Departed Paris at noon Friday destined for home. 31 hours later I am currently begging spare change at gate C25 of Philadelphia airport, thanks to a stiff breeze in Chicago and the world-class competence of US Airways. I am led to believe I actually might make it home before 1 am Sunday.
Oh, well. At least Paris was a hoot. Thursday I met up with two Iowahawk readers for an evening of sophisticated imbibing in the neighborhood of Montparnasse. Our host and sherpa: Prof. Jonathan, an American ex-pat who has taught university English in Paris for 30 years. Joining us was Dr. Carlos, an Australian medico currently enjoying a half-year sabbatical in France.
What Montmartre was to the Bohemian age, Montparnasse was to the early 20th century: a cafe-saturated neighborhood of famous auteurs and artists like Jean Cocteau, Ernest Hemingway, Salvador Dali, Henry Miller, Joan Miro, Man Ray, et al.
Mmm, smell the tragic artistic brilliance...
We'll see if that reputation survives my visit there. First stop: La Select, a restaurant favored by manyof Parisian literary set in the 1920s. Bordeaux for Jonathan and Carlos, tequila for me, and we toast Hemingway.
From there, across the avenue to La Coupole, another Montparnasse Jazz Age institution with an amazing interior dominated by a large cupola (hence La Coupole) and pillars decorated by many of the 20th Century's most notable artists. Bordeaux all around.
Last stop of the evening: La Something Something de Lilas (sorry, I had my swerve on by this point). Like the other stops Prof Jonathan is greeted with great deference by the wait-staff, who set us up at a heated outdoor table. Another round of drinks and Americanly-illegal Cuban cigars courtesy the fine Professor. Ha ha! Come and get me coppers! The joint is quite swank, and each table features a brass plate commemorating one of their famous regulars. Sorta like the Broadway Deli, for suicidal artistes.
You know what to do whenever somebody says the artist of the day, don't you? Scream real loud! Aaaaah!
In short order the heater at our table has attracted three comely jeune filles, with whom the resourceful Dr. Carlos strikes up a conversation en Francais. Fille un is a wisecracking Russian-French-Turkish Kung Fu expert / art gallery owner (I am not making this up); Fille deux is her accountant, an expatriate Welshwoman; Fille trois is a something or other. All seem quite infatuated with the good Doctor.
"So vhat are you doink here? Are you artist or writers or zomesink?" laughs Fille un.
The Doctor and the Professor point at me. "He's a writer."
"Really?" they ask, enthusiastically. "Novels? Screenplays? Have we heard of you?"
I'm still looking around trying to figure out who they were pointing at.
"He's a blogger," offers Professor Jonathan. "He's.. well, sort of known."
The three filles react to this as if they had learned I wrote school lunch menus or lawnmower warning stickers. Despite his revealed association with blogospheric scum, the filles continue their flirtation with Dr. Carlos, who deftly extracts a party invite for Saturday night. It's getting late, so I head for the Metro and bid my drinking companions a bien tot, and Carlos bon chance with scoring that rare & elusive menage a quatre.
'Allo, feelthy Americain philistines! Greetings from the Trocadero, were I am sipping absinthe and smoking Gauloises while attending World MimeCon 2008. Lest you think I have gone native I am also wearing my "Jerry Lewis Sucks" t-shirt. Having a good time, wish you were here, yada yada. Off soon to le Rive Gauche to guzzle wine with a couple of Parisian Iowahawk / Bolus readers (go figure). In the meantime, here are a few sights/sounds. A bien tot!
View from l'hotel window (the Tocadero Super 8)
Along Avenue Raymond Poincare
L'Arc de Triomphe. I am told it was built to commemorate a local tall tale about the French winning a war. Sort of like the Paul Bunyan statue in Brainerd, I guess.
From there we do a short photo-op at the Broken Spoke, the venerable Austin cowboy honky tonk and home of the world's greatest chicken fried steak.
Then back to the Expo center to catch Day 2 of the Lonestar Round Up car show, and the joint is packed to the gills. Plenty of good stuff right at the gate, including a display of vintage drag strip warriors from the Texas Timing Association, who indulge the crowd by occasionally firing up the old nitro cacklers. Nearby is a row of kickass customs including Mercury Charlie's Nadine and an array of Gary Howard customs, including the '54 Ford and '62 Coupe de Ville he built for Jimmy Vaughn.
