Encino, CA—the suburban experience
How excited was I when my lovely friend Barb called and said she was coming to LA? Well, I was so giddy it was a good thing I was wearing a diaper.
My going away bash: Barb with our good friend Brown Kevin
Anyway, she is staying with her sister in Encino, California. The name of the town was vaguely familiar because I was permanently scarred after subjecting myself to Encino Man, one of Pauly Shore’s many horrid movies. But with the help of Mapquest and Barb’s verbal directions I scrawled on a cocktail napkin (don’t ask), I had a definitive plan of action—I would drive to pick her up for our girl date. Wahoo!
And so I went forth onto Highway 101, a road mired in cars, exhaust and road rage hoping that no “incidents” would occur and that the Happy Couple’s car would remain unscathed. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m carless. This fact seems to bother those whom I tell much more than it does me, but such is life in LA.) I pined to see my friend badly enough though that had a car not been available, I would have hijacked a skateboard from a hoodlum lurking in the alley, all the while screaming, “This is for Barb-a-Reeba!!!” Flailing, pouncing, oh, yes, that skateboard would have been mine. I can be terrifying when on a mission for wheels…or booze or food. But never you mind that.
What I noticed first about Encino was that it bears a striking resemblance to the giant strip-mall that is Dallas, Texas. (I lived in Dallas for seven painfully long years. And though I made some great friends, there is no amount of money that would make me return, ever. I refer to it as the “armpit of the world.”) But no matter. I wasn’t in Encino to research housing or to sight-see, though Barb mentioned that Michael Jackson’s compound was only five blocks from her sister’s house.
I escorted my date to a lovely Italian restaurant called Oliva Trattoria, 4449 Van Nuys Blvd. I ordered steak and Barb, the spinach and ricotta ravioli. The cow was fine, but I wouldn’t recommend it over the pasta, which was handmade and delicious. The salads were huge and could easily feed two people if ordering one for a starter course. The service was mediocre, but the manager complimented my hooker heels, so I’ll cut him a little slack.
My most favorite shoes...
The bar scene was nonexistent for the most part, but we actually found one that was open and featured a tragic lounge singer equipped with a velour vixen dress. The badness of it all was the perfect backdrop for great conversation…
I’ve never been a suburban kind of gal; I break out into hives if submerged in Stepford too long. So, Encino didn’t wow me, but it was still nice to explore. My next stops as a local tourist will be oceanside cities. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking surfing lessons, but given the fact that I require floaties, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea. I won’t be able to enjoy life much if I’m tits up…or face down, as it were.
