California Love

Last week I had to take a trip to Los Angeles, California for some sort of aerospace convention. I was there for only 40 hours, but there was a lot packed into my short time there. I hadn't been to LA since approximately 1980. My only memory of the trip is dropping a magazine from the hotel balcony onto a Ferrari.

As soon I stepped off the hovercraft Thursday evening, I breathed in the clean, crisp ocean air, which immediately had a positive effect on my rheumatism. I must say that LA after Skynet is not what I expected. There was no sign of nuclear winter or a race of machines bent on destroying me or my kind. Rather, I found it to be a harmonious and exotic locale. Everyone was on coke, or so I assume. Orientals and Spaniards literally run through the streets. There is an FM radio station, 93.5, that plays only race records, deeming itself a "back in the day" station. I heard an edited version of "Ain't No Fun," which simply played the background music during several verses and bleeped out the words "yap" and "mouth," among others.

Thursday evening I retired early, as I had a big day ahead of me on Friday. Awakened Friday morning by the constant sound of helicopters, I decided to hop in my economy rental car and head north to Pasadena. I arrived at my chosen destination about 45 minutes early. Originally, I had planned on simply skipping breakfast (figuring it would be the "California thing to do"), but my Midwestern appetite got the better of me, so I set off looking for an adequate restaurant. I pulled into a supermarket (which Angelinos call a "supermercado") parking lot and spotted a security guard who looked like Scatman Crothers, dressed in relatively heavy coat and a winter hat. I had the AC on. It was 57 degrees. I asked Scatman where the nearest Polish sausage stand was, and he claimed not to know. Back on the road, I saw a small old woman who drag raced me.

After that, I spent the rest of Friday morning and afternoon experiencing all LA had to offer. It was amazing. I got stuck in traffic. I ate at a California Pizza Kitchen. I kissed a cop at 34th and Vine. I smoked outdoors. I looted a Korean-owned grocery store. I ate at the In-N-Out Burger on Camrose. Those are good burgers. I glided down over Mulholland Drive and moved west down Ventura Blvd. I screamed out "Ricky!" I had sex with a transvestite. I broke myself, fool. While in the San Fernando Valley, I pretended I was a plumber making a house call, and a scantily clad and sexually unsatisfied housewife answered the door. She took everything I said about plumbing to mean something other than what it actually meant. I made love to her while a man with a mustache filmed us. I bought a hybrid car. I took my bike back from Deebo. I saw the Flaming Lips play at the Peach Pit After Dark. I killed Sharon Tate. I arrived after the third inning and left before the eighth. I stopped by the home of the widow of the man whose identity I stole when they mixed us up at the military hospital after the war. I pay her to keep my secret quiet. That's right, my real name is not GMYH. I drew some blood under a bridge downtown. I raised hell (figuratively) at the Seventh Veil. I carjacked someone. I got beaten up by two white cops.

Then five o'clock rolled around, and I rang my friend The Brothers Weeser* (minus Tim and Dan, oddly), and we hit the town, first going to the restaurant that invented the French dip. Of course, being a papist, I had the tuna sandwich, which was nonetheless excellent. We then headed to a hipster bar somewhere in the Los Angeles area that used to be a fire station. It had a very calming outdoor patio area and was overall a pretty cool bar, even if there were a lot of dudes in weird hats. After that, we went to one of the coolest dive bars in the world, this place called Tiki Ti, which is on Sunset. The bar is slightly larger than The Littlest Bar in Boston (the original one), if you've ever been there. Only tiki drinks are served, and it's "owner operated," which means that it is open as long as the owner is tending bar and you can smoke in there (not that I did, Jester). If you ever go there, order the Ooga Booga. You will not be disappointed.

I left Saturday morning wanting more. Next time I'm out on the "left coast," I'd like to visit The OC, although it might be too much to take with Marissa gone. I'd also like to visit Santa Monica to see if there are any two-bedroom apartments being rented by two women -- one ditzy and attractive, the other not so ditzy and not so attractive -- and a man pretending to be a gay to fool the landlord. Perhaps there will be a misunderstanding and physical comedy involved.

In sum, Los Angeles is a fun place to visit.