Jimmy is there, along with Billy Gibbons who has brought along his Rudy Rodriguez built roadster. Here it is, facing off against Von Franco's "Lightning Bug" T-roadster.
After that, a blur of nice machinery. Plowboy's Atomic Punk and Lunar Lander:
A ('52?) Mercury M-1 pickup custom (yes, Ford sold trucks in Canada under the Mercury name from '46 to '68)
Panel-laced '55 Chevy custom painted at West Coast Choppers:
Satin crayon box:
Contrast in eras -- '60s, '30s, '50s.
Nice bass boat sparkle.
Jackalope!
The farmer in me dug this little One Shot decoration.
On the way out we run into our friend Reggie Hill and his family. A former UT football player turned tech industry exec, Reggie is a member of the Kontinentals Car Club who throw this little shindig. On the side he works on his incredible stable of traditional style Ford hot rods, and cooks the best homemade BBQ you'll ever taste. If that weren't cool enough, Reggie's sons Dax and Kerrington are nationally-ranked high school swimmers at Round Rock High and U.S. Olympic Team hopefuls. So now you know why they call this corner of Texas "Hill Country."
Front: Reggie's folks Mr. & Mrs. Don Hill of Taylor. Back: wife Marilyn, Reggie, Dax, Kerrington, and nephew Jamal.
Speaking of barbecue, on the way out of the show we buzz over to Donn's on Decker Lane for the brisket, as recommended by Bolus reader "Donnie Darko." Verdict: outstanding. Head back to the hotel to wash off the fairground dust, big doin's tonight.
Up bright and early at 10:30 am, head to Austin hippie chow redoubt Magnolia Cafe for French toast then up South Congress so Tammi Jo and teenage Hawkette can engage in a clothes-shopping mission. Funny thing about South Congress; when I first visited here in the 80's this was the neighborhood one went to when in need of handguns or crack or transvestite prostitutes. Over the past twenty years it has transformed into a chi-chi row of boho boutiques and bistros, chockablock with Vespa-riding eco shaggies who refer to it as (ugh) "SoCo." Traces of old South Congress remain, tho, like the "GUNS" sign on the tropical fish store that once housed "JUST GUNS." To avoid purse-holding duty 12-year old Hawkspawn and I drop off the girls and head back to the Big Top candy store, a terrific joint that stocks all kinds of hard-to-find confections like Fizzies and gummi haggis (I am not making this up). The store is also a showcase for the steampunk projects of owner Brandon Hodge, who gives us a brief tour including his crazy steam-powered gear drive guitar. Hawkspawn picks out 30 bucks of tooth-rotting goodies, including a few packs of candy cigarettes.
Afterwards Hawkspawn and I boogie off to the Travis County Expo Center where day 1 of the Lonestar Round Up car show is already underway. We run into our old Illinois pal Aaron "Plowboy" Grote, whose "Atomic Punk" bubbletop is one of the star attractions. It's parked next to his previous project, the "Lunar Lander" roadster, which is now owned by a Louisiana physician.
There's a swap meet going on inside the Livestock hall, so we head up to scout for junk bargains and hear the strange lilt of lawn mower engines. Minibike races! We grab a fence rail and enjoy the mayhem.
Down in the outdoor vendor area we run into a couple more Bolus contributors -- Ryan Cochran of theJalopy Journal and Coby Gewertz of Church Magazine, who we last saw at 2007 Bonneville Speed Week. We also run into our Chicago paisano Kevin Tully from Hot Rod Chassis and Cycle and his lovely bride Megan. They've made the 1200 mile journey here on motorcycles, and Megan relates her near death experience after a semi crosswind nearly pushed her Sportster into an I-55 ditch south of Joliet. Yipes.
