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Los Angeles Times
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
How to have the best Sunday in L.A., according to Mara Brock Akil
Mara Brock Akil has a love story with Los Angeles that runs deep. She was born in Compton, raised in such neighborhoods as Baldwin Hills, Windsor Hills and Ladera Heights, and now resides in Hancock Park. So when she set out on her latest creative project, a TV adaptation of Judy Blume's 1975 novel 'Forever...,' she knew she had to set it the City of Angels. shar'We kept saying we're telling a love story within a love letter to Los Angeles,' said the screenwriter and executive producer best known for the series 'Girlfriends' and 'Being Mary Jane.' Akil's new series, which premiered on Netflix on Thursday, centers on the love story between Justin Edwards and Keisha Clark, Black high school seniors in 2018 Los Angeles. 'We're a very diverse city, but we are still separated within our neighborhoods,' she said. 'I want people to get used to seeing Justins and Keishas in L.A. and make room for them as they try to discover each other.' The showrunner said her 'muse' was her eldest son, Yasin Akil, 21, and her relationship with him. 'My impetus to write this, [which] I think [was] the same as Judy,' Akil said, 'is I want to make space for my children to have a normal rite of passage to understand who they are, how they make that leap from familial love to their first decision around romantic love and friendship love, and before they move into the next realm of their lives.' When Akil isn't on set, her ideal Sunday takes her from her home in Hancock Park to art studios downtown and local bookshops in Ladera Heights. As her work on 'Forever' has taught her, 'You can stay in your bubble or you can sort of venture out. And if you venture out, I think you'll be a better Angeleno.' This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity. 7 a.m.: Hot girl walk On my dream Sunday, I'm waking up at 7 a.m. when the city is quiet. There are going to be dog walkers, but there's something so luscious about the stillness of L.A. that early on a Sunday. I do have a walking and writing creative practice, and so sometimes I like to write in New York as a result of it, because I can just go out the door and walk. But Hancock Park allows me to walk to one of my favorite streets in L.A., which is Larchmont. There's something to do where you don't have to overspend, but you can feel a part of something. You can just enjoy walking up and down. You can stop by the magazine stand. You can look in all the stores. You might buy a croissant — there's 1,000 bakeries. You can just go look at the adopted pets. Matcha is my thing. Groundwork has a matcha, Le Pain Quotidien has a matcha and Cookbook has a matcha. And then one of my favorite places, too, is Larchmont Village Wine, Spirits & Cheese. The line is out the door for their sandwiches; I typically get the turkey or the tuna. I get my Sunday fixings [at the Larchmont Farmers Market], so I make a Sunday chicken. I don't cook a lot of things, but what I do well, I do very well. I have a family recipe, and it's a Sunday chicken, and so I get the herbs or the potatoes and the carrots and the things like that. It feels great to walk out of your door after driving in your car all week, to talk to people, bump into friends. 9 a.m.: Neighborly tennis lesson Hancock Park is a really lovely neighborhood. I know my neighbors, and thankfully one of them has a tennis court. I have this amazing trainer named Wkwesi Williams. Wkwesi will meet me over at my neighbor's house, and he'll give us a lesson, and then if we're feeling strong enough, we'll hit afterwards. 11 a.m.: Hit the batting cages Then I'm home, and I can be mom. My 16-year-old son, Nasir, is an aspiring baseball player. Typically, if he's not in a game, which would wipe out my whole Sunday, I just have to get him to the batting cages. My son doesn't drive yet, so he still needs his mom, thank God. He bats at BaseballGenerations with Ron Miller, another amazing coach. It's so funny. It's the flyest — all the young ballers are in there. Sometimes they'll have professional guys hitting in the batting cage. It's like the secret to the secret. 12:30 p.m.: See the art Then, since we're downtown, I would go visit Jessica Taylor Bellamy's studio. Thelma Golden, the director and chief curator of the Studio Museum in Harlem, who's a good friend of mine, always gave me this great advice: Art should be a daily practice. If you just have 30 minutes and you can pop into a gallery or a museum, just go see the art, see what it does. What I love about Bellamy's work is that she really understands Los Angeles. When I saw her paintings — and she had a palm tree and a pine tree, sometimes she has bright skies, sometimes she has cloudy skies — I was like, 'Who is this? She gets it. She's from here. She knows L.A.' She was also a muse for 'Forever.' When I saw her paintings, I called Michael 'Cambio' Fernandez, who is our cinematographer. We talked about her palette, her understanding of the sunny side and the rainy side and the cloudy side of L.A. That tableau was really important. 