The Worst Place on Earth

Sure I knew about Playa Vista, the Methane Wonderland. I'd driven past a time or two, usually shielding my eyes, cursing the show biz grifters that uncorked the development bottle by promising an all mighty Studio.

But I'd never been inside. Until last week, on a business call.




Immediately my internal compass shut down, and featherbrained, I landloped about the complex, timorously clutching my cell phone, eyed by suspicious, well-groomed labrador walkers, Electronic Arts employees, and rent-a-cops. Everyone drove Porsche Azucars--whatever. I collapsed. I recovered briefly in the library. There were no street signs or numbers. Buildings blocked the sun.

But with Floyd Landis-like determination I continued, traversing the sunken gardens, storming post-Corbusian courtyards, security kiosks, and development check-points.
The salt air drew me West. I tumbled over a stony wall, down an embankment blanketed by weed resistant netting, and onto PCH where I was nearly struck by a Porsche Paprika--whatever.

Photos don't lie!