Along vendor row we chat with a few more hot rod building & artist types like Jimmy White from Circle City, Brian Bass, Keith Weesner and recent California-to-Austin transplant Von Franco, plus my Illinois buddy Gordy Cushman who, in addition to building the 389 Pontiac in my '31 Ford Coupe, is bass player for the Cheap Trick cover band Budokan 78. Gordy's latest project is repopping vintage Harrell heads for 59 AB Ford flat motors, which might go on my next project.
At the Austin Speed Shop booth we chatted a few minutes with Sean Johnstun, king of crazy 60's style custom upholstery. Some of his handiwork:
Hawkspawn veers off with a couple of buddies to ogle cars and I hear a familiar call:
"Sapo!"
It's Michael Lightbourn and his crew of crazies from El Paso, the same guys who rescued me from a certain beatdown in Juarez last fall while following the trail of Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's Orbitron. During that same trip they made me an honorary Mexican, alias 'Sapo' ('Toad'). We hoist a beer in celebration and make plans for dinner. Since we are dining with Mexicans in Texas, we make the logical cuisine choice: Indian.
Hawkspawn and I hook back up with Tammi Jo and Hawkette after the show, and reconvene with the El Pasoans for curry and tandoori at a cozy table for 20. Lightbourn's wife Tina pulls out a surprise for me: a handsome stuffed toad from the mercado in Juarez, wrapped in a pink gift bag. *Sniff*.
After numerous toasts it's time to get the family back to the hotel for shuteye. I've got enough energy for a nightcap so I head back to Trophy's on South Congress to catch the late show of Lil' Bobby Bleed. Run into some friends and enjoy some good cruise action outside. We end up closing the place down, and I head back to the hotel and sack out for the big day tomorrow.
Just joshing! Beverage intake was actually rather mild thanks to the watchful eye of Tammi Jo and our two urchins. As mentioned previously we were in Austin for our annual pilgrimage to the Lonestar Rod & Custom Round Up hosted by the fine fellows of the Kontinentals Car Club.
Thursday 4/3
First things first: After checking in to our deluxe motor court lodgings we made tracks to Chuy's on Barton Creek for some sacramental Tex-Mex. Elvis Platter for me, blue corn chicken enchiladas for the rest. Chuy's is remembered by many as the site of the Bush Twins' underage drinking bust, so I take the occasion to remind my kids of the importance of having a good fake ID.
From there, a quick jaunt down South Congress for hot rod gawking in front of the venerable Continental Club, Ground Zero for the Austin music scene. On the sidewalk in front of the San Jose Motel, ran into old Canadian pal Jeff Norwell who was chewing the fat with Juan Espinoza of Deadend Magazine and car painting/pinstriping legend Rod Powell. The streets are packed with killer rods and customs, so we have a good chuckle when a parade of beeping VWs streams by, flying the Jolly Roger. It reminds me of the mimes-versus-rodeo clowns showdown scene from Shakes the Clown. Across the street we run into Bolus co-blogger Scott Noteboom and Alex Gambino, whose caravan has just arrived after an 1800 mile roadtrip from San Jose.
After renewing numerous old acquaintances, took the kiddies back to the motor lodge for shut-eye, then headed back to the Continental Club to catch the massively entertaining midnight show of Southern Culture on the Skids. Called it a night at 2am. More fun tomorrow!
Haven't posted a home movie for a while, so here's one covering some of my activities since January 1. Locales include Chicago, Indianapolis, Palm Springs, LA, San Diego, Milwaukee, and Detroit. Music: Sonics, A Tribe Called Quest, Little Richard.
9:45 AM: Tammi Jo and I check out of the hotel and head out for flapjacks. It's our last day in Palm Springs, and we want to get a few activities squeezed in before the 3:00 flight back to the Midwestern permafrost. After breakfast, first order of business is the Palm Springs Modernism Show at the Convention Center, which is the semi-official annual kickoff to Palm Springs Modernism Week. In the parking lot, we spot an elderly couple in a Porsche Boxter.
Now, when I say "elderly," I mean "old." Shockingly old. Mr. & Mrs. Methuselah. 117, 118 minimum. Quite possibly the oldest people I have ever seen in my life. In a friggin' Porsche. Wisps of straggly white hairs rising above doortops. I didn't know whether to be charmed or scared shitless.
