Jenna’s Model Life

I’ve been asking all the Angelenos I know where all the good thrift stores are in L.A. I know they’re down here; everyone says so, and plus my buddy who works at Aardvarks in San Francisco confirmed to me privately that they get their wares shipped in direct from Los Angeles in massive weekly boxloads. While the Haight is far from the best place to get good, cheap, secondhand stuff in the Bay Area, this is still an instructive anecdote. I’ve been asking all the Angelenos I know where all the good thrift stores are; all the Angelenos I know just shrug, and say, “You know, they’re around. Maybe you should check out the Goodwill on La Brea, or something.”

Withholding bastards.

Today I finagled a lift to the Rose Bowl, which is thankfully for me perhaps the worst-kept secret of Los Angeles-area secondhand. My escort, Brian, a set designer, ferried us to Pasadena by 8:45 a.m. I gave him strict instructions not to let me buy anything I couldn’t fit in my tote bag or pay for with the money I’d allowed myself. I pointed to a boudoirish brass bedframe for emphasis.

“Brian,” I said, “that would be an example of a thing you cannot, under any circumstances, let me buy.”

He nodded gamely and we set to our task: Make the rounds of the vendors cramming the sweltering tarmac of the gigantesque stadium’s carpark, and return to L.A., where I had a fitting, by noon.

To enter the Rose Bowl, you must first eat a hearty breakfast while you wait on your misty apartment stoop, thumbing Joan Didion and avoiding your neighbour’s fag smoke.

Then, you will travel on the freeway to Pasadena, line up early in the morning on the first Sunday of the month, and receive an entry ticket and a $2 bill in exchange for your proferred tenner.

Then you must pass the man in the patriotic sequined vest who rides the penny farthing.

Say hello to the tanned lady in pink.

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Ignore the hunks of meat on the barbecue, for you have stalls to attend to.

They sell scissors!

And magnifying glasses!

And faux road signs, perfect for someone’s teenaged bedroom.

More interesting are the board games based on notoriously bloody WWII battles.

Classic, gendered reading selections.

Shoes which you will covet, but which shall be three sizes too small.

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A choice selection of vintage motorcycle porn.

A child’s bike, with banana seat.

Too many red Chucks.

1960s comics which express the culture’s mistrust of women’s liberation. (Approved by the Comics Code Authority.)

Cigarette packets and matchbooks with naked ladies on them.

And many, many stalls filled to bursting with cheap old clothes. I’m currently wearing my new $10 teal terry cloth sundress, and Brian snapped this picture of me as we left the grounds, wearing a new fake Hermès scarf covered in Native American designs with legends like “Les Indiens s’enfuient dans les montagnes.”

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(This photo by Brian McSherry.)

There was also a stall which sold nothing but rack upon rack of cashmere sweaters for $5 a pop. I didn’t take a picture but I did get a sweater.

My personal motto is that one never regrets buying cashmere. At least, I never have.