The Worst of LA: The Best of LA

The stacks of what look like phone books at every bus stop can mean only one thing: LA Weekly's annual "Best of LA" issue has hit the news stands. Some of the southland's hippest writers have indexed what's what in the City of Angels - now if I could only understand what the hell they're talking about.

Simply dividing the gargantuan issue into sections like "restaurants" or "bars" apparently wouldn't have been hip enough. Instead, the issue is marked with headings like "encounters" and "terrain" - each chapter sounding like the name of a shitty bar. I've got nothing against a little creative design, I just don't want to flip through 200 pages of porno ads to find where to get a cheeseburger.

But it's not just the spine of the issue that lacks coherence. Rather than highlighting the best spot to take a hike, or the best taco stand, each entry is a stream-of-conscious rant only tangentially associated with some person, place or thing in LA. It's like reading a AAA Guide written by Jack Kerouac - or rather, a AAA Guide written by twentysomethings who won't shut up about Jack Kerouac.

Every entry seems to be a navel-gazing first-person essay on the beautiful pain of being artistic, poor and underappreciated ... oh yeah, and in Los Angeles. Here's my favorite opening line: "Distraught, displaced, dispossessed individuals walk in a zombie-like daze." See what I mean?

I realize that I'm just a hopeless square for failing to see the beauty of this "Best of LA" issue. Can't I see that the truly great things about LA are the little moments we pass by every day, like a paper bag blowing in the wind? No, what I'm advocating is just another boring "Best of" list. I can't deny that the five pounds of pulp I hold in my hand is more inventive than that. But if the editors wanted to publish a 400-page undergraduate literary journal, why call it the LA Weekly's "Best of LA 2005"?

I enjoy reading Hunter Thompson or Tom Wolfe, but not every written word can be gonzo. If someone writes down directions for me, I hope to God they don't start with "It was already midnight and the mescaline was beginning to wear off."

Lord knows there's a lot wrong with the mainstream press. So I often turn to the alternative press in hopes of finding something better, but sadly, I rarely do. If they take on issues the mainstream rags won't touch, I say thank God. If they want to blend in more literary approach, I say fine. But the tone and content tend to be so self-congratulatory, so smugly "alternative," that the information often boils down to nothing but "we're hip, are you?"

If only the alternative press would dazzle us by being plugged-in, not aloof, with sharp observation instead of vague musing, with plain-spoken truths instead of abstract cliche. That might be a phone book worth picking up - porno ads and all.