It’s hard to say “it’s summer time in Los Angeles,” because let’s face it, when isn’t it summer here?

While I usually complain about the heat here, this summer  has been unusually kind, until today, when the unforgiving sun reared its ugly head and made doing anything in L.A. unbearable again.
Hence why I’m inside and writing this post. A few choice photos I took this summer, in between writing assignments, editing work and breaking records for most time spent on the freeway.

Street art on Fairfax

Swept up cigarette remains

Robert Goulet?

Sad subject.

The Seven Up Bottling Co. of Los Angeles - swap meet find.

Driving down the 101. The emptiness of the freeway is deceiving, trust me.

Hello.

Journalists (well, most of them anyway) tend to shy away from any type of self-exposure, including myself. It’s about the STORY, not about YOU - that’s what we’ve been told over and over again by journalism professors and editors and publishers, and rightfully so. It’s not about us, it’s about those we report on.

So you can understand the hesitation and anxiousness I felt when I decided to post the above photo of (gasp!) myself, but I’ve grown tired of feeling that way.

I have been wondering what to make of this blog ever since I started writing in it. I’ve written about baking bowling ball cakes and print newspaper consumption in Europe and my love of  kitsch, not fit for consumption movies like “Love is All There Is,” and why I hate and love Los Angeles all at the same time.

I’ve described how I must be the only person on the face of the Earth who can’t have a blood test because of impossible to find veins and how I wanted to crawl into a hole and die when I found my first white hair and documented Henry the Maltese’s entire knee surgery (the one section of my site I get the most emails about).

I’ve agonized over the very thing all young writers agonize about - having a career doing what they love and at the same time felt like all my journalism dreams were coming true.

I have complained, whined, explained how beautifully baking calms me down, highlighted some of the articles I’ve worked on over the last year and also probably talked a lot of crap.

I’ve done all this while wondering - what the hell am I writing about?

I always feel like I’m all over the place when I write here, which I guess is an accurate reflection of my life at the moment.

I want everything at once. And as such, I want to write about everything at once. And that’s why if you browse through the posts on these pages, you’ll find everything from pumpkin muffins to musings on the 2008 presidential election and recaps of Bollywood films.

For a very long time, I’ve wrestled with what to write here - the self-loathing and criticism that comes with being a writer is no exaggeration, believe me. I have stared at so many blank posts, only to write a few lines and delete the entire thing. I wasn’t wasting any paper, but it still felt like a waste.

And so, I was driving (more like standing still) on the traffic infested freeways of Los Angeles when it finally occurred to me what this blog was and should be about: The Human Journalist.

You might be thinking,  huh? what exactly is a journalist if not human? Well, according to this UK poll, being a journalist was recently regarded as the third most untrustworthy profession - so to some, I’m sure “journalist” is synonymous with Beelzebub.

Many people tend to think of journalists as soul-less leeching creatures who are always on the chase for their next story, no matter what the cost. And while I haven’t run across this too often in my career, there are times when I’ve felt the deep-seeded hate.

Today was one of those days.

I called a source to fact-check a few paragraphs of information and within the first few seconds of speaking to him, I knew he was going to lash out at me.

“Is that how you people operate?” he said to me in a condescending tone. “Is that how you work?”

Uncalled for kind sir, uncalled for.

A few months ago I was on a phone with a woman, trying to explain that I was in search of some information for a story and she cut me off and started explaining that the way I had approached her on the phone was all wrong.

“Don’t they teach you how to properly talk in journalism school?”

She went on and on, belittling me, refusing to answer questions, but I carried on and finally got what I needed out of her, while dreaming of ramming the phone all the way through the line and up  her nose and then going across the street to the bar to get a shot of tequila and cry. And I don’t even drink.

I guess what I’m trying to say, in the most roundabout way, is that my entire life I’ve been trying to find the central part of what ties all the other parts of me together. It would be easy and almost lazy,and not even  entirely true to say  that it’s my ethnicity that’s at the core of my being. Being Armenian is a huge part of who I am, but it would be unfair to say that it is the one thing that completely effects all other areas of my life.

But what does effect and infects its tentacles into all parts of my being, is journalism. It has always been my core, the one thing that I remained certain about above all others, throughout adolescence and high school and college and ‘the real world.’

It makes me feel alive.

