuned into at nights. Although I’m frequently disappointed with the airplay of Los Angeles area radio stations as they offer no real diversity or advance the conversation of music, I felt like I had struck late night gold, or at least silver, when I heard Jay-Z and Alicia Keys’ collaboration “Empire State of Mind.”

This infectious song, complete with  sharp tongued verses delivered by a calm and collected Jay-Z and a booming chorus by Ms. Keys is just what I needed to get me through the 35 mile long stretch home on a Tuesday night. But as the lyrics progressed while I passed The Getty and headed towards downtown Los Angeles, I got an inkling of jealousy and disappointment that I couldn’t shake off.

“Empire State of Mind” made me want to go home, pack my bags and head straight to LAX for the next flight to New York. It so accurately captures the essence of the city that I could see the crowds in Times Square, the vibrant community in Greenwich Village and millions of people crowding into its metro system that serve as the city’s pulsing heartbeat all within the span of three minutes, and Los Angeles, I got jealous.

I really did.

“Wheres our song!” I said out loud.

Before you bring up the slew of songs that have been written about L.A. or 2pac’s “To Live and Die in L.A.,” which, by the way, is incredibly dismal if you listen to the lyrics closely, I have to clarify that I’m looking for a song that makes me a) proud to live here and b) is somewhat hopeful and definitely current. In short, I am looking for an anthem. I want an infectious chorus to sing along to. I want to be driving down that parking lot of a freeway and go, hell yes - I live in L.A., and you know what sometimes I might complain, but I love this place. I love these people. I love these ragged streets.I want someone to sing about the big lights of L.A. inspiring them.  I want soul, and I want heart and I want it packaged into a 3 minute distraction. I don’t want to know about plastic people and expensive cars or gangs. I have no interest in listening to a song about the movie industry or celebrities or Beverly Hills (ahem, Weezer.)

I want to hear about the immigrants who carry the pulse of this city. I want to hear about Tehrangeles and Little Ethiopia and the Dodgers. I want to hear about the amazing streets artists whose art work deserves at least a verse. I want to hear about protesters and the firefighters who worked so hard to stop the recent Station Fire from swallowing L.A. whole.

Someone needs to do this - it’s not just a personal request, it’s a request on behalf of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles del Río de Porciúncula. That’s Los Angeles to you.

Los Angeles, I love you. I feel so lucky to have grown up in such an incredible melting pot of a city where I’ve met people from all different backgrounds, orientations and faiths. I love your supermarkets, your farmers’ markets,  your vegetarian-friendly eateries and your diverse little suburbs and ethnic conclaves that enrich your corners. I love that if I need something, whether it’s a place that will repair luggage or supplies to make a model airplane - you have a store for it. I love your public radio stations and public channels and all the people working for them who are clearly passionate about where they live.

I love that you’re a pretty clean city, for the most part anyway. I love that I have access to mountains and beaches all within a 35-mile radius. I love your rich albeit short history. I can forever look at nostalgic photos of a 1950s Los Angeles and never get tired.  I love your bustling and vibrant arts community and that there is never an end to finding something you can do within your borders. I love that there’s everything for everyone. Perhaps most of all, I love your swap meet scene. If you know me, you know that the idea of a perfect afternoon involves digging through all the treasures that swap meets can bring and Los Angeles, I am proud to say that you have the best swap meets I have ever been to. I’ve tried New York, I’ve even tried Europe but none can surpass the quality of the swap meets you have to offer. You might say my view is skewed having grown up an Angeleno, but this thought is backed up by the swap meet loving Englishman that is my boyfriend, so there.

In many ways, you’re an amazing city, but Los Angeles, I also hate you. I don’t mean that with spite. I mean that like a big sister who cares.  I hate your sorry excuse for public transportation that forces me to be in traffic for more than two hours a day as I make my way across your landscape. I hate that you don’t have any seasonality in your weather patterns. I don’t want to be subjected to the blistering sun every single day of my life. I want rain and I want some snow and wind. I want to make use of the scarves and hats and (gasp) even gloves I have in my closet that are collecting dust. I want to wear a winter coat, do you understand? You don’t understand the pain I feel when I walk into stores and I can’t justify spending money because I will die of heat exhaustion if I wear that beautifully crafted beige wool sweater even for 2 minutes in L.A.

I hate that we have been branded as the “gang capital of the nation.” I hate that I have to wake up every day and read stories like this. I hate that there are thousands upon thousands of homeless people on your streets and people treat themselves lavishly to shopping sprees without thinking twice. I hate that you’re so disjointed and spread out because this completely deters a real sense of community. Everyone is fending for themselves, no one seems to care for anyone else. I hate your grandiose celebrity worship, and your paparazzi and your overwhelming sense of materialism that reeks the air. I hate that the streets leading up to Beverly Hills are dilapidated and in need of funding. I hate that people hate you, and I hate that people love you for all the wrong reasons.

Both photos by amazing Los Angeles street art photographer, Lord Jim

Creative Commons/by predosimoes7

Along with the beautiful ocean view, hundreds of spectacular shops and care-free attitudes that epitomize laid back Southern California, the streets of Santa Monica are home to a large number of homeless people. You see them everywhere you go - in the parking structures, near businesses and certainly on 3rd St. Promenade, Santa Monica’s city center. Some hold signs asking for money, others walk the streets aimlessly and still many can be found looking through the various  waste baskets placed around the city, hungrily eating the remains of that red velvet cupcake you threw awake from the gourmet bakery up the street. You can see the street on their clothes, the smog in their hair and the dirt on their face. What you might not know is that many of them once served in the United States Armed Forces. Pick a sector - the navy, the army or the air force and you are sure to find one of them walking the streets of Los Angeles, because this sprawling city has the largest population of homeless veterans totaling 20,000 in the country, according to New Directions, an organization that offers comprehensive services to homeless vets, many of who suffer from mental illness, post traumatic stress disorder and are substance abusers.

Although there have been considerable efforts to reduce the homeless population in Santa Monica that have paid off, delays and negotiations have left three empty buildings that could provide long term therapeutic housing to homeless vets still, well, empty.

Buildings 205, 208 and 209 on the West Los Angeles Veterans Administration  (VA) campus were designated for this purpose on Aug. 21, 2007 by the Secretary of the Department of Veterans Affairs yet the buildings remain idle while homeless vets continue to live on the streets and suffer from a slew of problems.

Although it has been two years since the initial proposal was granted, the VA is still in the negotiations stage with developers to transform Building 209 into homeless housing. In fact, it only just received a business development plan earlier this month. Buildings 205 and 208 aren’t even being considered at this point, since the VA wants to reach a conclusion with the developers before moving forward.

Creative Commons/ by kaprov the wrecked train

The question is simple: What is the hold up? With an ongoing war that is sending back troops who could be suffering from PTSD, abusing drugs and ending up on the streets, why are three buildings being used as merely decoration in L.A. when they could be used to save lives. With the largest homeless vet population, this city can’t afford any delays. These are initiatives that should never have to take this long. No matter how many negotiations are involved, by not expediting the process those involved in implementing these policies come off as careless, as being apathetic towards the people in this city who are in dire need of our help, these are the people who have served in wars to protect our freedoms - the least we can do is give them a warm, dry bed to sleep on at night.