While my mind was still boggling over the Porsche geezers, we spotted this swell Saab:
We met the owner later, a Hungarian guy who had a booth at the show. It's used to advertise his shop MiMo, but is also his daily driver. Speaking of the show, there was an incredible array of awesome junk from the 1920's to the 1970's - furniture, movie posters, art, you name it.
But what really flipped my lid was this - one of those old aluminum playground rides meant to be mounted on truck coil springs, back in the halcyon days before personal injury lawyers. The show vendor has a large collection which she sandblasts and polishes and sells as decorative pieces. These were manufactured in California from the late 60s to the late 70s, and the line included several named models. The one in the foreground here ("Schnozz Buddy") is the rarest. Apparently based on a mandrill, it is unique in that the user, well... sits on his face. Charmingly creepy.
After the Modernism show we headed over to a bookstore where our friends the Gands told us Sven Kirsten was having a book signing. What Jacques Cousteau is to fish, Kirsten is to Tiki culture. His latest book Tiki Modern is his sixth on the subject. We picked up a copy, and during the signing table chit chat discovered that Sven and his wife Naomi are friends and close neighbors of Coop & Ruth in Los Angeles. Small world, ain't it?
Afterwards we noshed on the free book signing cookies and wine, and took in the final rays of California sun before heading for the airport and back to the Midwest icebox.
3:00 PM: After dropping off the rental car, we stuck the credit card into the e-ticket kiosk at the airport.
SEE AGENT
"I'm sorry, O'Hare is socked in due to the weather. The best I can do is get you on a flight out of LAX on Tuesday."
Tammi Jo and I high-fived, and headed back to retrieve the rental car. I think we can live with two more days in Palm Springs.
Unfortunately Palm Springs can't live with two more days us. Because of Modernism Week, we discover that every hotel room in town is booked up. Perplexed, we headed to Hawaiian Bill's Tiki bar at the Caliente Tropics motel for Mai Tais, and to beseech the Tiki gods for help.
After slurping down the remainder of her Mai Tai, Tammi Jo has a brain fart. "Hey," she remembers, "don't I have a sister who lives in San Diego?"
"I think so," I pondered. A cell call verifies the existence of the sister, and that she is currently at home, and that we have a crash pad for the night. We point the Hyundai to San Diego.
10:20 PM: We reach sister's home, a lovely nest 20 stories up overlooking San Diego Harbor and Coronado Island. We enjoy the view for 3 minutes and crash.
Monday February 18
Morning breaks, and we have corn flakes overlooking the bay and the cruise ships. Tammi Jo and her sis catch up on family news while I drop water balloons on unsuspecting passers-by.
1:00 PM: Tammi Jo and I pack into the car and head back north on the 5. Appointments await in L.A. You stay classy, San Diego!
On the way North, we pass a couple of my favorite places: Camp Pendleton, training camp for my favorite team, the Fightin' Leathernecks...
... and San Onofre nuclear reactor, home of the giant radioactive titties.
Feeling a might peckish, we pull off the 5 at Laguna and have root beer float at Rudy's Diner on PCH. Two straws. There's a nifty Shoebox Ford in front. I ask Tammi Jo to the prom.
5:00 PM: We settle into our Pasadena hotel and call our pal Gale Banks, whom I last saw in January in Indianapolis shopping for a dragster chassis. Gale was in Savannah, GA over the weekend helping his daughter in-law move into an apartment; Gale's son Andrew is an Army combat medic currently serving in Iraq, and is expected home shortly where he will be stationed at Ft. Stewart. Gale's back in SoCal, and with our unexpected extended stay we'll have a chance to say hi.
7:00 PM: We meet Gale and Ruth at the Fedora Club, Gale's ginchy clubhouse in Monrovia that was originally built in 1920 to house a Cadillac dealership. Coop can't make it because his studio is being used tonight to film a TV interview with Johnny Knoxville. We have a round of beverages, and decide to see if Eric Vaughn is in. Remember "The World's Fastest Indian"? Eric has the World's Third Fastest Indian. He is also an expert machinist and wheel maker, whose shop is conveniently located right behind Gale's club in what once was the Cadillac dealer's service garage.
