Situationist for a Night

One or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.  

-The Situationists

Devils Gate

If your car radio is forever tuned in to NPR on the way to work, you’ve probably heard “Hidden Brain” with Shankar Vedantum, on NPR’s Morning Edition. I keep an open mind while listening, but often I wonder if mainstream psychology isn’t just a spin on common knowledge, confirmed by a study. Last week, as one example, the “Hidden Brain” discussion question didn’t really unlock any mysteries: Why do people take boring jobs? It turns out, people make up lovely ideas about a job they’re applying to, only to find out it’s unbearably dull after they take the offer.

Please continue reading in the voice of Ira Glass.

Which brings us to the theme of today’s program: Expectation vs. Reality.

Now switch to the voice of David Sedaris.

I myself have learned not to entertain expectations. I don’t mean the expectations that take the form of delusions (“I will get up at 6am and go to yoga class!”). Oh no, I entertain delusions on a daily basis. I mean the expectations that lead you down a rabbit hole on a quest for excitement and spit you out on the other side, sweaty and incoherent, asking yourself, Why the hell am I here, and when do we get donuts? 

I’d heard about A Passage Of A Few People Through A Relatively Brief Moment in Time (called the Passage Ride for short) on the radio, and was intrigued. According to the website, the Passage Ride is a bike ride that convenes every Wednesday night at a donut shop in Korea Town. The routes are long and ambitious, and every night, of course, has a theme. The organizers send out an email to subscribers–a teaser, if you will–on the day of the ride.

The inspiration for the Passage Ride came from the work of these intellectual fellows called the Situationists and is designed to get people to “drop their usual motives.” Usually, the excursions–from what I’ve gathered–are interested in exploring a certain man-made or geologic feature of the city. Once, the riders rendezvous’d with a giant boulder inching its way down the street on its way to become the art installation Levitated Mass at LACMA.

For two consecutive Wednesdays I was out of town, but read the peculiar emails. The night after returning to Los Angeles, I put my bike in the trunk of my car, gathered a water bottle and LED-equipped reflective vest into a pannier and drove to Korea Town. A broadcast of the original radio adaptation of War of the Worlds was on the air. In it, a terrified reporter dutifully narrates the scene before him: the mysterious spacecraft that had landed in a New Jersey farm was opening up, revealing a gruesome creature. Chaos ensues, and the reporter excuses himself from his audience momentarily while he flees.

It was the night before Halloween, and the ride was called “The Devil May Care”. This time, there was no boulder, no phenomenon to muse over. The Devil may care, but let us tonight be unconcerned. Expectations be damned.

I arrived at California Donuts at 8:30 pm and anxiously waited for others to show for about 20 minutes. At 9:00 we took off. Fumbling with my vest, I fell to the back of the group. We rode for a few miles down a busy boulevard, moving swiftly and in unison like a school of fish. We were in Silverlake before long, riding along the reservoir. After Silverlake was, I think, came Echo Park, then Pasadena, then Glendale. To be honest, I had no idea where we were most of the time. It was both liberating and nerve-wracking. 

We walked our bikes up steep, rocky switchbacks in a park; wandered into flood control areas; off-roaded up a hill to enjoy a scenic overlook; and descended down a ladder to a graffitied tunnel at the Devil’s Gate Dam located in the Arroyo Seco. We lifted our bikes over fences and shimmied ourselves through. Although we must have trespassed quite a bit, it seemed like we had a special permit to bike anywhere we dared.

About 15 miles in, I felt like I was peddling through mud, even on flat pavement. I wasn’t feeling very chatty and I wanted a blood transfusion or whatever Lance Armstrong used to take. Finally, kicking off the final third of the journey, we got to the downhill portion of the ride. I was overcome with relief although I had to keep stopping to give my hands a rest from squeezing the breaks.

At the end of the 4.5 hour, 30 mile trek, the garish yellow light from the donut shop sign was a beautiful sight. My hunger overcame the desire to get home and crawl into bed immediately. I ordered a big donut which I inhaled in the car, while visions of my adventurous new Wednesday nights fell like crumbs in my lap.

Surfing with Sam (Part One)


Image from

The fog was thick. The kind of fog that makes amateur photographers squeal with delight as it rolls through the Golden Gate Bridge. The pea soup-like mist that muffled the sound of  Jack the Ripper’s footsteps. There’s nothing inherently good or bad about it, but fog is foe when you want to go surprise-free surfing.

