10 locals share their wildest 'only in L.A.' stories

Sept. 26, 2024 3 AM PT

When I moved to Los Angeles from New York 20 years ago, I felt like I had landed in an alternate reality — a place where flowers bloomed year-round and a light drizzle was considered a valid reason to cancel plans.

Celebrities of varying sorts dotted the landscape. I spotted Keanu Reeves at the Griddle in West Hollywood and regularly saw Silver Lake’s now-deceased “Walking Man” booking it down Sunset Boulevard, his eyes glued to a folded-up newspaper.

I was invited to the 40th birthday party of a former soft-core porn star — “My IMDB says I’m 29, and that will never change.” she said. I went to the launch of a new line of dog wear designed by Nicholas Cage’s ex-wife. There I met a pair of busty identical twins who were hawking the most saccharine perfume I’d ever smelled. Ryan Phillippe was a huge fan, they told me, batting thick eyelashes.

I could go on. But all of us, if we’ve lived here for any amount of time, have a collection of stories that could happen only in this strange, sprawling city that is home to both the Kardashians and one of the largest unhoused populations in America.

A few weeks ago, we asked readers to share some of their favorite “only in L.A.” stories and the responses did not disappoint. Here you’ll find tales of awkward celebrity encounters, satisfying overheards and one tale of looking for love on a daily commute.

Overheard at Starbucks

I go to Starbucks quite often, but it’s not for the coffee, which is why I like it best when it’s crowded. I’m a first-class eavesdropper, and that’s when my chances to overhear juicy morsels are best.

So I was disappointed the other day when I sauntered into my local Starbucks and it was jam-packed just the way I like it, but the only available seating was on the patio with one lone occupant, a young woman.

The odds of capturing any titillating tidbits were not in my favor, but when I took a closer look at her my hopes rose.

She flaunted a flaming red streak in her long dark hair, a golden ring in her right nostril, and both her arms swarmed with jet black tattoos. Her jeans? Ripped, of course. Almost shredded. Lucky for me, soon after I sat down, her cellphone rang. Because of the street noise, she had to shout into it.

Here’s what I overheard: “Yes, I just got back from my trip to the Middle East. Yes, it was eventful. What? What happened? What happened was I got gonorrhea in Dubai.”

— Dolores Banerd, Culver City

The street musician

It was about 8 a.m. when I made a quick visit to the Target store at the Empire Center in Burbank. I unexpectedly heard live music as I walked through the empty parking lot toward the store. As I got closer, I saw a well-dressed man playing an unusual instrument that sounded like a flute but looked like a clarinet. The music was really unusual and, honestly, kind of mesmerizing. I made a mental note to tip the man on my way out.

To my disappointment, the musician was gone when I left the store, but I found him loading his equipment into the trunk of a vintage brown Mercedes. I approached him and thanked him for his music. I told him that he‘d really made my day and handed him a $5 bill as a token of appreciation. He thanked me kindly and flashed a megawatt smile.

It was only months later, while listening to Rick Rubin interview him for his podcast, that I realized the man playing the unusual, hypnotic music in that Burbank parking lot was André 3000.

— Amy Chance, Burbank

Illustration of a film strip with Xs in each frame

The P.A.

In 2006, having lived in L.A. for a total of three months, I landed a job as an art department runner on a small independent film. First day, first assignment was to drive out to Agoura Hills on Kanan Dume Road and pick up some film negatives. They gave me an address, a Thomas Guide and a coffee order to pick up on my way back to the office.

After an hour’s drive, I pulled up to a large, gated, cliffside home. I lowered my window to buzz the intercom and was surprised to hear loud techno coming from the house. As I confirmed that I was indeed at the correct address, the voice on the intercom casually said: “We’ve been expecting you, Andrew. What took so long?”

“Sorry, traffic was crazy,” I mumbled.

“No worries, park by the open garage, Andrew.” Again with the using my name thing. So weird.

