In the Pink

This was one of those weekends that make Los Angeles seem like a pretty great place to be. For starters, on Saturday night, I was able to perform some of ye olde improv comedy with the great group of people who form my troupe—something that would probably be hard to pull off if I resided in the hinterlands. My personal highlight of the show was making a random Rocky reference in a really bad Italian accent and hearing the audience implode with laughter. Sweeeeeeet.

Come Sunday afternoon, after some dim sum, a friend and I walked from her downtown pad to a free outdoor concert performed by the aurally delicious Barcelona band The Pinker Tones. They played my favorite song of theirs—"Pink Freud" (exclusively in German!)—and everything.

As we danced with a motley crew of our fellow Angelenos—from bobbing toddlers to bopping geriatrics—by the water fountain-surrounded stage, there was a feeling of metropolitan-based joie de vivre that is hard to come by in this ciudad.

Once the band bid us adieu, mi amiga y yo wandered down the street towards the MOCA gift shop for some browsing. Along the way, we stopped to watch a scene from an action film being shot in an intersection and tried to figure out if the girl in the leather jacket was Jodie Foster or her stunt double. Inconclusive.

Post-movie shooting and MOCA shopping, we wandered over to the garden of Gehry's breathtaking Disney Hall—feeling like we'd come upon a deserted space ship of silver shapeliness.

After I dropped my friend off at her apartment, I popped over the hill for a barley milk tea with boba in Chinatown and drove home, happily sipping, with the "magic hour" light turning the whole crazy town a hazy shade of saffron.

Summer in the city ain't so shabby. ¡Olé, L.A.!