I once thought of myself as a special kind of cheerleader for Los Angeles, an eloquent advocate for its evasive beauty. I tried to give a voice to LA’s unique brand of urbanism. But now I don’t have to anymore. I’m going to let Ice Cube speak for LA from now on.

There are even more gems in the New York Times article. Somebody hire this guy as LA’s official spokesperson.

Here’s my story on the other PST videos.

I haven’t managed to catch it at night, but the full moon has been perfectly positioned out my window the last few mornings as I’ve started work. I like how it’s hovering above the telephone lines like a musical note. The last song before the sun comes up.

More photos.

Let’s get back in time… to last Thursday, when I was honored to be invited to the Montalban Theater in Hollywood for the launch of Nike’s new MAG shoes. Yes, these are the shoes inspired by in Back to the Future II, and, in one of the most brilliant marketing twists ever, all their proceeds will support Michael J. Fox’s foundation to eradicate Parkinson’s disease. Your calculations are correct: This is heavy.

As Back to the Future was one of the most formative films of my youth (the other being, you know), this detail-perfect experience easily topped my previous adventures into local McFly lore. My first brush with the films here in LA was when I discovered that a gym in a church near my old house was used as the location for the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. Then a few years ago I went to the Gamble House, ostensibly to see the gorgeous turn-of-the-century Craftsman architecture. But I really just wanted to see where Doc lived.

The event last week was packed with Future freaks just like me (although, oddly, very few of them were female). Indeed, there was a time machine made out of a DeLorean parked out in front. Doc looked a little different than I had remembered him.

Always a fan of alternative transit, I arrived on my hoverboard, of course.

We stepped in to the theater and were confronted with walls of actual props from the films, including one that I had replicated in my youth using an old video camera case, Doc’s 12-pack of plutonium. I didn’t see any blue VW vans in the vicinity, thank god.

Upstairs, we stopped for a Pepsi Free at “Cafe 80′s.” (Look at the pattern on the countertops, the “vintage” candy… at this moment I realized this could totally be a viable restaurant concept today.)

My friends at Wieden+Kennedy made a film that debuted at the launch featuring several of the original cast members. See how many you can spot (hint: the guy behind the counter is going to clean up this town). I especially love that there’s now a Nike store at the Lone Pine Mall.

There was no Huey Lewis performance, however, the DJ did play “Back in Time”—which I performed a routine to with my friend Lelia at the neighborhood picnic in 1985. But the night would not have been complete without an appearance from Christopher Lloyd. Here he’s being introduced by the evening’s host, Joel McHale, to a standing ovation. Great Scott!

And it was a huge honor to meet Tinker Hatfield, Nike’s shoe guru, who designed the concept for the Nike Airs featured in the film 23 years ago, then helped bring the actual shoe to fruition. And yes, they are working on actual power laces to make them more like the ones in the movie (you can read my story at Fast Company to find out more). Power laces? That may be more impressive than designing a flux capacitor, in my book.

A pair of the shoes were auctioned off live. I was never clear if the final amount was in 1985 or 2015 dollars. You can buy your own (and check out more fantastic references to the film) at Back4TheFuture.com

As I mentioned before, the most amazing part about this whole event was that it all centers around raising money for Fox’s foundation to “erase Parkinson’s disease from the space-time continuum.” He wasn’t there that night, but he used this opportunity to make several awesome appearances promoting his work for Parkinson’s this week: One on Letterman, hyping the shoes, and one on last night’s Curb Your Enthusiasm, which may have been the funniest episode I’ve ever seen.

For the whole story on the party, as well as my interview with Tinker, head over at Fast Company’s design site, Co.Design. Go ahead and click over there now. I’m serious. Make like a tree, and get out of here.

More photos from the future.

