Signs You're In The Valley

Just like any red-blooded American, I'd always heard about the so-called "Valley" out here in L.A.: Valley girls, "gag me with a spoon" talk, Ventura boulevard, etc. But I never really knew where the Valley was, or what it contained. And even after our recent stay there at Christin's brother's place in Studio City, I still don't really know.

But from what I can tell, the Valley seems to be this: a vast backwater of strip malls north of the Hollywood hills. Block after block after block, there's nothing there but drive-thru convenience as far as the eye can see. And the eye can see about as far as the mountain range that encloses all the sprawl in an arid southern Californian haze. 

And that's about as poetic as it gets. Again, there's nothing very cultural there: lots of chain restaurants and the like. However, since Christin and I don't have a car, we ended up walking around a lot, and, in turn, began to notice some funny and peculiar independent businesses. And their signs. And so I took some pictures of them:

There seems to be a high-demand for supernatural help in the Valley. Because you can't turn a corner without passing a psychic or a palm reader or some type of Tarot card shack. They outnumber the Starbucks. And the Jack in the Box's. I thought this one was interesting because Angela specifies that she's a "white witch." Good to know.

Kind of like the psychics, there's an irrational overabundance of cupcake stores in the Valley. Cupcakes. That's all they sell. That's their entire business model. And I suspect they do OK. But how? I thought everybody here was supposed to be all freaked out about their weight all the time. 

This one's a curious specimen: some mattress store that likes to advertise all over the Valley. And what sells mattresses better than a little imp that looks like Spencer from The Hills dressed up in his bedtime jammys? I can't really make out what he's saying, but I'm sure it scares the shit out of children. 

Aaaaaah. Smell that? That's not carbon monoxide. That's the ultimate reality that we all must "wake up" to, just like the Buddha. Volvo drivers already get a bad rap as being somewhat elitist and stuffy. I imagine this place doesn't help matters.  

Hey, I get it!? It's a big hand that washes your car, just like at a hand car wash, right? But is that the actual hand that's going to wash my car? It looks kind of...um...big. And busy, holding up that sign and that Cadillac and all. You know what? I don't even have a car out here. I think I'll pass, Mr. Hands Across My Mama.

This is easily my favorite sign in the Valley. I saw it crammed at the bottom of a window in a massage parlor place. And chances are, it's still there. Know why? Because no one (except a weirdo like me) is going to see it. It's scrawled in what appears to be meth amphetamine juice, and it looks like it was written by a troll living under the kitchen sink that likes to eat "part time houskeeping" maids. 

Alas, all roads in the Valley lead to Burbank. And all 20-something actors who impulsively move to L.A. end up at this infamous establishment there: Central Casting. As in, "direct from Central Casting..." This is where you go if you're tired of sitting around your apartment waiting for callbacks and want to sign up to be an extra in the movies. Supposedly, it's easy money. I wouldn't know. I signed up and paid them the $25 fee, but I can't seem to bring myself to call the hotline and check for openings. Maybe I have "back stage fright."

That's it for now.