And so in an effort to finally unify this blog under one concept, put a soul behind the third most untrustworthy profession and use this truly as a comfortable space to not only express my ideas, and half-ideas, but to connect with others, I’m now The Human Journalist. I write, I bake, I dream about seeing my byline in the L.A. Times and NY Times, I love kitsch, awesomely bad movies that would make any film critic lose respect for me. I love Los Angeles, but I’m not afraid to say I hate it too. I want to write about the problems this sprawling landscape has, and meet some amazing people in the process. I want to craft words together for my stories as beautifully as my grandmother strings together the thinnest of yarns for the winter cardigans she makes.  I want journalists to be respected and acknowledged and not underpaid. I want to write feature stories that have the potential to make someone stop and think, “Huh. That was interesting.” I want to see all the hard work I put into an investigative story and say - I really made some kind of dent in the world.  I want to be able to make other people feel the way I feel when I read stories from my favorite writers.

I want to feel (virtually) alive. And I want to bake some amazing desserts to reward myself with.

So here I go. This is an experiment into the human side of a journalist - about her wants and dreams, about her likes and dislikes, some of which have nothing to do with journalism at all and about discovering herself on this torturous yet rewarding path that only a crazy person would purposefully choose.

This is place where I’ll probably do a lot of what I was doing before, but without any fear or anxiety - and for a writer, to write without either the former or the latter is complete and utter peace.

I am intrepid, see me write. And of course, welcome.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon,  fellow journalist Darleen and I decided to partake in a past time we both adore: discovering new tea rooms in the vast city of L.A. and beyond.

And since we hadn’t seen each other for so long that I can’t even remember, we decided to go all out and indulge in some tea and treats at the Scarlet Tea Room.

I first met Darleen in a mutual class we both had.  I was really intrigued because I think she was carrying some knitting she was working on and I was completely impressed because it was something I would do.

Not only do we share a mutual love of knitting, writing, music, art and identifying annoying people almost immediately, but we also love tea. and tea rooms.

Located on charming Green Street in Pasadena, the Scarlet Tea Room has a set up I haven’t seen before. While most tea rooms typically fall into the “Old English Rosey” category, this one blends old Hollywood charm with sophistication.

The set up consists of big wooden chairs with glass blown light fixtures and mirrors all around.

But never mind how the place looks, lets get to the good stuff.

The tea, while very delicious, wasn’t hot enough for my taste. The China however, was beautiful. I think I got black peach tea, but we were so wrapped up in conversation about the ups and downs of our lives post-college, where we all sat in a room and poured our heart and souls into journalism, that I’m not completely sure.

The tea sandwiches however, were nothing short of amazing. I ordered “Fig and Goat Cheese Spread” and “Mascarpone with Citrus Marmalade.”

Heaven in two bites.

The Scarlet Tea Room is very vegetarian friendly as well - with hearts printed next to sandwich options without any meat.

The absolute best part of the afternoon, sans the conversation, came in the form of a dessert I couldn’t believe I had never tried: Strawberries Romanoff.

Made with strawberries, sugar, liqueur, ice cream and heavy cream, Strawberries Romanoff is like a party for your taste buds, who go wild with excitement when you take a spoonful to your mouth. It’s hard to pin point what’s better - the strawberries or the cream, but together they make an explosive combination.

For a few hours, the tea flowed, the dainty sandwiches came and we even got to gawk at a bachelorette party taking place across the room, neon thongs and all.

The world stood still.

Our problems melted into the leaves in our cups and just for a bit, we were free of responsibility, of what ifs, of haves and have nots, of wondering what we’re doing with our lives, or where we’ll be 10 years from now, or the cruel world of journalism.

For two hours, we were more than ok, drenched in the sweetness of strawberries and cream.

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.

I have a confession to make. I’ve lived in Los Angeles practically my entire life and though I have visited downtown on occasion, I never saw much of the beauty in it as I should have, that is until I saw 500 Days of Summer.  Unconsciously, that was probably the inspiration of our little downtown adventure. We could have taken the metro to another locale, but downtown Los Angeles, with all its grittiness, history  and renewed interest seemed like the perfect place to spend a Sunday afternoon, and being someone who loves old, good, things, Clifton’s Cafeteria was just the right place to start.

I know what you might be thinking. Why would you go to eat there? Clifton’s it seems, doesn’t have the best reputation concerning their food. I’ll tell you why I went  - because you don’t go to Clifton’s because you’re hungry and in need of some elitist four-course meals to savor your appetite. You go there for the atmosphere, the people, the kitschy-coolness of it all and if you can’t get past the taste of the food to see all that, well then I don’t know what to tell you. Go to a swanky restaurant on Sunset and call it a day.  Let’s move on to the green jello.

Yes there’s jello. Lot’s of it. This particular one above is a pear jello, but there were all sorts of flavors, including a “cheese jello” that looked a bit strange. Clifton’s also has bread pudding, fruit salad, tapioca - you name it, they got it. They’re also quite the creative bunch, as evidenced by the vegetable swan/duck below.

