Dressed as The Crow and Hall of Fame pitcher Christy Mathewson, respectively, Jester and I headed down to our car. As you recall, we rented a Jetta. We had our choice of several different makes and models in the rental car lot. I wanted a Chevy HHR – as I assumed it would be the first and last time I would ever drive one – but Jessie wanted a Jetta. How pedestrian. She won the battle, but lost the war.
Flickering lights and a faint beeping greeted us as we approached the Jetta Monday morning. Our fears were confirmed when I attempted to start it, and got nothing more than a nearly inaudible laugh from the Lower Saxon imp who controls the battery. I called Alamo. Predictably, they had to tow a new car from the airport to our hotel, and then tow the dead German away. I explained in no uncertain terms that we would not accept another Volkswagen.
Helter Skelter would have to wait. Fuming, we walked around the area, on Santa Monica Boulevard and the Sunset Strip, howling like banshees at whoever crossed our path. Shortly after our return to the hotel, a well-tempered Spaniard greeted us with a metallic orange Kia Borrego, which is apparently their largest SUV. The Spaniard explained that there were no more standard-sized cars left at Alamo, so, instead of a car that got 30 mpg, we got an SUV that topped out around 20. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, we spared the Spaniard's life and graciously accepted the Borrego.
By then, it was lunchtime. We headed to Beverly Hills, where we met MDM, one of Jester's friends from grad school, at Jack 'n' Jill's, a sandwich and pie place in the heart of Beverly Hills. I had a club sandwich that, if I recall correctly – and assume I always do – had gouda and garlic mayo. It was pretty damn good.
After that, I was feeling cocksure, so Jester and I went a block over to Rodeo Drive. Twelve minutes and $45,000 later, we left with three pairs of slacks.
We then headed a few miles west and then up to Mulholland Drive – the famous winding road that cuts through the mountains overlooking LA and The Valley. While we did not see any hot lesbians making out and a whole bunch of shit that made no sense, we did see some fantastic views and some giant houses. At one of the scenic overlooks – the one overlooking Burbank and several studios – there was another couple there taking pictures. The husband offered to take our picture, and we obliged. He then noticed my Sox shirt, and struck up a conversation. I was talking to the husband for a few minutes while Jester was talking to the wife. They were from North Carolina, and had lived in Chicago a couple years ago. Their two kids were asleep in their rental car – a Chevy HHR, no less. It was a pleasant ten-minute conversation. When we got back in the car, Jester asked, "Do you know who that was?" I said, "Yeah, Patrick from North Carolina." I was right in some sense, but it turned out to be Patrick Brown, a contractor who stars in the TLC home improvement show Home Made Simple and previously was in Town Haul. So that was cool. He was a really nice guy, and I would have had no idea he was somewhat famous had Jester not been a TLC home improvement show junkie. Had I known, I would have asked him if he wants to lower my fireplace.
Regardless of well-mannered home improvement personalities, I highly suggest driving along Mulholland Drive. There are fantastic views all over the place. Here are a couple, the third of which was taken by Patrick Brown.
After flying down over Mulholland, we headed to The Grove, a posh outdoor mall, complete with a brick promenade, a dancing fountain, its own trolley, and scantily clad rich teenage chicks. I felt like a character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel, as I strolled in and out of such stores as Baby Gap and Barnes & Noble. Only in LA!Attached to The Grove is the Farmers Market, which is an amalgamation of tent-covered shops and delis, standing in stark contrast to The Grove.
The Weez met us outside The Grove, and then we went to a totally badass vintage toy store in the Farmers Market. If you were a child in the '80s, this place is a trip down memory lane. They had Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, Erector sets, Playmobil, and a ton of other crap that you'd never thought you'd see again, except when you clean out the mounds of junk in your mom's attic after she dies. The Weez bought the classic Bert and Ernie book, Ernie's Little Lie, which surprisingly had nothing to do with heroin.
We then went to a bar called Third Stop, which had a really good beer menu, although they were out of the first three beers I ordered. They also had pretty good pizza. After a couple beers, The Weez had to go home, since, contrary to what you've always been told, people in California work on Tuesdays.
Jester and I weren't ready to call it a night, so, after returning to our hotel, we headed to The Troubadour, one of LA's legendary rock clubs, which was less than a block from our hotel. Hipsters abounded as we waited in line to buy tickets to see two bands we'd never heard of – Haim, followed by Chief. No matter. I was just as excited about seeing a show at The Troubadour as I was to go to The Rainbow the night before.
I have seen footage of then-up-and-coming bands like Guns N' Roses, Motley Crue, and W.A.S.P. playing at The Troubadour back in the early to mid '80s, and I expected it to be bigger than it is. It is divided into two parts. There is a front part that has a bar, which is completely walled off from the second part, which is where the stage and another bar are located. The stage area and standing area is probably about 50-60% as big as The Metro, to provide a frame of reference for you Chicago music lovers.
But I digress. Jester and I were standing in the front part, drinking some beers, when I looked up and there was a tall blond woman standing in front of me, wearing a green military type jacket, shorts, puffy socks, and high heels. I could see only a sliver of her face, and that's all I needed. It's weird how sometimes when you see someone famous, you don't immediately recognize them as being famous, just as being a familiar face. I had that feeling when I saw her, and less than a second later I realized why. It was none other than Marissa Cooper herself, Mischa Barton. As you may know, I'm a bit of an OC fan. My heart began palpitating, and I told Jester, who didn't believe me, mainly because I could only see a little of Mischa's face, so how could I possibly tell? There was no doubt in my mind.
And then she spoke. While she didn't say "clo-thes," it was clearly her, and Jester was convinced. Mischa apparently didn't have any money on her, so she asked the guy next to her at the bar to buy her a beer. God damn, I wish I was that guy. I would have been all "you bet."
Intoxicated by beer and Barton, Jester and I headed to the other side of the bar to watch the bands. Mischa followed, and stood about fifteen feet in front of us for most of the show. She appeared to be there alone, which Jester and I both found to be heartbreaking. Then again, Atwood was probably on his way, for all we knew.
The bands themselves were pretty good. Haim was a female-heavy band (but not with heavy females) that played some good rock. Chief seemed stoned, but they were pretty good. I would describe their sound as psychedelic indie electric folk.
Despite the fact that we both wanted to talk to Mischa, Jester and I relented. At Jester's behest, I was going to buy her a beer, but then she was talking to some dudes, so that would have been weird, especially when I told her to "watch out for Eastern Bloc vampire surfers."
In the end, after Chief stopped playing, Mischa left, and she was smoking a bummed cigarette as we passed her on our way back to the hotel. We should have taken her under our wing. Hell, we need a new nanny. She would have been perfect.
Coming up in Part 3: A shocking discovery, missions, and harbor seals.
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2 comments:
3rd Stop is a happy place. Also, don't let the studio presence fool you. Burbank is an unhappy place.
The question remains, however, did you see Micha Barton eat anything?
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