My first car in LA was really more of a personal crying machine. I grew up in Chicago, where driving wasn’t necessary, and learning to drive a stick shift with my mom was not advisable. After many dramatic, emergency break-clutching, teen hormone-laden “driving lessons,” she deemed me
I have a confession to make: I went to Las Vegas for last year’s Super Bowl. It happened like this: the 49ers won the NFC championship game, a few friends texted me to say they were going to fly out, and I said something to the effect of: “I
People always say LA lacks seasons. I disagree: there’s awards season (which probably consumes a full 1/3 of the year), jacaranda season (when the floor is littered with purple confetti – my favorite), the hazy days (Gray-pril, May gray, June gloom) – and then there’s summer. When summer