Beyond the desserts and salads, you find enchiladas and turkey breast and meat loaf and all the macaroni and cheese you can eat. Candy colored beverages, in flavors such as watermelon, mango and lemonade line the end of your journey as you make your way to the counter to pay. It’s only when you’ve gotten a handle on your food that you begin to notice the decor of Clifton’s.

It looks like the home of a hunter who decided he couldn’t fathom being away from the forest during off-season, so he did the next best thing: brought the wilderness into his home. There are moose heads and bass hanging in various places around the cafeteria, along with a fireplace and various objects on the wall - it’s like Elmer Fudd’s mothership, but that makes for a more interesting time and conversation.

After Clifton’s, it was time to wander around, hopefully do some shopping and waste time before we had to be back home. Because Los Angeles is so huge, you tend to forget what else it has to offer beyond the 10-mile radius you live in. It’s just waiting to be explored, there are so many interesting parts of this city that go unnoticed because someone happens to live in Santa Monica and it’s just too much hassle to drive beyond the 405, a sentiment that is probably echoed in the other direction by  your average Valley dweller.

The Orpheum Theatre above opened in 1926 and was a popular venue for the Marx Brothers, Judy Garland as well as Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington. I mean, Ella Fitzgerald was in Los Angeles, in the same building, decades and decades ago - that just blows my mind.

The buildings below make up the famous Santee Alley, known for its fashion and furnshings you can score at affordable prices.

By the end of the day we were tired, but the 20 minute ride back home was calming, except for the girl who went on endlessly about how other people shouldn’t be blaming her for being more successful than them. I guess the cost of public transportation is annoying people, but you take what you can get.

More photos here.

Taking public transportation in Los Angeles is an anomaly.  This 498.3 square mile city’s driving force is the car . Because of this, the metro is often ignored, under funded and unexplored. Beyond the concrete jungle that spans the entirety of L.A., there’s a rapid transit system that spans about 73 miles of rail and has five lines: Blue, Red, Green, Gold and Purple.

Though a rail system is synonymous with a major, metropolitan area, the people of Los Angeles had this crazy idea in 1963 to close down all streetcar lines in favor of using cars on the freeway system. This action, as you can guess, helped created one of the most traffic-congested cities in the country. in the 80s, a measure was passed for a half-cent sales tax increase to rebuild the metro and light rail lines, with the Blue Line opening in 1990, with subsequent lines opening later. Amazingly, the Red and Purple lines averaged a weekday ridership of 153,928 by June 2008, making it the ninth busiest rapid system in the U.S.

Having always been fascinated by the metro system in other cities I’ve visited like New York and London, and since I seem to spend quite a majority of my waking time in the car, taking the L.A metro had been on my mind for a while and this Sunday, the opportunity presented itself. With a True Blood episode to catch at night, we set off to downtown in the afternoon, starting off at the Lake Ave. stop in Pasadena.

Let’s talk about the ticketing system of the Los Angeles metro system: it works on an honor system. AN HONOR SYSTEM, meaning, there are no turnstiles, no little machines you insert your ticket in before you can get through, no regulation. Basically, THEY TRUST US. Big mistake. Huge mistake. We  could have not bought tickets and have managed to get home and back on a free trip, in fact we saw many people that did just that.

Ticket barriers are coming, however it is estimated that the Metro loses 5.5 million a year because of this method.

The trains were really clean, with cushion seats and the most eclectic bunch of people you could have imagined, accurately reflecting all sectors of L.A. One of the major reasons I’ve always loved public transportation is because you can feel the heart beat of the city within its system - everyone with somewhere to be, someone to meet or something to see, everyone with one specific aim, shared by their mutual journey. It’s a lovely feeling, one that this city severely lacks. In L.A., everyone is a lone soldier, in their own car, after their own priorities - we even lack the proper patience for pedestrians.

After taking the Gold Line, we arrived in Union Station, opened in 1939 and known as the “Last of the Great Railway Stations” built in the U.S.

It’s a lovely place that makes you feel transported to the 40s. Serene and quiet, the most you hear there are the footsteps of travelers hurrying by with their families or luggage to get from one place to the next.

When we finally arrived in downtown, the sign below was the first thing that caught my eye. I wish all newsstands, however many there are left anyway, looked like that.

The blue building on the left is the Eastern Columbia Building. Opened in 1930, the Art Deco building housed clothing and furniture stores until it turned into condominiums that opened in 2006.

Our first order of business was Clifton’s Cafeteria, another Los Angeles landmark, that was recently in line to be sold, due to declining profits. Part deux of the exploration of a different side of Los Angeles coming tomorrow.