Feet in the sand, I looked out at the gray air and water, one indistinguishable from the other. My wetsuit put up extra resistance as I shoved my arms through the sleeves. The Velcro of my leash’s ankle strap made a prickling noise as a hundreds of tiny hooks snapped free from tiny loops.

There are some people that aren’t bothered by fog. They’ll say, “You can’t see the waves from the shore, so you just have to find out what they’re like when you get out there.” This is one of the ways surfing teaches flexibility and adaptability. You can’t always see what’s ahead. Or what’s about to land on your head. And so on.

There were lots of sets coming through and I couldn’t paddle out to the lineup so I gave up for a while and sat on the sand. Someone else came in, carrying two halves of his unlucky board, white foam protruding from shiny black. He was  smiling in disbelief and muttering about how it could possibly have happened. Then someone chided me for sitting out on the sand so I went back out; also, my hands were starting to turn purple in the air.

I was in the line up almost instantly, inadvertently taking advantage of a rip tide. It gave me the impression that the conditions had mellowed, explaining why it was so easy. I glided up next to Ben, who looked amused to see me. I paddled over a cresting five-foot wave and then another, unsure what to do next. I knew I couldn’t leave the same way I came. Taking one in didn’t seem like a possibility, but pointing myself toward the shore and paddling wasn’t the most appealing option either.

I raced over a wave that felt determined to suck me over the falls. As it passed, the sky started to brighten and the water flattened out. I sat up on my board and scanned the horizon which was now a visible line. There had been several surfers around but now it was as if they’d evaporated with the fog. Looking over my shoulder, the shore was disconcertingly far away.

24 Hours in Point Mugu

Saturday, 7:01 am: Backpacks are expertly packed for optimum weight distribution. We have the equivalent of a 6-year-old in food and water but have a relatively short distance to carry the load.

Tent, backpacks, 4 gallons water, whole pack of tortillas, entire jar of peanut get the picture.

Tent, sleeping bags, 4 gallons water, whole pack of tortillas, entire jar of peanut butter…you get the picture.

8:27 am: Rendezvous with camping companions and stop at Coffee Bean to load up on egg sandwiches and 20 oz coffees for the road. Caravan to Point Mugu in Malibu.

9:07 am: Hoist on backpacks in comical fashion and begin eastward ascent.

9:28 am: Cross fingers that charred, ostensibly barren landscape will turn lush and green just around the bend.


10:50 am: Come to an unclear sign directing to our campsite; speculate as to the  intention of the person who scratched in an arrow. Punk-ass joker or benevolent do-gooder?

11:15 am: Reach campsite, already occupied by rowdy young gents. Breath sigh of relief when they pack up and leave so we have the whole place to ourselves. Situate and spread out.

The so-called Springs Fire may have transformed the landscape but there was an interesting color palette going on.

The so-called Springs Fire may have, shall we say, transformed the landscape but there was an interesting color palette going on, e.g. bright green sprouts emerging from the burned trees.

12:13 pm: Hammock. Flask. Snacks on snacks.


Princess Consuela Bananaflask, meet Juice in a Box.

Princess Consuela Bananaflask, meet Juice in a Box.

3:10 pm: Explore the area above the campsite and climb a ridge overlooking Ventura. Walk over crunchy scorched earth, breeze through the empty space left by the hundreds of burned down trees and tall grass. Only the sturdiest of succulents remain.

5:10 pm: Theo teaches us a funny Russian card game called Durak.


6:02 pm: Gather some kindling for fire. Chop up the charred remnants of a picnic table for wood.


7:19 pm: Try out brand new MSR stove and cooking set. Success!


8:45 pm: Ben searches in vain for the stick he’d painstakingly whittled into the perfect marshmallow roasting device. Mourns and moves on. S’mores ‘n’ s’mores ‘n’ s’mores. Linger by fire until out of fuel.

9:26 pm: Bed time.

1:42 am: Wake up to the noise of some animal walking near our tent. I imagine a raccoon, possum, or maybe one of those “alot” creatures from Hyperbole and a Half.

Click on the alot to learn about this fascinating animal, invented as a mechanism to cope with the incessant urge to correct poor grammar.

Sunday, 7:13 am: Sun is an effective alarm clock. Find I am not sleepy at all but lay there for a while anyway since I’m in no hurry.

9:02 am: Pack up and stuff trash into a trashcan liner, which is surprisingly full. Begin trek back to civilization with its toilets, TV and Korean barbecue.

happy campers

Cheers to Yahaira’s first camping trip!

