I love LA FRESH. There is no place better. Los Angeles is home to so many diverse communities. Our culture is rooted deep. From Gaylord Wilshire to Cesar Chavez, Magic Johnson to Tupac, Jimmy Hahn to Dr. Dre, LA is home to some of the most notable figures in American history.

As a tribute to our great city, My Ninja! created the line, “LA Ninja!” – otherwise known as “Lah Ninja!” for all my peoples of Latino heritage.

The LA NINJA! “Showtime” Tee

The LA NINJA! “True Blue” Tee

Here are some excerpts from Los Angeles Magazines on their 64 Greatest Things About LA. For more info, visit www.lamag.com

Amoeba Music
It arrived from Berkeley only six years ago, yet Amoeba is like L.A. itself—teeming and gritty and so vast as to be daunting at first. Then, looking out past the ink-drenched Goth chicks, Latino punkers, bifocaled jazz aficionados, and dreadlocked dads flipping through the acres of bins, you see it for what it is: an unrivaled opportunity for exploration. The big staff—surprisingly non-’tudinal—and free shows make a great institution that much better.

Taco Trucks
As many as 4,000 ply the county’s streets, and each is unique, a rolling kitchen as ephemeral as traffic and as permanent as the neighborhoods it serves. Whether we want asada or cabeza, al pastor or lengua, there’s something primal and urgent about the tacos cooked up in their cramped galleys. It is food that can be powerfully good, transporting you into a gustatory trance while heightening your awareness of all that surrounds you.

In-N-Out
Hamburger. Cheeseburger. Double-double. Fries. If you’re looking for deep-fried chicken chunks, premade salads, or collectible Spidey cups, then In-N-Out is not for you. The local institution, founded in Baldwin Park in 1948, doesn’t do anything but faultless burgers and fries. Using fresh ground beef, hand-torn lettuce, and thick slices of onion, they make them like you would if you were at the grill with your closest pals.

Grauman’s Chinese
Whatever its virtues, monotheism, Sid Grauman knew, was no way to worship the gods and goddesses of the film industry’s Golden Age. So for his greatest motion picture temple, the consummate showman ventured farther east than Jerusalem or Mecca. From the Egyptian to the Vista to downtown’s movie palace row to the Crest to the Village, you can’t say Grauman’s Chinese Theater doesn’t have competition. But more than 80 years after it opened its pagoda doors, it remains the world’s most holy site for movie-loving pilgrims, and its hand- and footprint forecourt is that rarest of L.A. beasts: a critical public space.

99¢ Only Stores
There’s simply no better way to experience L.A.’s urban mix. Founded by the son of immigrants, with patrons from half the world’s cultures grabbing at canned soup, hair gel, and action figures cast from the global marketplace, the stores make us marvel at how we all came to be here, under one roof, intent on a bargain.

Capitol Records
So what if it was never meant to resemble a stack of records? Welton Becket’s 13-story cylinder on Vine Street was where Frank and Dean and Nat and the Beach Boys recorded some of their best work. No struggling musician has ever set eyes on it and not dreamed of going platinum.

Palm Trees
They were imported to gussy up our streets, and they took to the place like they were born here. Soon they were our calling card and our cliche, emblazoned on everything from hotel facades to cocktail napkins. Has any other silhouette been more photographed?

Roscoe’s
Who says we eat healthy? Nobody bellying (burp) up to Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘n Waffles at two in the morning for a plate of fried chix and a gridiron stack topped by a luminescent orb of I Can’t Believe It Is Butter. Scoe’s is also the place in town to peep black Hollywood’s (heck, black America’s) showbiz elite, where everybody from Little Richard (spotted passing out Bible tracts) to Chris Rock to Lil Wayne goes to be seen.

The Beach
Seventy-five miles of coast, and most of it our personal playground. Free light therapy and tanning beds, nap-time and lunch breaks, all-comer football and volleyball, zone-out swimming and surfing, weddings, barbecues, and endless child’s play. Since it’s pretty darn hard to cycle and skate on sand, a wide bike path runs through it that’s as lovely and thought-inducing as any philosopher’s walk in Kyoto. And the sunsets? Killer.

Hollywood Bowl
We go to the Hollywood Bowl for the music, but the sunsets stop us in our tracks. Seems we’ve glanced at this crimson wash before—in the middle of a harried commute, say, or out an office window—but here on a warm summer evening, surrounded by a sea of happy people, motley picnics, overflowing pinot, and the strains of a fine orchestra or a raucous band, the changing sky signals the start of something truly grand. Then there’s that band shell: Lit up like a mother ship, it seems poised to ascend into heaven.

Griffith Park
Because each of its parts—telescope gazing at the observatory, hiking under the moon with the Sierra Club, catching crayfish in the brook at Fern Dell where Dad proposed to Mom in 1958, riding the Little Steamers and the big choo-choos at Travel Town, bopping to the White Stripes at the Greek, hearing crusty old western stars hold court at the Autry, swirling on that merry-go-round whose organ strains wash over the whole city—could make up half this list alone. Had you gone up in flames, Griffith (and we were scared), L.A. would have lost us, too.

Sunset Boulevard
The name alone conjures the hopes and delusions that define us. Beginning downtown, it runs past Dodger Stadium, bisects Hollywood (where a sign honors Billy Wilder, whose film titled after the thoroughfare captured the city’s darkness), slows along the Strip, resumes speed in Beverly Hills, then crests Pacific Palisades for the descent to the Coast Highway. In its 22 miles, Sunset Boulevard reminds us that our forebears came here for freedom while underscoring that this is where the continent ends.

The Hollywood Sign
Try imagining a sign that reads San Francisco bolted to the slopes of Nob Hill, or letters spelling out Paris atop Montmartre. It’s impossible. Why? For starters, both cities feature architecture—a certain bridge, a tower—that identifies them instantly. The Hollywood sign is Los Angeles’s own emblematic structure; it’s the prism through which the rest of the world views us. Please remember: “Hollywood” as advertised here doesn’t exist—the studios are scattered across several municipalities. Yet up on a hill tilts a crooked old sign that touts our collective promise like nothing else.

Venice Canals
Abbot Kinney’s vision for a “Venice of America” was no match for the vision of Henry Ford. By the end of the 1920s, most of Kinney’s 16 miles of canals had become streets. One pocket remains, home to ducks, dinghies, and well-heeled residents. Its arched bridges and narrow footpaths take us to a time when water triumphed over asphalt.

KCRW 89.9 FM
Other stations provide NPR, but how many also transmit Michael Silverblatt’s literary confabs, dish on the latest in lettuce with Evan Kleiman, or house the largest Web archive of in-studio performances (thanks, Nic) by top-tier artists? KCRW 89.9 FM makes us feel, well, smarter. It’s why traffic is tolerable, why we sit in the driveway an extra few minutes, and why we heard Beck long before anyone else.

The Weather
Perfection, with just enough biting chills in winter to remind us why we don’t live in points north and east. Sure, there are the fogs of June and the occasional sticky hugs in summer, but the rest of the time it’s like Goldilocks said: Just right.

Sushi on Ventura
Tama Sushi, Teru Sushi, Nozawa, Asanebo, Iroha, the original Katsu-ya. Ventura Boulevard may not be on the short list for an urban design award, and it’s not exactly a fine-dining destination. But when it comes to high-quality, we’re-not-trying-to-be-a-nightclub sushi restaurants, the road is paved with seaweed-wrapped gold. Aji and uni, oshitashi and ankimo, toro and kanpachi are Ventura’s stock-in-trade, and a perpetual chorus of “Irasshai!” reverberates from Calabasas to Studio City.