Hellos and Welcome

During his most recent visit to Caltech, Dr. Stephen Hawking confirmed Pasadena does indeed lie at the precise center of the universe. (Actually he just sat there while his robot wheelchair did all the talking.)

Of course, this wasn't news to those of us living here. Especially in or near the Playhouse District -- the Delicious Middle of existence's Creamy Center.

Once one of many African American enclaves throughout the city -- before they were squeezed Urban Renewaled into the Northwest Frontier.

Now it's Condodena, where the sidewalks are choked with 30-something white men and their 20-something Asian wives, all joggin from dusk til dawn and smirking at the holdout breeders.

It's also a nexus of culture. There's the titular Pasadena Playhouse, situated at the southern end of the Axis of Liberalism anchored by Vroman's Bookstore and Laemmle Theatres (Note European spelling.) The Ice House and Boston Court. Pacific Asia and California Art museums.

There's also Zona Rosa Caffe, the dusty stacks of Cliff's Books (How does he stay in business?), iconic errata like Zinke's Shoe Repair and White Hut, and all the forgetably-named shops on Green Street.

Who's got South Asians? We do! All them Bangalore-trained technical types tasting one year in Pasadena on a contract assignment. Doing the shuffle down Union Avenue (St.! I Hast Lost an Eighth!) in the morning and picking apart samosae at the local eateries that have sprung up like lotii blossoms dropped by Lord Brahmin.

The local daily newspaper, whose newsroom I haunted from 2006-2008, sits on the east edge.



Shopping? South Lake is win for filling up on empty consumer glee! Macy's, Pennylane, Hamburger Hamlet, Med Cafe, Obama H.Q., Interact!

What about Old Pas? Crate and Barrel? LOL.

For the purposes of this interblog, we'll run a little fast and loose with the map. We consider anything in the district or within walking distance fair game. So let's arbitrarily agree to 210 Freeway x Mentor Avenue x California Ave x Los Robles. I suspect Monica may drift as far as Arroyo Parkway, but she's a more committed walker than myself (and patronizes The Beast.)

Expect things entirely unrelated.