I slid onto the front seat of my Pontiac Firebird and headed to West LA via the San Diego Freeway. My destination was Mar Vista. Compared to its westside neighbors, Mar Vista was more pedestrian than Culver City and less tony than Brentwood. No one, other than locals, cared about the difference. LA was just LA in the world’s view, and at age 22, I was trying to be as worldly as I could.