Los Angeles is a raw town. It’s an open wound. It can chew you up and spit you out or put you in its lap and pat you on the back all in a matter of weeks or even days. There is no rhythm to this sprawling city of concrete jungles and imported palm trees. There’s only one thing you can be sure of: traffic.

It’s unique in its ways, which is probably part of the reason why people either love it or hate it. I have not yet met anyone who has ever had lukewarm feelings about L.A. It’s always “L.A is just amazing!” or “I don’t care how amazing it is, I will never spend that much time in a car.” I understand, believe me I do. I ponder that thought on a daily basis.

If by some fluke, my parents hadn’t decided to move to Los Angeles, I would have probably hated it too. But then again, it was either L.A or staying in a post-revolution Iran. I will thank my lucky stars that they chose the former.

Either way, L.A does not have a rhythm. It’s more random than rhythm, that’s for sure. Because of Hollywood, because of the eclectic nature of industries and jobs, there is no beginning and end to a day spent here. There is no “I’ll be there on time,” or “I will be home for dinner.” There is no day of rest, no pity from the blazing sun, there is no certainty.

Los Angeles doesn’t operate like other cities. Especially not like the city of London. In London, everything is defined by a rhythm. Tube arrives on time, please mind the gap, you will be at your destination of choice. This is as certain as the fact that it will be an overcast day. Tea time at 4 p.m. , overcrowded bars after 5 p.m., Gems TV rebroadcast from 7 to 9 p.m. (don’t ask),  stores closed by  9 p.m., The Evening Standard being sold in tube stations,  in bed by  midnight to do it all over again.

It’s nice to have that feeling of security.

Do not misunderstand me.  Because of my attachments to the City of Angels, I could never really insult her and I secretly cringe when someone does. It’s just that living in Los Angeles makes you feel that sometimes, the rest of the world does not exist. You gain a sense of entitlement and think there must be few places in the world as good as this. This place where you have everything available to you at the drop of a hat. It’s amazing how there is an entire world out there that’s just waiting for you to explore.

London is the only place other than Los Angeles that I have actually wanted to live. I mean, really live. When I was younger, I dreamt about moving to New York and though I’ve been there a handful of times, it never really felt like “home” to me. Unless it was somewhere like Brooklyn or Long Island, I couldn’t imagine myself living that entangled in a metropolitan city. This is probably a reason why I have never had the urge to move somewhere in Los Angeles like West Hollywood or the up and coming neighborhoods of Downtown.

London feels different. Maybe that’s because my boyfriend lives there and it already feels familiar, maybe it’s the people, the food, the neighborhoods, but after a week there, I had gotten so comfortable with it that when I thought of the idea of getting in my car to drive to work (gasp) I really felt nauseous.

The thought of arriving somewhere in less than 15 minutes and usually on time is astounding, especially to a native Los Angeleno. Public transportation is an awe and enigma to me. After a one week taste, I am thoroughly enamored by it.

When I first got to London, with all its quaint architecture, funny pub names and narrow streets, it looked like a set that belonged in Disneyland. I thought any minute now the view in the distance would be just a backdrop when I got closer. But the view didn’t fade, and the dainty black cabs whizzed by, right after the red double decker buses slowly made their way down the avenues.

With its long list of street markets, ability to get many places on foot and general rhythm, you are constantly exposed to people all day long. This is a far cry from life in Los Angeles, where even at work I interact with people through instant messenger when they are sitting right next to me and the extent of my involvement I have with people doesn’t come any closer than the bumper in front of me on the freeway.

It’s expensive and crowded, yes, but it is so much more. Do you know how amazing it is to see and interact with  people from other countries? But Los Angeles is one of the most diverse places in the U.S you say. Yes, this is true, but do you know how exciting it it to see people who say they are German who are ACTUALLY from Germany? Or to hear people speak Polish and Greek and Nigerian? It is absolutely thrilling for me to see young people whose native languages are not English, who have not been jaded and swept up in Western fever to the point where they are no different from teenagers in the U.S. It’s pretty damn exciting, let me tell you.

London has a heart beat. A big blood red heartbeat. We were walking in Covent Garden Market on my last day there when I saw a man with a guitar in the middle of the market singing a beautiful rendition of one of my favorite songs, “Wild World” by Cat Stevens. At that moment, no other song sounded appropriate and excuse the pun, but it really struck a chord in me. Yes,  It’s hard to get by just upon a smile. There’s a lot of bad and we should be aware. But to see new places, to not take opportunities and risk, to not see what else is out there would be a disservice to yourself. As I boarded the plane out of Heathrow, dreading a 10 hour flight home, my insides tangling up at the thought of it being months before I see him again, there was a Mark Twain quote that I remembered.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

It’s true.