The Bunny Whisperer

Manda and fluffernut

Most of us city folk make it all the way through life without partaking in what my little sister Amanda now does quite skillfully, that is, slaughtering small farm animals. But life on a suburban co-op involves certain unpleasantries that can’t be avoided. This particular co-op, where Amanda lives, raises chickens and rabbits for trade with local businesses, and a nearby Georgian restaurant that serves rabbit dishes has her to thank for the raw ingredient.

The perfect slaughter: note the blood draining.

The perfect slaughter: the blood draining from the nasal cavity means cleaning the carcass will be less messy.

My sister took me and Ben on a tour of what is essentially a modern-day hippie commune, thankfully without the presence of a bearded spiritual leader, polygamy or alarming lifestyle practices, although I admit that for some (looking at you, vegans) bunny killing falls under this category. Rather, this co-op consists of a handful of kindred spirits that split the homesteading duties, share meals, play music together and pass around the requisite homegrown weed. I don’t smoke, but I imagine after slicing the jugular of a particularly pecky chicken, a joint or two would take the edge off.

Just chickens...nothing else going on here...

Just chickens…nothing else going on here…

All they need are bees!

All they need are bees!

The house has a big back yard covered in raised vegetable gardens and lined with rabbit cages, a chicken coop and even a bee hive which Amanda built from scratch following YouTube videos and learning to use a saw for the first time. We sneaked a couple strawberries from a tower made from a plastic pipe cut with holes where the strawberries emerge. “My roommate’s going to notice they’re gone,” Amanda said, not too concernedly. We held a couple baby rabbits, and then another roommate announced that there were a couple rabbits whose time was up.

That face! He knows...

That face! He knows…

“Well, this takes a while so I better get started,” she said. “Do you want to watch?” If it wasn’t my sister doing this, I would have politely declined, like Ben, and maybe we’d have called it a day. But come on, my innocent baby sister clubbing a sweet pink-nosed fuzzball with a copper pipe–how could I miss that?

She prepped and sanitized the stainless steel butchering sink and had a bucket of water waiting nearby. She then retrieved rabbit #1 from death row. She wasn’t looking forward to this one, a veritable Easter Bunny. She calmed it by stroking its back, then took it upside down by the hind legs with one hand and reached for the copper pipe with the other. She turned to me to ask if I was ready. At this point I was nervously taking a video with my phone a few feet away.

Finally, Amanda brought pipe down swiftly and decisively. Obviously the last thing you want to do is hesitate. A cloud of white hairs escaped into the air with furball’s last breath. Death happened on impact but there was some postmortem twitching; the tail was the last to stop. Into the water bath went rabbit #1 and it all started over with rabbit #2. Rabbit #2 seemed to require more soothing. It had probably gotten a whiff of fear from the first one’s ordeal. While Amanda held it lovingly, Ben jokingly suggested that Amanda’s job would be easier if she wasn’t so nice to them to begin with. This time I was an accomplice. My fingerprints are all over that pipe from handing it to my sister.



He didn’t want to witness the aforementioned, but Ben came out of the shadows to watch part two, the butchering. A med school friend had once volunteered to come over to handle this part, Amanda told us as she used a basic kitchen knife to remove the skin, working it off the legs and then pulling it up and inside-out over the head, so that it looked like the rabbit died while trying to take off its own sweater.

The entrails were removed, the liver put aside and the feet snapped off like one would snap a branch in half. That noise was the only thing that made me cringe. Amanda proceeded to detach the fur from the head and then then head from the body with a butcher knife. Now a skinny, sinewy carcass, Ben and I helped it into a Ziplock bag along with the liver. She put aside the head to deal with the brain later; perhaps it found its way into a hearty Georgian stew.

Later on, there was ruckus coming from the rabbit cages, so my sister went out from the kitchen where we were talking to investigate and deal with the aggressor. “Is he going to be put in solitary?” I asked. There weren’t any more empty cages, but the chaos was deftly managed. “She’s so good with them,” commented one of the roommates. My sister replied, “It’s easy killing them, it’s keeping them alive that’s hard.”

I don't want anyone who doesn't know her to get the wrong idea about my sister ... this is just the face she puts on for every photo op.

I don’t want anyone who doesn’t know her to get the wrong idea about my sister … this is just the face she puts on for every photo op.

