Our apartment building exists within the borders of three very different neighborhoods. Hancock Park to the south, Hollywood to the north, and Larchmont to the southeast. One of my favorite things to do is wake up early and go walk to buy a coffee. I have many options here, especially toward Larchmont where there’s at least five coffee shops, but instead of walking that way, I find myself heading north every morning to the squalor and filth of Melrose and Vine. Why? I don’t know. Although it’s depressing as hell during the day, at seven in the morning it’s quite calm and peaceful. For you all that don’t live here, I guess I’ve got to paint a little picture here. Hancock Park is a neighborhood chock full of mansions. Blocks and blocks of them. There’s no retail areas, just dark, foreboding abodes set back from the road, most of them concealed behind tall hedges or protected by iron gates. A private golf course dispels any notion of outsiders being allowed in here. On the last stretch of the neighborhood, where I live with my family, the palaces give way to apartment buildings and Rossmore Avenue twists a bit before disappearing and turning into Vine Street where the facade of wealth crumbles and gives way to litter, squalid strip malls, and a palpable sort of bleakness in the span of a waiting for the light to turn green.

Larchmont is an upscale suburb, the houses are nice and big, but not opulent, the streets are clean and the main attraction is a sparkling two block stretch of shops and restaurants. There’s a decent farmer’s market on Wednesdays and Sundays. It’s a place where medicated white people walk up and down with their lattes, the women decked out in spandex, towing their shuffle footed men around. I’ve always despised places like this, like Montana in Santa Monica, or Abbot Kinney in Venice. The fake smiles and the shine of overpriced beauty products and clothing. Something about it makes me sick. At least in the poor areas I know who is who and I feel more at home around places more worn out around the edges which is probably why I feel so comfortable at Rustic Canyon. I’ve always been of the belief the poor are more interesting than the rich, even though I’ve never been poor and have been upper middle class most of my life. It’s possible it’s a curiosity and I read too much Bukowski growing up but I always feel there’s more of a story behind the guy sleeping in a tent on the street than whoever lives in a massive house with more space than they need. No?

Sometimes there’s more beauty in all the destitution, if you look hard enough. Yesterday morning, a light mist came down as I went through Clinton Street and turned to walk up Arden Boulevard I saw the Hollywood sign up in the hills as if for the first time and as I walked into the parking lot of Alibi Coffee Co., uncaffeinated and lost in thought, a huge black Ford Raptor pickup with a jacked undercarraige almost ran me over as it pulled in. The driver climbed out, a muscular dude in a tank top, and instead of going in to grab a cup of java, went around to the passenger side of the truck and started making out with his white, fluffy maltese.

This morning, Alibi was closed, so I instead walked a block over to the Starbucks inside the Pavilons. In the parking lot a man was walking toward his car holding two pints of Ben & Jerry’s in his hand and nothing else. I nodded to him in understanding. Yeah dude, been there.

I don’t think I’d see either of these two men somewhere in Larchmont, only the borderlands of Hollywood. It’s the magic of neighborhoods, the invisible lines we create everywhere to designate areas. They define us and who we will see.

And yeah, the meloncholy voice of good old Thommy Yorke and this tune, seems to really be the soundtrack to my early wanderings in the litter blown streets as I walk in the agony of pre coffee and wonder how the fuck I ended up on the other side of the country in such an odd place.

The song is about forgetting who you are. Wandering. Walking. Wanting to unshackle yourself from the burdens of life and the world. It’s powerful, and when he sings “Release me, release me” I think we can all relate.

This cocktail came from dicking around with habanadas and trying to mix some passionfruit in. Hey, they’re both available now, why not put them together? It’s holy matrimony. It’s fun to have the habanero flavor without the burn, but we add a touch of the real McCoy to give it character. Nothing crazy, just enough so you know it’s there. It’s surprisingly delicious, if I must say.

Morning Bell

1 oz. Oaxacan Rum

1 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

.75 oz. Passionfruit Liqueur

.5 oz. Habanada Infused Mezcal

.5oz. Cocchi Americano

.5 oz. Passionfruit Syrup

1 Dash Habanero Shrub

Shake, double strain into a large coupe.

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