That hipster drool narration sounds like a pervert with a cassette recorder in a linen closet, trying not to speak too loudly for fear that he'll wake up his mother and she'll find out what he's really up to when she's not looking.
Other than that minor quibble, honestly, it's becoming a little sad, this never-ending romantic, nostalgic desire that some people have to somehow locate "Bukowski's Los Angeles."