Note: I mostly have still footage of the white rabbit while alive and video of it while not, and visa versa for the brown rabbit, in case you were wondering about the inequity. In any case, the videos are absolutely precious so let me know if you want to see them. I need WordPress Premium to post video. 

Encountering Ruins in Malibu

Maybe if I had printed out a map and studied it for a moment before leaving, like in the old days before my Galaxy S3, I would have made it to the trailhead I was looking for. But knowing that all the directions and practically any information I could ever possibly need was stored in my smart phone, I could just refer to the Weekend Sherpa email if need be.

It was a long weekend and neither my dad nor I had any obligations other than watching over my mother’s dog while she was away. We decided to go on a 2.2 mile hike at Coral Canyon in Malibu, where a winding trail opens up to stunning ocean views, promises Weekend Sherpa. Plus there’s a restaurant right at the bottom of the trail, they mention, which is good because 2.2 miles is enough to rev up my appetite.

Cutting short my long story of technology failure, we reluctantly gave up on finding Coral Canyon Park, found free parking near a sign for Solstice Canyon and decided to embrace the unknown trail before us.

Little did I know that we would come across something more interesting than a lovely seascape. (Not that that should be difficult. I mean, it’s a minor mystery why a view of the Pacific, which is nothing new to me by any stretch, would still hold such power over my psyche.)

The dominant trail in Solstice Canyon is effortless and shady, overrun with dogs and casual hikers, and predictably leads to a waterfall. Less predictable are the ruins we stumbled upon.


The house was owned by Fred and Florence Roberts (or Freddie and Flo as I’d have called them), who made sure the house had an abundance of stoves and fireplaces.

Destroyed by fire decades ago, the house’s concrete foundation and many of its components are still there, and while a palm tree now grows in what might have been the family room, it’s clear that the mid-century structure wasn’t a shabby, humble little home. It is Malibu after all. A sign notes that it was featured in Architectural Digest, and I could imagine its owners being lulled to sleep to the sound of the waterfall right outside the window, provided the area hadn’t been mid-drought like it is now.

Its unlikely, storybook location, tucked away in the woods next to a waterfall, lends the place a cool kind of mystique, even among all the explorers trampling around. Not that it’s shrouded in mystery at all, like some ancient dwelling dug up by archaeologists–we know who built it and for whom and that it eventually burned down. Still I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like to live there.


Nelson hams it up.


Just two best buds, standing where a shower used to be.

From the Press Room of the L.A. Travel & Adventure Show

Last weekend I met Andrew Zimmern and Samantha Brown, which, taken together, is basically the equivalent of meeting Anthony Bourdain. Who am I kidding—it’s not. But the other Travel Channel sweethearts are actually very nice, intelligent people who might deserve a bit more credit and less snark from me and other snarky people like Anthony Bourdain.

Andrew Zimmern, from "Bizarre Foods" freakin' bizarre!

These encounters took place at the L.A. Travel & Adventure Show, produced at the Long Beach Convention Center. I worked on the publicity side of the event, organizing interviews and such, so I was working in the press room for the most part but did get to explore the expo during opportune moments, like when they were doling out samples of tequila-lime prawns.

Samantha Brown and Andrew Zimmern seemed chummy when they relaxed in the press room with their entourages. Peter Greenberg, on the other hand, is a very serious travel journalist affiliated with CBS. Not to gossip, but as he relaxed with his assistants in the press room, he commented on Samantha’s lack of journalistic integrity (to paraphrase) while conceding her ability to tell a story. Let’s examine the validity of this claim.

Exhibit A: Samantha discusses her hotel room in Vegas, and to convey just how ridiculously extravagant the room is, a photo of the “shower” displays behind her. The shower is so big, there’s a seat in it, and Samantha presumes that the seat’s purpose is to allow the guest to relax while walking from one end of the shower to the other. Many chuckles from the audience.

Exhibit B: Peter Greenberg discusses the tragic closed-mindedness of most

Peter Greenberg wants you to go to Egypt! Now!

Americans, especially when it comes to venturing to countries undergoing natural or social instability. “How many people have been to Egypt in the last five months?” he asks. Not enough people raise their hands. Go to Egypt, is Peters advice. The people will love to see you there because you’re the only visitors. You’ll be supporting an economy that could greatly benefit from your spending money there. You’ll come back with unbelievable memories. And so on.

The verdict is that I don’t really care who the real journalist is, but both of them made me want to go travel.

