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In the 1991 film "L.A. Story", a local weatherman offers to show a visiting journalist around town—“You know, a kind of cultural tour of LA," he tells her. "That's the first 15 minutes," she replies. "Then what?" 

Indeed. Los Angeles is a place where it is possible to find 17 tanning parlours and six frozen-yogurt shops thriving within a three-mile radius—and zero book stores. It is a city where Michael Bay, a film-maker lately known for directing the Transformers franchise, and the Kardashian sisters are held up as glowing examples of something, but no one really knows quite what (perhaps LA-ness?). Its profitable and occasionally inventive film and television industries provide a weird raison d’etre for a city Norman Mailer characterised as "a constellation of plastic".  

No event crystallises the city's totem virtues of talent, showmanship, extravagance and self-regard like a big awards ceremony, of which there are several annually. As television gets better and better, the Emmy Awards have seen a corresponding rise in clout and glitz. This year's event, which took place on September 18th at the Staples Centre, was a fascinating combination of high-school prom, rock concert, insider coffee klatsch and media maelstrom. It has come a long way since the first Emmy was bestowed in 1949 on a 20-year old ventriloquist named Shirley Dinsdale for her children's show "Judy Splinters". Your correspondent, who arrived as the date of a "Saturday Night Live" writer, managed to snag a seat in the centre of the ceremony's main section, right in the middle of the action.  read more »

Shepard Fairey, a street artist, is having trouble with the mural he just painted on the Bowery in New York City. This time it's not about copyright infringement or a run-in with the law, but with vandalism. Though some say the value of street art is in its transience, Fairey hired guards to protect his work, earning him some critics in the blogosphere ("how can u hire security to watch a wall for you? THAT IS SO NOT ‘STREEET’!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" wrote one angry commenter on the website "ANIMAL New York"). Does Fairey, with his big gallery representation (Deitch Projects), security guards and notoriety, still count as a legitimate street artist? Depending on where you stand, his mural's vandals are either continuing conversation or ruining a masterpiece.  read more »

It’s a rare opportunity to sit down with a star before everyone knows about them. But on a fire-hot summer morning in Los Angeles I got the chance to meet three such ladies: The Apple Sisters, a 1940s variety act performed by Kimmy Gatewood, Rebekka Johnson and Sarah Lowe. Ripping a page from vaudeville, with Hepburn accents and Betty Boop moves, these gals are subversively funny, sexy and just plain weird. Described by the LA Times as “Sarah Silverman meets The Shaggs”, it’s impossible to conceive a more apt description.

Fresh off a win for Outstanding Original Music from the New York Innovative Theatre Awards in late September, and boasting a new entourage of managers, agents and lawyers to support them on their move to Hollywood, these sisters are on a fast track to fame. Deborah Stoll gets to their core.

THE SCENE:
Kimmy’s Los Feliz apartment. The ladies are bright-eyed despite the early hour. They hungrily tear off hunks of apple bread (true, true), smoke cigarettes and drink coffee while someone’s boyfriend wanders around dazed in boxer shorts in the background.

More Intelligent Life: There’s a video on your website called “Sea to Shining Sea”–was this inspired by your move to LA?  read more »

Jon Voight was on my flight from New York to LA.  I was good--I didn't bother him, though everyone else did. The older adults thanked him for "Midnight Cowboy"; teenagers paid their respects to the man who gave us a decade of films about corrupt politicians, Zoolander's coal-mining dad and Angelina Jolie. Jon Voight sat in first class, underlining sentences in a book. I remembered that in "Mission Impossible" he also sat first class, and watched a video which then smokily self-destructed in the tape deck. If we were skyjacked, my money says he would be the mole.

At the baggage claim, I suddenly realised that I was staring right at him. Then I saw he was actually staring at me. This is how Tom Cruise busted him at the end of "Mission Impossible". I promptly studied my sneakers. When I looked up, he was gone; or rather, he'd walked halfway around to stand right next to me.  We were wearing the same colour sweater (light blue), but I'd be hard-pressed to find his (strong, old-manly) brand of cologne. I concentrated on the conveyor belt and tried to think of something smooth to say: neither too awestruck, nor too cool. I couldn't. A good three minutes passed like this. I could help him with his bags. He was in "Deliverance". I could whistle the banjo theme from "Deliverance". He left with his man.

LA is a weird place.

~ COLIN BAKER

Picture credit: Alan Light (via Flickr), More Intelligent Life