Vaughn is in, and, unsurprisingly, working on a set of wheels. These are for a 1914 Rolls-Royce currently being restored back East. They look like wood spokes, but are actually CNC billet aluminum (tho the hubs are originals). Coulda fooled me.
Laying around the shop, a couple of nice sickles - an ancient Indian(?) and a Honda cafe racer.
Turns out Vaughn is also into Tiki, and has a loft above the garage where he keeps a stash of vintage coolness like red blowfish lamps. The old radio was the same one he listened to as a kid. That red head isn't the devil - it's Mr. Bosch of fuel injection fame.
11:30 PM: After a late dinner with Banks and Ruth, Tammi Jo and I head back to the hotel to crash. Despite our prayers to the contrary, O'Hare air traffic is finally cleared up and we're doomed to flying back home on a 9:00 AM flight tomorrow.
"Do you think we might luck out and get an earthquake?" she asks.
9:30 AM: Flop out of the sack and pack up my bindlestiff. Coop and I drive, in true Los Angeles fashion, 20 miles to fetch coffee and a box of donuts from Lard Lad. After returning to the house, I pack up the Hyundai and head back east to Palm Springs. Along the way I decide to call my brother in Florida. It's his 50th birthday.
"Holy crap, dude, I'm fifty," he says despondently.
He's not quite sure what to make of my compliment.
1:15 PM: Roll into Palm Springs and pick up Tammi Jo at the hotel for lunch. She's feeling slightly better.
"What do you want to do today?" I ask between bites.
"How about going to Palm Springs?"
"We're in Palm Springs."
"No, THE Palm Springs."
When you think about Palm Springs, many images come to mind. The grand days of Hollywood, the Rat Pack, elderly mensches, golf, leathery widows with big sunglasses and poodles, convertible VWs filled with vacationing gays. Oddly enough you never think of THE Palm Springs, an actual site south of town in Indian Canyons, maintained by the Agua Caliente Cahuilla Indian tribe. Tammi Jo is totally into the wonders-of-nature crap, so we buzz down South Palm Canyon Drive for a gander.
3:00 PM: "This is the second largest Palm Oasis in the World," says Tammi Jo, reading from the guide.
"It looks like the Flinstones," I add. We take a hike up the canyon.
On the way back, I suggest some erotic Flintstone role-play.
"If you'll dress up like Betty," I offer, "I'll get me a single strap leopardskin loincloth. Yabba dabba doo."
Tammi Jo rolls her eyes. We case out a few more neighborhoods, and spot some nice vintage wheels.
Yeah baby, CLENET. Thirty years from now, in my final decrepitude, I vow I will be driving one of these suckers to the Early Bird at Red Lobster. And the post office to pick up my gubmint money. In a Jack LaLanne jumpsuit.
7:00 PM: Tammi Jo and I head over to the m modern art gallery. Tonight is the opening of "Abstract Distraction," a show featuring some of our favorite artist - Glenn Barr, Mark Ryden, Shag, Tim Biskup.
Amid the gallery throng we spot a couple arrayed in mod monochrome 60s finery. It's our our friends from Chicago, Gary and Joan Gand. Most of the year the Gands sell musical instruments and are active in the Chicago Midcentury Modern scene, but have a lovely shack in Palm Springs where they escape every February. Gary informs us he and his band will be playing a gig tonight downtown.
8:30 PM: Feeling a might peckish, we grab a romantic burrito dinner at the Del Taco drive-thru and head back to the hotel. Yabba Dabba Doo. A few hours later I walk the two blocks to Shanghai Red's to catch a nightcap and a couple sets of Chicago Blues from Gary's band, who end up burning down the house.
On the walk back to the hotel I inadvertantly stumble on the star of the ultimate Palms Springsian.
In the 1968 Blake Edwards comedy "The Party" (alternative title "Hollywood Party") Peter Sellers plays a bumbling bit part extra who accidentally gets invited to a wild Hollywood shindig. Mayhem and pratfalls ensue.
Tonight is my Peter Sellers moment.