After living so close to the Hollywood Bowl for so many years (and often, blatantly avoiding it), I definitely started to take it for granted. When I lived a few blocks away I rarely planned ahead or bought advance tickets, instead, I’d start strolling up the hill just as the performance began, buying deeply discounted tickets on the street or a nosebleed seat from the box office. I loved not even knowing what was playing until I saw it spelled out on the marquee in huge capital letters, slipping into an empty seat during an applause break as a hush echoed through the canyon. It was so close and so easy that sometimes I’d go all by myself (with a bottle of wine, of course).

Last night I went for the first time since 2009 and had a completely different experience—one of sitting in the box seats that ring the floor. Where I had treated the Hollywood Bowl as a casual neighborhood diversion, these folks had spent months, no, years, working on securing these very specific squares of real estate a rose’s toss from the stage. My friend has had her box for five years, and people in the boxes around them have had theirs for at least that. They share wine. They’ve watched her kids grow up. It’s a pop-up community of like-minded people who gather to swap pasta salads, swig chardonnay, and settle back for some music. It was like having neighbors you only see on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

As we stood to sing the national anthem, then again when the great Itzhak Perlman took the stage with the Philharmonic, I felt suddenly very proud to be seated amidst this little subdivision of culture junkies who had staked their claims like homesteaders. Like any group, they have rules, mind you—digging through your picnic basket or fussing with your table during the show down here is a no-no, and you will get shushed. But as people were slapping shoulders and pulling each other into sweaty embraces (it was hot like St. Louis last night!), lighting their candles and unfurling tablecloths, the whole thing had such a sense of sweet, familiar tradition—a ritual that plays out almost every night from June to September. It was summer camp for adults.

More photos of the Hollywood Bowl; and why the Hollywood Bowl helped convince me to give up my car.

After ten years in LA you might say that I have learned to be a good Angeleno. I say “freeway” now instead of my midwestern “highway.” I don’t complain about the piles of ripe, juicy oranges falling off our trees in January. I hardly ever wear pants. But the truth is, I do not, in fact, deserve to live in Los Angeles. The reason being is that I fail at one very important LA trait. I never recognize celebrities.

Which is a real bummer, because that’s the first thing anyone ever asks you about when you say you’re from LA.

When I was a producer I ended up working with serving coffee to plenty of celebrities. As a writer, I get to interview some of them. For three years I lived a few steps from the part of Hollywood Boulevard that was closed at least three times a week for premieres, where I could easily have walked down to see, say, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes make their first post-Suri appearance if I wanted to (okay, I did walk down there for that). But for some reason, when I’m out wandering the city, I just don’t recognize their E!-friendly faces. It’s become kind of a joke. The first thing Keith usually says to me as we walk out of a restaurant is “Did you see who that was?” I didn’t.

My famous-blindness became apparent the second week I was in LA. We were sitting at Birds on a Saturday afternoon ingesting beers and other things when I spotted a blonde girl sitting at the table next to us. I definitely knew her. I tried to place her as she plucked pieces of steamed broccoli off her plate. It was obvious that she knew me, too—she kept looking over at me with a slightly annoyed face.

I have to go over and figure out how I know her, I told my tablemates. I started to get up when one of them tugged me back down, embarrassed. It turns out it was someone I had spent plenty of time with in high school—but not in that way. It was Melissa Joan Hart. Clarissa! That explained it all.

It was only when I went inside and looked in the mirror in the bathroom that I remembered I had swapped the changeable lenses in my sporty sunglasses with amber lenses—which meant the reason she kept looking at me was because I was staring her down with my transparent insect-like goggles. At that moment that I learned the most important rule of LA: Always wear dark sunglasses!

You would have thought over the next decade that I would have somehow improved my celebrity-spotting quotient. I shopped at what was then the Mayfair Market on Franklin (now it’s a Gelsons, and has an improved store layout) which has more sitcom stars per aisle than any other grocery store in the city. And I’ve had my fair share of OMG THAT’S HIM instant-recognition moments. Jeffrey Jones hunching over a shopping cart at Trader Joe’s. Alex Baldwin sporting a tracksuit and grin in Santa Monica. Julia Roberts screeching through a yoga class (no, it was not adorable). But most of the time, I’m at a bar, gazing at a vaguely familiar face, trying to figure out what in the world my childhood babysitter is doing in LA.

