Los Angeles is not a city. I don't care how Angelenos or their mothers get on. Let them do what they want but don't call it a city. Los Angeles is a collection of very cool things connected by highways. From time to time one has the right to use a certain European snobbery and to defend that, if you cannot walk, it is a shopping center. We are not even going to demand an old town, a tower to climb to admire the views or a mighty river. But what less than to claim a bit of urbanism and urbanity.
I arrive in Los Angeles on April 28, terrified at the prospect of going through customs. With the Covid, the number of certificates and papers that you must present throughout the trip amounts to several hundred thousand. From the tourist visa to the vaccination certificate through a unicorn hair, blood from a lamb sacrificed at dawn and the heart of your firstborn.
The Formosa Cafe, Los Angeles.
On Twitter, the day before I fly, I read a thread about a girl who's been flipped. I was going to play a concert in Las Vegas, the guy at the checkpoint got grumpy and said that if he didn't know there was a wall for drug dealers like her, and for home. I, who am going to cover the biggest comedy festival ever, Netflix is a Joke, intend to tell the kind customs officer that my goal is to spend a lot of money in your country and return very soon and that few flags of America I have in my house, I am going to buy a pair.
All goes well. Lame the rental car, which everyone has defined as essential to survive in this city –now we will talk about this– and I go to my hotel, a nice aparthotel in the middle of nowhere, with a swimming pool and close to the airport. I take it because a) it was cheap, b) the quality is decent, c) I don't quite understand how this city works and I'd rather be in a decent hotel with a pool on the outskirts than in a hovel in Sunset Blvd.
Pink's hot dog restaurant in L.A.
I don't want to go to bed as soon as I arrive, so I do a couple of emergency purchases, letting myself be fascinated by American supermarkets (their exorbitant prices, the coexistence of spicy Cheetos with medicine bottles, variety of energy drinks) and end the day in Pink's, a restaurant specializing in hot dogs in which to destroy myself with pleasure.
I get up the next day several hours earlier than I normally would, but determined to make the most of the day. In the morning, breakfast at Randy's Donuts, another iconic establishment. Iron Man was there with Nick Fury, discussing the Avengers initiative, and I went in for a couple of extra sugary donuts. That and an iced latte coffee are enough to drive me to the most obvious places that any tourist must go through.
Randy's Donuts, Los Angeles.
I get as close as I can to the Hollywood sign (on the internet they have a thousand guides on how to access places where you can see it with dignity) and I'm going through the griffith observatory, another city institution. Neither really excites me. To compensate, I go to El Coyote, a Mexican restaurant that appears in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, the Quentin Tarantino movie. I order an inordinate amount of fajitas that I will have for dinner that night at the hotel, feeling like a hero. Just like Steve Buscemi's character in Reservoir Dogs, I still don't tip.
The afternoon arrives and the first show of the festival arrives. Dave Chappelle and his friends. The friends are nothing more and nothing less than Jeff Ross, Bill Burr, Deon Cole, Donnel Rawlings and Busta Rhymes in concert . He had already seen Chappelle in 2020 in Berlin, just before the pandemic, and his show was just as he remembered. He is the Bruce Springsteen of comedy, a guy who manages to give you hours and hours of material, of experiences.
Dave Chappelle show in Los Angeles.
His monologue, calmer than recent proposals that can be tasted on Netflix, contained one of the wildest jokes I've ever heard (which, out of professional empathy, I will not reproduce in writing). It is true that tonight was not the night that everyone talks about. The famous tackle would come days later, eclipsing any other news from the festival and forcing all the comedians to come out in public with a physical assault joke to open the party.
The weekend arrives and I decide to escape from Los Angeles to visit some friends in San Diego. Before breakfast Brolly Hut, an umbrella-shaped venue located next to my hotel. I make some french toasts with eggs and sausage and head to the highway. Indeed, the car is becoming as essential as it is capable of generating anxiety spikes. The roads are immense, the traffic is terrifying, La La Land I did not lie.
Lunch at Brolly Hut, Los Angeles.
I do not understand tolls or speeds very well and I hope that, as I write these lines, a fine is not being processed. You can overtake in any of the lanes, usually no less than four or five. Nothing matters much, though, when I realize I forgot my passport at home and have to cancel my Tijuana getaway I had planned because I'm such a smart guy.
In return, the next day I trick my colleagues into coming with me to Slab City. It is an abandoned military base where several hundred people now live. hippies modern men and women who exist outside the law, withstanding temperatures of more than fifty degrees in summer. The site is spectacular.
It is full of guerrilla art, metal constructions that denounce our way of life, signs that warn of the fallacies that we consume, graffiti that explain that the dolphins were created by Stalin, altars dedicated to new deities.
The abandoned Slab City military base in California.
