In the final installment of her US tour diary, HOLIDAY CARMEN-SPARKS and her Bridezilla cohorts find themselves in Los Angeles, where they search for tacos with The Drones and jam with tie-dye hippie stragglers under a bridge. Part one here.

Susan’s House

In celebrity news, Don Self (aka Michael Rapaport) from Prison Break, is only aisles ahead of me. Moving on … this six-hour cross-country flight has given me my first feelings of swollen feet, and I am rather paranoid of deep vein thrombosis.

So, dawdling forth like an overfed penguin, we split up our little hustle bustle of a band. One car to West Sunset Boulevard and another to Highland Park. The latter seated my sore-footed self with a wad of paper cash (to bribe our way to safety if need be, I imagine). Up Figueroa, then Roy, past The Taco Truck. Pia and I, suitcases and guitars, stopped in our tracks at the driveway to Susan's Suburban Bungalow, sighed with relief, and continued to the front door, where we let ourselves in. Susan had rather eccentrically placed sticky notes all over the house: "The lights are on a timer”, “This is a window prop", "Cat is not very sociable", "Eat Me" on a packet of corn chips, and so on. Susan had left to Spain on tickets she won through some coupon competition. She collects amateur art, is a wonderful photographer and a generous soul. Not within 20 minutes of sitting down, Saint Marine zipped up with two paper bags full of groceries (probably from Mexi-Cali or the Uno Mart). Strawberries, bananas, sparkling water, chocolate milk and pizza.

The afternoon took us to York Street in search of Zeppelin guitars. Instead we found Juanita's Saloon, back-door florists and barbers, and a little old man's thrift store. Pia found her dream denim jacket. On the way home, we came across The Uniform Shop (next to the 99c store), where T-shirts were "3 for $10 or 5 for $10". Makes sense, right? Black bean soup for dinner and Californian radio (which is pure gold). The cats and dogs would not let us rest. 
##Another Sleepless Night

We met the others at Los Burritos on Hollywood. Maybe Vine. Maybe both. I always thought this strip was rather like Kings Cross in its own star-studded way. Regardless, I had not had a horchata for a long time, or a quesadilla. We passed postcards and number plates, and walked the mile to the little vintage guitar and amplifier store on Sunset. I saw an aeroplane-shaped guitar (can you even imagine that?); a machinegun-shaped guitar; and Bo Diddley's very own, handmade, absolute monstrosity of a music maker (Kaoss Pad included).

I had high ambitions for the afternoon, and attempted public transport on my lonesome to Universal City, where I had planned to catch the bus to The Autry Museum for my Western Hollywood fix. As these days go, the heat struck me, and the bus never comes on time and I left in the opposite direction, ending up at The Comfort Inn. Neil put on his best shirt for a date with Phoenix at The Greek Theatre, while we trekked to Santa Monica to The Troubador to see Chairlift. I had met them briefly, earlier in the year, during the Great Escape in Brighton. Since then, I picked up their album, Does You Inspire You, to my immense pleasure. I think this was the first show we all attended together, all as fans. Glasser trotted through their iPod accompanied set, while we munched on fries in the top tier. Daisy paid a dollar for tap water, and that was that. Another sleepless night of cats, dogs and the faint voice of radio.

The ‘Other’ Taco Truck

We were reunited with The Drones at The Echo. Mike Noga breakdanced, really well actually. Kyle (Pia's still not so secret admirer) drove five hours from Arizona to see us. I had to chuckle to myself when I saw his smiling face in the crowd. What a legend. Gaz, Fi, Dan and Ning Nong Noggles directed us to “The Other Taco Truck” (there are so many): The Famed Taco Truck of Echo Park.

On the way, a glorious deconstructed sound came from under the bridge. We were drawn to it like the moon drew water. A man in a Where The Wild Things Are-style fluffy-eared hat played crazy guitar and sung through an octave pedal (“The Ween Effect”). There was Theremin, a kit, caboodle, accordion, keyboard, bass. They called themselves Homo-Town and they bounced off the walls under the bridge, seducing us girls completely. Soon came more stragglers in tie-dye T-shirts who played bongo and ukulele. Then a Latino man in a RZA T-shirt and a golden chain who began to rap and bounce his right arm with a pointed finger. Daisy and Millie whipped out their saxophone and violin, plugged in and played hard. I bashed around a tambourine that quoted the bible. Pia kept the homeless man company while he whispered "I love you" and blew kisses. We were the last ones on the dance floor.

Highland Park showered, fed, and entertained us before the last flight. No dramas. No reflections. The End.

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