D.J. Waldie
D. J. Waldie is the author of "Holy Land: A Suburban Memoir" and "Where We Are Now: Notes from Los Angeles," among other books about the social history of Southern California. He is a contributing editor for the Los Angeles Times.
Modern is just another period style, as Mad Men makes painfully clear.
The Guadalajara International Book Fair put Los Angeles in its place. And it was okay.
As the “guest of honor,†Los Angeles sent more than one hundred writers, filmmakers, dancers, artists, actors, and – of course – politicians to the Mexican city.
August Coppola was my teacher for most of three years. Although "teacher" is not exactly the right word.
The carless are a spectacle of contradiction in Los Angeles, but no one notices. They alone hear the sound of their footsteps on our empty sidewalks.
Perversity isn't what it once was in bizzaro L.A.
The Ferrari California is a car, not an obsession. Perhaps that’s why the management chose the name. The California is a Ferrari for the disenchanted.
David Hockney peers at Yorkshire (and some of Los Angeles) in the above picture.
Conor Caldwell of Belfast bleeds the truest Dodger Blue, conjuring up some essential part of what means to be of our wonderful and terrible place.
Chief Bratton can button up his overcoat in the sure and certain knowledge that lousy weather brings him closer either to God or pneumonia.
Like clueless Jake Gittes at the end of "Chinatown," we’re always being ordered to ignore what we need to know best.
Even a nondescript suburb may claim someone’s allegiance, answer his longing, and persist in his memory. Such places are as sacred as they are vulnerable.