While the idea behind a travel show is to encourage people to go out and use their passports, domestic destinations were heavily represented, namely California and the Southwest. I picked up some pamphlets from desert cities, including some information on a wildflower festival in April and a flyer for the 10th Annual Joshua Tree Music Festival in May. So you’ll find my camping out in the desert for about a month. Come join me in the Magical Mojave!

Aside from a newfound urge to start planning a trip, something I literally took away from the L.A. Travel & Adventure Show: a recipe book from the Louisiana booth subtitled “Experience our Culture” including a recipe for Squirrelly Rice, which I’ll produce here for you in anticipation that you’ll ask for it anyway:

4 tough cat squirrels
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon Black Pepper
1 ½ – 2 cups rice

Cut squirrels up and put in large crock pot with plenty of hot water. Add salt and pepper. Cook on high until meat falls off bones easily (about 6-8 hours). Remove squirrels from water but save the liquid in the crock pot. Remove all the meat off the bones and shred. Put the liquid from the crock pot in a 1 gallon pot. Add 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper. Bring to a cloil and add rice and squirrel meat. Cook until rice in done. Add water if needed. Should be almost soupy. This works with squirrels, wild turkey legs and thighs, duck, venison or for a mixed flavor dish. I often cook 2 or 3 of the above in the same pot.

I have so many questions. What is a cat squirrel? If you don’t shoot them yourself in Union Parish, LA, where the recipe was sourced, will it still be authentic? Can I get them in Los Angeles? What sort of moonshine goes best with this dish?

Also, what is the best time of year to visit Union Parish? I’m afraid I left the L.A. Travel & Adventure Show with more questions than answers.

Venice of America

Having a dog to take care of is a great excuse to enjoy long, leisurely walks, without feeling like you should be doing something more productive. And Marina Del Rey is a dog-walking paradise.

I set out with Nelly—a puppy of some mix that resembles Falcor from Neverending Story–from my mom’s place, just several blocks from the Venice Pier and steps from the sand. Right away I came across others walking their furry friends. Nelly engaged in a sniff-out with a somewhat unfortunate looking Pomeranian…named Boobalicious, his owner told me nonchalantly. “Isn’t that a big name for a little dog?” I asked. Response: “No, he can handle it.”

Moving right along, we came to the Eastwind Gardens, a small community garden. Most plots looked rather untended and shaggy, which could be attributed to the fact that it’s winter, hopefully not due to neglect. Still, I was concerned by the conspicuous absence of snap peas and cabbage.

Fruit trees, ornamental vines, cacti and, I presume, some veggies grow willy-nilly at the Eastwind Gardens.

Nelly attains Enlightenment by standing on a Buddha garden statue.

Continuing down Pacific Avenue toward Venice, we crossed Washington Boulevard to the south end of the Venice Canals. In 1905, entrepreneur Abbott Kinney dreamed of creating a “Venice of America,” complete with light-strung canals and gondolas, fashioned after the original Venice. (If only he could have lived to join in the singing of “That’s Amore” at C & O Cucina, or better yet try their garlic rolls.) His vision materialized, putting Venice, CA, on the map in a big way. Tourists came in droves in the 1920s for the amusement and pleasure pier, to take a gondola ride and to stay at the beach. But between fires, Prohibition, the Great Depression, political maneuvers, the need for roads and general neglect, much of Venice of America deteriorated, was demolished or buried under concrete. In the ’90s, though, the remaining canals were restored along with arching bridges and sidewalks, so that all may look upon the sparkling water and gorgeous homes (most go for at least $2 million) with envy and appreciation.

I've yet to see someone actually paddling in their canoe, but they're a nice touch.

While the canals still aren’t as heavily trafficked as the notorious Venice Boardwalk, which is probably a relief for homeowners, it’s clear that residents know the eye-candy value of their homes, and they maintain them accordingly.

This resident expressed her (or his?) holiday cheer with a garland of silver ornaments, disco balls and neon paper flowers.

A pelican takes off from the water and swoops underneath a bridge, right underneath two squealing tourists.

I stood and stared at these lanterns for a minute. They're unexpected and elegant at the same time.

I took Nelly out again for an afternoon walk to the Venice Pier, hoping to catch the sunset, not realizing this would occur as early as 4:50pm. I started speed walking, turning my camera on just as a beachfront bar called the Whaler erupted in cheering and cowbell-ringing, heralding the disappearance of the sun behind the horizon.

If aliens studied this microcosm of the human race, they might think we were all crazy, sun-worshiping pagans and leave us alone.