I parked where instructed, got out of the car and noticed a camera crew recording something in a corner of the garage. “Definitely at the right place,” I thought. As I approached, I was stunned to discover the crew was recording two people — adults, for sure — having sex.

Beet red and embarrassed, I turned away. Suddenly, I heard an empathizing laugh coming my way. The kind of laugh that says, “Ah, that’s cute.” Approaching me was this shirtless, floral board short-wearing surfer dude. He informed me that this was his “porn production pad” but that he actually lived in Malibu.

I followed him through this labyrinth of a house, passing by various other scenes in process as well as a couple of still shoots. It was hilarious to me how quickly I went from utter shock to feeling like this was business as usual.

He gave me the negatives; and yes, it was more porn. He insisted that I look through them to confirm that they were what “we” were looking for. I told him that I hadn’t a clue what “we” were looking for and that he would have to talk to my boss.

“No problem,” he said, “have him call me after he takes a look at the goods.” I returned to my car and casually noticed that the scene was still going on in the garage.

I pulled out my flip phone, speed-dialed home and said, “Mom, you are not going believe what just happened….”

— Andrew Birdzell, Glendale

Spongebob Oops-pants

During the holidays in 2012, my family attended a Christmas party at the Fake Gallery. My parents introduced me to their friend who asked me if I liked “SpongeBob [SquarePants].” I said I thought it was stupid and wasn’t funny. Later, my dad asked me if I knew that their friend was Tom Kenny, the voice of SpongeBob. I did not. In my defense, I was only 11. According to my parents, Tom, at least, found my brutal honesty amusing.

— Millie Rayner, North Hollywood

Illustration of a Chagall painting of a bull with a yellow star

Safe in the colony

In the early ’80s I was working two jobs just to pay rent. I had recently returned from a hostel backpacking trip to Europe where I‘d seen and fallen in love with the art of Kandinsky, Miró, etc.

I had recently met a young friend through work in L.A. who told me that his parents were away and that he didn’t want to be alone at their beach house. Would I like to come over?

I leaped at the opportunity to escape my nonair-conditioned studio in Hollywood. I jumped into my orange Vega and drove out to Malibu. His parents’ home was in the Colony. I stopped at the guard gate (he had forgotten to mention that) and told the guard who I was visiting. Although he was dubious, I batted my eyelashes a few times and he let me through. I drove by the homes, mesmerized. The ocean — it was like a picture.

I parked and knocked on the very tall door. No answer. I tried the bell. No answer. So I turned the knob and gingerly walked in. To the right was the living room and over the massive fireplace was [a painting of] a Bull by Marc Chagall.

My friend came in from the patio (replete with a pool) to greet me. I stammered: “Is this the original?” He wasn’t charmed but graciously said, “Yes.”

He took me on a tour of the [art in the] house — Picassos, Moore, etc. I told him he really should keep the door locked. I am sure he thought I was an ingrate but said they never locked their door — it was the Colony.

— Amy Grey, Toluca Lake

Illustration of a hand holding a fake tongue

In the valley of the dolls

I had a friend whose friend worked on a TV show that was one of the most popular at the time. Not long before, I had moved to L.A., and it seemed like a place where anything was possible. So when she said she wanted to set me up with the very famous comedian who was the star of the TV show on which her friend worked, I thought, “Why not?”

At a sports bar in the Valley where the cast and crew hung out after they filmed the show, I met the famous comedian. We hit it off. He asked me if I wanted to go out some time. I said sure. What was I going to do, say no?

For our first date, we went bowling. Afterward, we headed to his house in the Hollywood Hills. At a certain point, the famous comedian explained to me that he owned four high-end, life-size love dolls. When we arrived at his place, I found these dolls, which cost thousands of dollars apiece, seated at various locations around his home.

He went to grab us some beers from the kitchen, and I took a seat next to one of the dolls on the sofa. Its silicone tongue was sticking out between its lips, and I couldn’t resist pulling on it, and it came out in my hand. Luckily, I was able to get the tongue back in the doll’s mouth before the famous comedian returned with our beers.