Coop and Ruth have been invited to a party at the home of their friends George Meyer and Maria Semple. George is a writer and producer for the Simpsons who credits include the Simpsons Movie (including the smash hit "Spider Pig"). His wife Maria is also a writer and producer who has worked on a number of sitcoms. Between them, 17 Emmy nominations and 7 wins. Maria's also the daughter of Lorenzo Semple Jr., another Hollywood writing notable who was largely responsible for creating the 1960's Batman TV series and wrote Sean Connery's final Bond movie, 1983's "Never Say Never Again." Meyer and Semple are avid collectors of Pop Surrealist art, including a few pieces from Coop. Tonight they are throwing a farewell party, as they will be moving in a few days to a new home in Seattle. I've been accidentally invited to tag along.
After lurching through traffic along the 10 and the 405, we snake up Mulholland Drive to a narrow road leading up a mountain, packed bumper-to-bumper with parked Priuses. "Maybe we should grab that spot," I suggest. "Haven't you ever been to a party with valet parking?" laughs Ruth. Hell, I've never been to a party that didn't have a plastic bucket for keg donations.
When we arrive at the top of the mountain we are greeted in the driveway by a winsome member of the Valet Girls, the troupe of hot fembot parking ninjas who are handling car management for the party. "First non-Prius of the night," she says of Ruth's Benz. Apparently the big new automotive trend in Hollywood is conspicuous non-consumption; I marvel at the irony of eco-hairshirt hybrid shitboxes being parked by supermodel servant girls. I also marvel at the valet's shapely hinder.
Then, there was the house.
This is Ursa Major, the estate built by the late Wilt Chamberlain in 1971 as a rival to Hef's Playboy Mansion. It is also the site where Wilt famously claimed to have carved 20,000 notches in his bedpost. The sheer mathematics of it beggars belief (2 different women per day for 27 years) but who am I to question? After all, he was the Hall of Famer. And with an original interior decor like this, he was obviously all business when it came to entertaining female guests.
George and Maria bought Ursa Major from Chamberlain's estate in 2002, after which it underwent a major renovation/restoration taking several years to complete. Sadly, the purple fur waterbed sex room is
gone, but the house is now returned to its original structural glory.
When we enter the Brobdignagian 14-foot front door we are greeted by George; a lanky, bearded Ichabod Crane topped with a bowl cut. Warm and cordial and disarmingly goofy, he's not at all what I had expected in a big shot Hollywood producer. We chit-chatted with him for a few moments before I was distracted by a couple of huge Robert Williams canvases hanging on the wall.
After grabbing a few hors d'oeuvres we head out on an alcohol safari. On the way we soon encounter the lovely and gracious Maria. Next, Paul Reubens, better known to many as Pee Wee Herman. Coop and Ruth have met him before, and introduce me. Seems like a nice enough fella, who compliments my 1950's vintage glasses. After grabbing drinks (Rum and Coke for me) we all go off for the 50-cent house tour.
Apologies for the crappy underexposed cell phone pics, but not wanting to appear a hick tourist from Iowa I arrived without a proper camera. Okay, maybe I am a hick tourist from Iowa, but I don't want it to be any more obvious than necessary. On with the low-resolution show.
Master bedroom, bigger than most houses, and overlooking the distant LA skyline. I remark that the very air here is redolent of Wilt DNA, but I am told that the remodeling contractors removed most of it using ultraviolet searchlights.
One holdover from the Wilt era -- the mirrored skylight ceiling above the bed, allowing Ruth to snap a quick self portrait.
We head downstairs for more drinks. While waiting at the bar behind a gaggle of gals, one strikes up a conversation. "Didn't you come here with Coop and Ruth?" she asks. "You're not one of them fucking right wing Republican assholes are you?"
I look around uncomfortably.
"I told Coop that if George Bush knew who he was, he would throw him in jail and have him SHOT in the fucking HEAD."
Discretion being the better part of valor, I explain that I am merely the wastrel son of an Iowa hog baron, here only for the debauchery. I tip my hat, grab my rum & Coke, and head out for more sightseeing.
The wing of the house containing George's office also houses some wonderful fanboy objets d'art, like a few of Coop's ink pieces -
as well as a load of original comics and cool weirdo advertising junk. Vote Kibaki!
