Hello from Los Angeles. Nothing much to report. My flight from JFK to LAX was delayed an hour and a half because of mechanical problems on a flight earlier this morning—the domino effect.
A kid with a 15-inch PowerBook in the window seat next to me spent the flight watching Underworld and episodes of South Park, interspersed with feverish song-composition in GarageBand. He had on headphones and bobbed his head a lot. I was hoping to spot some stereotypical L.A. types on the flight but there weren't many, other then the guy in front of me in his stringy hair and holey jean jacket who surely would win the competition for his loving rendition of Eddie Vedder circa 1993.
My cab driver from the airport recommended I catch a late dinner at the 24-hour diner a block from my hotel downtown because it was founded and continues to be run by ex-convicts. Also the food is good. But I was too tired for that and retired to bed after pondering why my hotel room has two full yet separate bathrooms and a creepy-spartan old-world design scheme that suggests John Turturro's room in Barton Fink.