2 p.m.: Visit childhood home Because I love driving, [my son and I] take the long way home. I would go by Reparations Club to pick up a book for me. Then we would go to this new comic book store called the Comic Den on Slauson for my son. Then we would go to Simply Wholesome for us. Simply Wholesome is one of our big heartbeat centers of love, joy, wellness and community. We typically get the Sunshine Shake with the egg, and we get some Jamaican patties for my mom, which we will take literally around the corner. My mother lives in my childhood home, and we would go see grandma, so grandma can see how tall Nasir has grown. It always anchors me to walk into a place that you remember yourself. Being in that neighborhood reminds me of how safe and loved and enough I am. I love being in the place where I was a child and also making sure my child stays connected to his grandmother. My own grandmother recently passed in that home, so just honoring that. We always play a little Jhené Aiko or Nipsey Hussle to honor being back over there. 5 p.m.: Sunday fixings I'll get back home around 5 o'clock, so I can cook the Sunday chicken. I have a big life, but I'm always a writer and I'm always in practice. And one of my favorite things is music. Our house is always filled with music, so I cook. I slow down. I engage with that family history as well as my own creativity, and in that active meditation, oftentimes I will catch a lot of great ideas. So I always have my journal nearby, maybe a little Champagne because it's Sunday, and I'm using all of those little fixings I got from the farmers market. And the cool thing is that it takes a minute for the chicken to cook, so I can have a little swim or a little sauna and shower before family dinner. 7 p.m.: Family dinner Right now, it's just the three of us. Sometimes we FaceTime the older one [who is away at college] and be like, 'You're missing Sunday chicken!' But we sit down, and we just talk about the day, talk about whatever. Sometimes it gets very philosophical. To be in our homes and enjoy them is also a treat, and I don't ever want to forget that as I'm out and about around the city. We linger at least an hour before we set a new week ahead of us. 9 p.m.: Have a laugh over drinks But then, I'm also a Gemini, so I like to stay out in them streets. So it might just be calling my girlfriend Alice and being like, 'Let's go have a drink at Damn, I Miss Paris.' Friends of mine, Jason and Adair, just opened that spot up here on West Adams. How long I stay depends on who's there. Maybe just stay for an hour, have a drink, have a laugh. 11 p.m.: Poetry before bed I'm a shower girl, but sometimes I also just like to take a bath. So I would just sort of wind down with a bath, and the other thing is reading poetry. Right now I'm reading Nikki Giovanni, Mary Oliver and my mother. My mother just wrote a book of poetry, which blew my mind because my mom has been my mom. And she's allowed the writer in her to come out. I've been reading those three women in conversation with me as I try to write my life poetically. And by the way, poetry is not a whole chapter. Let me get real deep real quick before I go into this REM sleep.
Atlantic
29-03-2025
- Automotive
- Atlantic
My Day Inside America's Most Hated Car
On the first Sunday of spring, surrounded by row houses and magnolia trees, I came to a horrifying realization: My mom was right. I had been flipped off at least 17 times, called a 'motherfucker' (in both English and Spanish), and a 'fucking dork.' A woman in a blue sweater stared at me, sighed, and said, 'You should be ashamed of yourself.' All of this because I was driving a Tesla Cybertruck. I had told my mom about my plan to rent this thing and drive it around Washington, D.C., for a day—a journalistic experiment to understand what it's like behind the wheel of America's most hated car. 'Wow. Be careful,' she texted back right away. Both of us had read the stories of Cybertrucks possibly being set on fire, bombed with a Molotov cocktail, and vandalized in every way imaginable. People have targeted the car—and Tesla as a whole—to protest Elon Musk's role in Donald Trump's administration. But out of sheer masochism, or stupidity, I still went ahead and spent a day driving one. As I idled with the windows down on a street in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood, a woman glared at me from her front porch: 'Fuck you, and this truck, and Elon,' she yelled. 'You drive a Nazi truck.' She slammed her front door shut, and then opened it again. 'I hope someone blows your shit up.' Earlier that day, my first stop was the heart of the resistance: the Dupont Circle farmers' market. The people there wanted to see the organic asparagus and lion's-mane mushrooms. What they did not want to see was a stainless-steel, supposedly bulletproof Cybertruck. Every red light created new moments for mockery. 'You fucker!' yelled a bicyclist as he pedaled past me on P Street. The diners eating brunch on the sidewalk nearby laughed and cheered. Then came the next stoplight: A woman eating outside at Le Pain Quotidien gave me the middle finger for a solid 20 seconds, all without interrupting her conversation. The anger is understandable. This is, after all, the radioactive center of DOGE's blast radius. On the same block where I was yelled at in Mount Pleasant, I spotted a hand-drawn sign in one window: CFPB, it read, inside of a giant red heart; and at one point, I tailed behind a black Tesla Model Y with the bumper sticker Anti Elon Tesla Club. But the Cybertruck stands out on America's roads about as much as LeBron James in a kindergarten classroom. No matter where you live, the car is a nearly 7,000-pound Rorschach test: It has become the defining symbol of the second Trump term. If you hate Trump and Musk, it is a giant MAGA hat, Pepe the Frog on wheels, or the ' Swasticar.' If you love Trump and Musk, the Cybertruck is, well, a giant MAGA hat. On Monday, FBI Director Kash Patel called Tesla vandalism 'domestic terrorism' as he announced a Tesla task force to investigate