Into the decadent world of Pasadena we go. . . .
More and more I am drawn to that little triangle of treasures near Vroman's Bookstore: the Laemmle theaters, of course, where the audiences are either amazingly reverential or fully asleep, and the little courtyard across the street, where El Portal pours more margaritas than in all of Cabo, even on school nights.
This is pretty much all I need in a city — a giant bookstore, a good set of theaters, a friendly watering hole where I can slowly suck all the vodka off my ice cubes. What Haydn did for violins, I am doing for the fine sport of recreational drinking.
Mind you, I am doing all this in Pasadena, which may as...