The Home Front

Dad and I arrived in Los Angeles Wednesday morning and immediately began hunting for the ultimate goal of the first two days: a decent apartment. I had about four appointments made via craigslist, but they weren’t until later so we took to the streets as if throwing a dart at a map of koreatown. The results were less than spectacular. Being from the northwest I am not familiar with cockroaches, but by the end of the day I received a crash course in insect behavior and physiology. The prices were right though.

The appointments represented a marked increase in overall quality and cleanliness, but unfortunately price as well. I really wanted hardwood floors, a decent kitchen and bathroom separated from the main room as much as possible. This is asking a lot of a studio.

We found couple clean studios with great views on Rampart Blvd. A less clean and less expensive studio with a used-car-salesman-esque, ex-musician, lawyer, manager who assured us that he was going to plant more roses in already very nice enclosed garden area.

J.: Do you know what I’m doing tomorrow, Ryan?

R.: (Confused/Concerned) No?

J.: I am going to get fifty, count ‘em fifty, roses of all shades and hues and plant them right here in this magnificent garden.

R.: (Relieved) Oh? Oh, um. Cool…

We finally found another place on Rampart that I was immediately excited about, which considering how jaded I felt at this point was really a good sign. I signed the lease about four hours later. It is the first concrete and steel building built west of the Mississippi, circa 1908 as a luxury hotel. The apartment is a studio, with a fold-down Murphy bed, a large kitchen, bizarre old fashioned fixtures and red-painted concrete floors. It is funky to say the least, and I picked out some really cool old pieces of furniture to match. The Swedish’s attempt to take over the world failed again. Take that IKEA. Photos to come.

-Ryan