such acts. Alex Jones has trolled Tesla protesters from the back of his own Cybertruck, bullhorn in hand. Kid Rock has a Cybertruck with a custom Dukes of Hazzard paint job; the far-right podcaster Tim Pool owns one and says he'll buy another ' because it will own the libs '; and Kanye West has three. Trump's 17-year-old granddaughter was gifted one by the president, and another by Musk. When I parked the car for lunch in Takoma Park, where I support federal workers signs were staked into the grass, I heard two women whispering at a nearby table: 'Should we egg it?' (In this economy?) Over and over again, as pedestrians and drivers alike glared at me, I had to remind myself: It's just a car. And it's kind of a cool one, too. It can apparently outrace a Porsche 911, while simultaneously towing a Porsche 911. Or it can power a house for up to three days. My day in the Cybertruck wasn't extremely hard-core, but the eight onboard cameras made city driving more bearable than I was expecting. Regardless of what you do with it, the car is emissions-free. 'The underlying technology of the Cybertruck is amazing,' Loren McDonald, an EV analyst at the firm Paren, told me. And the exterior undersells just how ridiculous it is. Just before I returned the car on Monday morning, I took an impromptu Zoom meeting from the giant in-car touchscreen. It has a single windshield wiper that is so long— more than five feet —that Musk has compared it to a 'katana.' After 10 hours of near-constant hazing, I navigated to an underground parking lot to recharge the truck (and my battered self-image). Someone had placed a sticker just beneath the Tesla logo: Elon Musk is a parasite, it read. Still, even in D.C., I got a fair number of thumbs-ups as my Cybertruck zoomed by in the areas most frequented by tourists. Near the National Mall, a man in a red bandana and shorts yelled, 'That's awesome!' and cheered. Perhaps it was an attempt at MAGA solidarity, or maybe not. Lots of people just seemed to think it looked cool. One guy in his 20s, wearing a make money, not friends hoodie, frantically took out his phone to film me making a left turn. Even in the bluest neighborhoods of D.C.—near a restaurant named Marx Cafe and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg mural—kids could not get enough of the Cybertruck. One girl in Takoma Park saw me and started screaming, 'Cybertruck! Cybertruck!' Later, a boy spotted the car and frantically rode his scooter to try and get a better look. Just before sunset, I was struggling to change lanes near George Washington University when two teens stopped to stare at me from the sidewalk. I was anxiously checking directions on my phone and clearly had no idea where to go. 'Must be an Uber,' one said to the other. By 9 p.m., I'd had enough. I valeted at my hotel, with its 'Tibetan Bowl Sound Healing' classes, and got a nervous look from the attendant. I can't blame anyone who sees the car as the stainless-steel embodiment of the modern right. This week, a county sheriff in Ohio stood in front of a green Cybertruck and derided Tesla vandals as 'little fat people that live in their mom's basement and wear their mom's pajamas.' But it is also a tragedy that the Cybertruck has become the most partisan car in existence—more so than the Prius, or the Hummer, or any kind of Subaru. The Cybertruck, an instantly meme-able and very weird car, could have helped America fall in love with EVs. Instead, it is doing the opposite. The revolt against Tesla is not slowing down, and in some cases people are outright getting rid of their cars. Is it really a win that Senator Mark Kelly of Arizona exchanged his all-electric Tesla sedan for a gas-guzzling SUV? Then again, Republicans aren't buying the Cybertruck en masse. It is too expensive and too weird. Buying any Tesla might be a way to own the libs, but the right has proved maddeningly resistant to going electric. 'Your average MAGA Trump supporter isn't going to go buy a Tesla,' McDonald, the EV analyst, said. Before the car shipped in November 2023, Musk predicted that Tesla would sell 250,000 a year. He hasn't even sold one-fifth of that in total—and sales are falling. (Neither Tesla or Musk responded to a request for comment.) Musk made a lot of other promises that haven't really panned out: The Cybertruck was supposed to debut at less than $40,000. The cheapest model currently available is double that. The vehicle, Musk said, would be 'really tough, not fake tough.' Instead, its stainless-steel side panels have fallen off because Tesla used the wrong glue —and that was just the most recent of the car's eight recalls. The Cybertruck was supposed to be able to haul 'near infinite mass' and 'serve briefly as a boat.' Just this month alone, one Cybertruck's rear end snapped off in a test of its towing power, and another sank off the coast of Los Angeles while trying to offload a Jet Ski from the bed. The Cybertruck, in that sense, is a perfect metaphor for Musk himself. The world's richest man has a bad habit of promising one thing and delivering another. X was supposed to be the 'everything app'; now it is a cesspool of white supremacy. DOGE was billed as an attempt to make the government more nimble and tech-savvy. Instead, the cuts have resulted in seniors struggling to get their Social Security checks. So far, Musk has only continued to get richer and more powerful while the rest of us have had to deal with the wreckage. Let that sink in, as he likes to say. The disaster of the Cybertruck is not that it's ugly, or unconventional, or absurdly pointy. It's that, for most people, the car just isn't worth driving.