The mountain of salvation, or Salvation Mountain, presides over the territory. A hill painted by a devout man, dedicated to God, a set of garish colors that speak of redemption in the middle of nowhere. Without moving too far, we find another enclave that looks like something out of a Lynch movie or a painting by Giorgio de Chirico: a lake surrounded by sculptures, confessionals, swings on the shore and TVs connected to the earth, tuning to nothing.
I make the return trip at a considerable speed and gives me time to arrive to enjoy Sebastian Maniscalco, a very fast Italian-American, a physical machine, a guy as funny as he is amazing. Still hungover from the road, the desert and the jokes, I face a new day in which I visit the Huntington Library.
Without a doubt, one of the mandatory visits if you pass by. It is somewhat far from the center (like everything, on the other hand), but it is about an immense garden, a space for the preservation of different natural spaces, with areas that reproduce Japanese or Australian ecosystems, accompanied by palaces in which there are exhibitions of art or literature, all compiled by the philanthropy of the Huntington couple.
Gardens of the Huntington Library in Los Angeles.
The visit would have served to complete the day, but the night has much to offer: it is the turn to attend the conversation between Larry David, genius behind Curb your enthusiasm and Robert B. Weide, series producer.
The event is rare. It takes place at the Greek Theatre. It's a bit scratchy, cold. It is full. Front row seats cost about four hundred euros. The conversation between the two gentlemen navigates between the interesting, the anecdotal, the frivolous and the absurd. Come on, I really enjoyed it, but if I'm the one with the four hundred euros, I still wake up when they both finish the night playing try to shoot a ball of paper in a trash can.
The cheapest beer during the entire festival is about twenty dollars, so, in need of alcohol and affection, I go to the Formosa, a legendary bar, beautiful, cinematographic, ready to offer cocktails and oriental snacks.
Bradbury Building, Los Angeles.
The days go by between feasts and comedy. Like at Mel's Drive In and I go to Jimmy Kimmel's show, who falls ill with Covid and, instead, presents Mike Birbiglia. I see John Mulaney at the Forum and I have dinner at In-n-out, the famous Californian hamburger chain, where I recommend ordering whatever you want, but “animal style”.
I stroll downtown, dropping by the Broad Museum and visiting the Bradbury Building (setting for the movie blade runners) stopping to eat at a Korean stall Grand Central Market. I attend the recording of Conan O'Brien's podcast, in the majestic Wiltern Theater, with Bill Hader as a guest, and days later contrast it with the Kevin Hart show, in an imposing stadium.
Recording of the Conan O'Brien podcast, at the majestic Wiltern Theater in L.A.
Like some tacos with Manu Badenes, mythical comedian from our country, currently in Los Angeles with a Fullbright scholarship, while we talk about comedy and share miseries and the joy of seeing each other. I visit part of the original Route 66, stopping at The Hat to devour a pastrami sandwich and chili fries. There are only two shots left. David Letterman and Tina Fey with Amy Poehler.
If you are in entertainment, you have fantasized about winning an Oscar, having your star on the walk of fame and being interviewed by David Letterman. Even though all of this seems impossible. When the legendary presenter of the Late Show retired forever, handing over his chair to Stephen Colbert, not only did the fantasy end, but that other more earthly desire, that of attending his program as a public.
Facade of the In-n-out in Los Angeles.
That the caroms of fate have led me to see him act, while featured comedians like Sam Morril or Phil Wang, in a format called 'It's my time', which will soon be presented on Netflix, it is something magical. As autopilot as I may have noticed the bearded man, it's something I'll never forget. There are congratulations for the protagonist and congratulations for the spectator. This is the largest of the latter.
To make it even bigger, I am accompanied by Helen Santiago, a comedian and screenwriter who has also attended the festival. We closed the night at the Frolic Room (6245 Hollywood Blvd), a cocktail bar that Kevin Spacey also frequented in LA Confidential.
We come to the last day. The plan cannot be better: I eat and spend the afternoon with Mario Tardón, an Asturian countryman and actor who, six years ago, decided to go to Los Angeles with one hand in front and the other behind. After a lot of effort and sacrifice, he not only enjoys professional success: he is a wise, happy man, with a way of seeing life that I share, admire and that enriches me as I discover it.
Sign for the Sebastian Maniscalco show in Los Angeles.
Accustomed, as we all are, to swimming in a sea of assholes, spending a day with Mario gives me hope in the human being and in the acting profession. In a way, he helps me connect with my roots and feel optimistic about the future.
We ended up seeing Tina Fey and Amy Poehler (with Taylor Tomlinson, a true GENIUS, opening for her, look her up) in an event reminiscent of Larry David. It's chaotic. Nobody has prepared anything. They play “would you rather?” and do burpees on stage.
Obviously, the anecdotes and nonsense serve to make me die of laughter and have a great time, but I don't know if I would be as happy if I had been one of those who paid more than a hundred euros to enter. Netflix, by now, you're already drunk. It's time to go home.