After that, the famous comedian and I dated for a few months, and I even saw him play live in Vegas, watching from the wings as he worked the crowd. But in the end, he ghosted me. I have no idea what became of his love dolls.

— Susannah Breslin, Burbank

What movie were you in again?

I am a Minneapolis native and have lived in L.A. for 34 years. Like all transplanted Angelenos, hosting out-of-town family is a rite of passage and a great way to experience the city. After eating dinner with my oldest brother and his adult son from Minnesota at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, I lighted a cigarette in the alleyway while waiting for the valet.

A man across the drive signaled to me if he could bum a cigarette. As he approached me, he looked familiar. I said, “Do I know you?”

He smiled. “I’m a C-list actor.”

My nephew walked over and exclaimed, “You’re Ray Liotta. I know you from the movies.”

Ray chuckled, “Yeah, name one.”

My brother then came over and we laughed together but could not remember one movie name for him. Ray asked me to light his borrowed cigarette and gleefully pointed his finger at us, and with a wide smile proclaimed, “See!”

— Joseph Neeb, Sylmar

On-ramp dating

I used to commute to work from my shabby Palos Verdes apartment to Santa Monica, taking side streets until the Rosecrans 405 on-ramp. Regularly, I found myself inching around the cloverleaf next to a handsome man in a blue BMW. He usually read the newspaper while waiting to get on the freeway. I might be finishing my makeup. We often smiled at each other and toasted with our coffees. One day, after several commuting encounters, he reached over to the passenger side to press his business card up against the window. He worked for an insurance company. I called him; we met at a nice place in Manhattan Beach, dated for a few weeks, but it didn’t work out. On-ramp dating: the precursor to online dating.

— Paula Olson, Laguna Beach

Illustration of a hand holding a purple flower

An L.A. flower

I was in downtown Los Angeles and a young lady who was seemingly intoxicated and unhoused was dancing around in the street with a bouquet of flowers cradled in her arms. She pirouetted and handed me a single flower. I was gracious in accepting but was kind of at a loss in terms of begrudgingly having to carry around a lone flower all night.

As the evening dragged on, I was resigned to just discarding the flower in a receptacle. I was at Union Station when I encountered an elderly woman who looked a little bereft and in need of cheering up. I handed her the hydrangea and she immediately smiled and the entire historic, high-ceilinged ticketing concourse lighted up 1,000 watts.

I learned the next day that she was the special guest of a screening commemorating the nearby bygone Harvey Restaurant, where she was one of the original Harvey Girls who had purportedly brought civility and style to the American Southwest in the 1940s. She mentioned what a lovely surprise it was to receive a random laurel of a single stem. So two very eccentric and whimsical encounters with ephemeral only-in-L.A. Angels on a standard ol’ evening out downtown.

— Tommy Bui, Pacoima

Diet-quake

The Sylmar earthquake of 1971 was a very memorable event for me. I was thrown out of my bed in my parents’ house in San Fernando. Extensive damage was everywhere. We lost power, water, gas. However, our landline was still functioning. We got a call a few hours after the initial shock. The woman identified herself as Marlene Dietrich.

My father was an orphan who grew up in Hollywood at his aunt’s house. He went to Hollywood High, where he met some future celebrities. Later, he got a job at Lockheed assembling planes and bought a house in the Valley.

Marlene’s husband lived in a small cottage in Sylmar surrounded by olive trees, not far from our house. When news of the earthquake reached her, she called friends who referred her to my father. She wanted us to check on his condition since his phone was not working. Thankfully, he was fine despite some damage to the house.

I did get a chance to meet her, her husband and daughter a few months later. They needed some help but I didn’t have much free time due to college preparation. They seemed like very nice people and treated us well, even though we were just a simple working-class family. My mother, however, never liked her because she was so “free spirited.”

— Alan Coles, Long Beach

The Panhandler

Shortly after moving here, I was approached by a panhandler in the parking garage of the Beverly Center. His pitch: “Can you help me out? I left my wallet at the recording studio.”

— Kurt Weldon, Winnetka