The real stunner was the collection of Soviet space program items, like this stenciled escape hatch door (MAN INSIDE! HELP!) and an actual control panel from an orbiter. Used by real cosmonauts, in actual outer space!
After reloading our highballs glasses we find the Wilt Chamberlain shrine. I had forgotten that a young Wilt toured with the Globetrotters for a time before going to the NBA. On closer inspection, I discover the poster is for an exhibition in Waterloo, Iowa.
Another paean to Wilt in a hall bathroom: high contrast 70s nudie babes. Wocka chicka wocka chicka.
Back over in the conversation pit, refreshed with more rum, Coop and Ruth introduce me to their friends Kate Flannery and Chris Haston. Chris is a photographer at NBC, and Kate's a cast member on "The Office" who started her career as a member of the Second City improv group in Chicago. Nice conversation about the Windy City. Then, strangely enough, I spot somebody I (sorta) know -- screenwriter / blogger Roger L. Simon. We had previously talked on the phone several times but never in person, so when I introduce myself he seems rather flabbergasted. And, perhaps, nervous. Despite that, he introduces me to his wife Sheryl and we chew the fat about the blogosphere. In hushed tones, lest we provoke more rage from Progressive Entertainment Industry Lady.
More drinks. A few more minor celebrities spotted, like Mary Lynn Rajskub, Chloe from 24. Most of the people here are writer types, from the Harvard Lampoon mafia that have controlled much of the comedy d0cks in Hollywood since the dawn of Saturday Night Live. George is a former editor of the Harvard Lampoon and wrote for SNL before joining the Simpsons. I meet several other Lampoon alumni including Michael Ferris. With all the writers in the place, a lot of the talk about the recently settled strike, and the relief. I never mention my sad little comedy blog, but my tales of life on an Iowa hog farm seem to horrify and amused them.
Suddenly, I feel the presence of a warm aura, as if I were basking in the glow of a sunlamp of pure transcendant majesty, or if I were in a hotel pool and sensed a wafting current of excellence-piss. I turned to behold Kato Kaelin. He is remarkably well-preserved, wearing a pukka necklace adorned with porcelain titties, and accompanied by a stunning brunette who radiates studied ennui as she sits on the couch arm.
"Hey man, you're Coop."
"Yes."
"The artist with the Devil stuff."
"That would be me."
"Hey man, that's cool."
Say what you want about the man, but he has a talent for facial recognition. Which probably helps in his current career in doing whatever it is he does. Chris Haston urges Coop and I to squeeze in with Kato to preserve the auspicious, Yalta-like moment.
I fetch another drink. Coop finds a dynamite plunger and goes Wile E. Coyote . I'm guessing this photo will keep him on the no-fly list for a few years.
Another drink, and we discover a plexiglas hatch on the floor. Beneath it, the huge pool that encircles much of the house.
"Let's jump in," says Ruth.
Unfortunately, I had by this point consumed enough rum to lose most of my ability to ignore dares.
"Yaaaaahhh! Yaaaah!!" I reasoned.
Safety first, though. A quick check of the temperature and guesstimate of the depth. Feh, no prob, I was in the subzero Midwest only a few days before.
Ruth and I perform a graceful, fully-clothed jackknife into the dark watery depths.
Holy sweet mother of Mothra, that shit was cold. Gelid cold. I was looking for icebergs, and think I heard a band play "Nearer my God to Thee." My testes ran screaming for the safety of my abdominal cavity, but only got half way.
Luckily the ginormous hot tub was only a 3 minute dogpaddle away. Its steaming bubbles coaxed my nuts back to stock ride height and my vocal pitch back down to audible range. Ruth and I return through the hatch and dripped chlorine on the floor to cheers.
Eat your heart out, Peter Sellers.
Time to head out. We say our farewells to George and Maria.
"Here, have a box of lemon bars," says Maria. "We over-ordered." Hmmm, I though. Hollywood party "lemon bars" topped with heapings of "powdered sugar."
"Thanks," I said, looking askance and winking. "I bet the 'powdered sugar' is 'delicious.' "
On the way back to Coop and Ruth's house, still dripping and guarding the lemon bars, I get a call from Tammi Jo. She's still in Palm Springs, still sick as a dog.
