On this cold and rainy Wednesday, a romance (of sorts) brews in L.A.
My friend, sob, and I recently reconnected over Instagram (hey, find me @melissakandel!) and it made me want to repost this interview I did with him several months ago. I publish this not only to celebrate our Insta-friendship but also in commemoration of his most recent milestone, hitting 20k followers! Enjoy!
If you’re ever driving down the Prius-smooshed 405 at sunset, wondering where you should eat dinner in West Hollywood, get on OpenTable, type in “Catch LA,” and book an 8 p.m. reservation for two. You might be skeptical about this advice, rightly asking, “Catch? Isn’t that a chain of restaurants in
Over the past week, I have been voraciously following the Harvey Weinstein story both as it played out in The New York Times and with more vivid, damnable detail today by Ronan Farrow in The New Yorker. A lot of people are now asking how this went on for so
When I imagine 7-Eleven, my thoughts do not immediately go to chef-inspired, locally sourced meals but maybe one day they will. For now, a bouquet of stale energy bars, a Technicolor assortment of Gatorade bottles standing idly behind fogged-up freezer doors, and half-filled carousels spinning with hot dogs more accurately
Currently making my way through Catalina Island, navigating the unexpected crowds, eating too-salty halibut, experiencing vistas of aquamarine waters broken by small pebbles along the shore. The beaches, as I’ve seen them, are small slivers of sand, hardly wide enough for lounging but people here seem to do it anyway,
WHAT. Today Deadline reported a newly hatched How I Met Your Father is alive and very possibly, potentially happening, with FX’s You’re The Worst writer, Alison Bennett, putting words to the prospective sitcom. Bennett’s credits include writer-producer on Comedy Central’s Idiotsitter and Hulu’s The Awesomes.
There’s a spot in my living room that undeniably catches the best morning light. A leather armchair is catty-cornered into it, and if you sit there by the window, you only see my neighbor’s big, leafy tree and not much else, which makes you feel like you’ve temporarily fallen into some tropical oasis of leather chairs
Herman Munster is the man of my dreams and always has been since for as far back as I can remember. I recall little me, in cotton, strawberry-patterned pyjamas, watching The Munsters before bed, dipping my carob cookie into my goat’s milk, (my family was super healthy) and thinking Herman was just
“Hey, can I call you back? I’ve got to use Google Maps and figure out where I’m going.” “Sure,” I said, nodding even though obviously the voice on the other end couldn’t see. As a New York transplant to Southern California, I understood how navigating Los Angeles could easily become