I think it’s part of a common affliction that most people have when they move here: When you see someone you think you recognize, you always assume you know them from college, not cable. So maybe it’s just my own self-centeredness when I think that all celebrities are just old, unplaceable friends. I’ve lived here long enough now that I can hardly keep track of the non- and semi-famous people that I know, how could I possibly be responsible for the contents of Us Weekly, too?

And here’s the awful truth. Most of the time, they look so—gasp!—ordinary. Yes, this is the craziest True Hollywood Story secret about celebrities, you guys. They look like regular people. Regular people who most likely attended my summer camp.

To all the famous people who are reading this now, I just want to apologize in advance. I’m sorry for not knowing who you are, first of all. (To the reality show people, I’m sorry for not caring who you are.) But I want to make something absolutely clear. Celebrities, I’m not staring at you because I’m impressed by your accumulation of Daytime Emmys. I’m staring at you because I’m trying to figure out if you were in my Honors English class at Parkway West Senior High.

What’s your best celebrity sighting? Or are you like me, and lack celebrity sight?

I’m celebrating ten years in LA with ten days of LA stories. Go here for more LAX.

You might remember that I collect sunsets. They’re not very pretty in the summer, actually. But this was a particularly good one.

A few months back I wrote a story about Vintage Los Angeles, a Facebook page dedicated to the lovely, lost world of L.A. Since then, the neverending stream of eye candy (and mind candy) delivered by the amazing Alison Martino has made it a daily stop on my online travels. Last weekend, for the Carmageddon that never came, Alison posted a string of transit- and freeway-related content, including this incredible 1968 educational film. According to the YouTube text, it was ”distributed to libraries, schools and community groups by the Southern California Rapid Transit District in advance of a 1968 ballot initiative.” I’m guessing it was an initiative that didn’t pass.

Be sure to watch Part 2 and Part 3, too. Highly entertaining and also informative. I admit I learned a few things!

Ah, Vegas. Where every cup has its own catchphrase.

Where the carpets are so bright they can melt your shoes.

Where the bathrooms are bigger than your house.

And all the rooms come with private pools.

Oh wait, they don’t? That’s right, they don’t. Because this room at the Mirage was special. So special, in fact, that it felt oddly familiar. It only took a few minutes on YouTube to find out why.

When our butler was wheeling in breakfast (um, yes, we had a butler—am I blowing your mind yet?) he confirmed this detail, as well as the fact that some people staying there request to rent Vegas Vacation to watch IN THE SUITE. Should you want to experience this kind of Vegas, ask for “Lanai Nineteen” or you can actually tell them that Nick Papagiorgio sent you. They will get it.

And then you can do this.

The Ghost Project – Alissa Walker / Keith Scharwath from Kartell LA on Vimeo.

A few weeks ago, we were asked by our friend Jon to babysit a Kartell Ghost Chair, the regal yet approachable Louis XV-style chair rendered in transparent polycarbonate. This was part of The Ghost Project, a video series by Kartell which captures the chair as it travels around to the homes of different LA creatives. You can see some photos of the chair in our house, and hear us answer some questions about our work, over at our page. And be sure to peek inside the homes of other local creatives, too. The chair continues its journey around LA—in fact, I just saw it leave the possession of our friend Casey, creative director at GOOD.

The song, which was recorded later, has become part of the holiday audio landscape, piped into malls and airports, blanketing the planet for one fleeting month each year. I’ve heard the song my whole life, as I’m sure you have, too. But until I wrote my piece, I had never really listened to the words. It’s pretty remarkable that sandwiched between the Santa Babies and the sugar plum fairies is this powerful, emotional anthem for social change.

So take a moment to read my story at Design Observer, and maybe, when you hear the song as you’re scurrying to your gate or jockeying for a parking space in the next few days, you might think about what it actually means. So this is Christmas. And what have you done?

Hope you have a lovely one. See you back here next week.