"How'd the big party go?"
"It was okay. You didn't miss much. No Chuck Sitzmann pig roast kegger anyway."
Back in Silverlake, before turning in, I decide to sample the "lemon bars" with "powdered sugar." Turns out they were actually lemon bars with powdered sugar.
Which leads me to my question: anybody have tips on removing lemon bar from a sinus cavity?
9:30 AM: Tammi Jo is hacking like a 4-pack-per-day Pall Mall addict, and presents an excuse slip for our next assignment: Operation Los Angeles. "You go ahead," she says. "Just leave me some money for more matzo ball soup." I comply with her possibly last dying wish, and point the rental Hyundai west. Two hours later I am at the swank home of Coop and Ruth overlooking Silverlake Reservoir in north L.A., which frequently serves as a backdrop for his (caution - Not Safe For Work) photographyprojects.
Noon: After dropping off my bindlestiff in the guest wing, Coop, Ruth and I hop in his ginchy '65 Falcon and head down Fletcher for lunch. Despite its outward modesty and prim schoolmarmish demeanor, the Falcon packs a 289 and jabs aggressively through lunchtime traffic as Coop hurls invective at other motorists. At the restaurant we are joined by Mister Jalopy who distributes handsome gift calendars from Valley Friction Materials, which, as he explains, is the one-stop shop for all your 1950 Studebaker brake resurfacing needs. Like the company whose name they bear, the calendars are solid and no-nonsense, bereft of unnecessary italicization and serifs. Over sammiches, Mister Jalopy also discusses Dinosaurs and Robots Dispatch, the new online magazine project he recently started with Boing Boing founder Mark Frauenfelder.
Apres lunch, Coop and I drop Ruth back at their house and head for Burbank. First stop is the famed Autobooks on Magnolia, where we browse the stacks for the latest in automotive literature. After buying a few volumes, we head over to visit our pal Bobby Green at his Old Crow Speed Shop. Out in front, a recent garage find '55 Buick Super belonging to Bobby's sister.
The man, his dog, and his cars. Those of you who have read me for a while know that Bobby is proprietor of five of the best watering holes on the West Coast (LA's Saints and Sinners and Little Cave, Lucky Tiki in the SFV and The Big Foot Lodges in LA and SF) who happens to be one of the top hot rod guys on the planet. In the foreground, a '32 5 window proudly bearing the scars from its previous career as a 1950's dirt track racer in Alberta, Canada. This one is getting plopped onto a new set of rails, sans bodywork. In the backgound, a '36 Ford Phaeton which is being converted into an exact replica of George DuVall's California Plating Delivery custom.
Another shot of the shop showing Bobby's red nailhead powered '32 roadster, which some of you pervs may recognize from its use as a prop in (caution: not 100% work safe) adultcinema; a performance for which I christened it "The Money Shot."
Hanging from the rafters in the above photo you'll note a reserve aluminum bellytank from a WW2 era P-38. Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while know that Bobby converted one of these into a vintage-style lakes streamliner dubbed the Old Crow, and piloted it to a World Record in V4/BGL at Bonneville last July. Coop, Coby, Tim Blair and I were there torecordallthefun.
Unfortunately, at the Bonneville World Finals in October, Bobby blewed up the Old Crow's motor real good. But lemons and lemonade as they say; Bobby was subsequently approached by clothing designer Tommy Hilfiger who wanted to use the Old Crow as the centerpiece in his Spring advertising campaign.
That experience led to a trip to Amsterdam, which you can read about here. Unfortunately the Old Crow wasn't in the shop that day, but there were a few other bellytanks to ogle. The #16 you see here, while not completely authenticated, is believed to be the very first bellytank lakester built by Bill Burke circa 1947. Priceless.
We also had a chance to rummage through Bobby's famous parts pile, which contains some of the most amazing bits of vintage speed equipment you'll ever see. Green envy.
My favorite had nothing to do with cars, tho - how about this free score? The Northrop Flying Wing sign, found in the desert.
After a few hours of beers, bench racing, and swapping stories, Coop and I get out of Bobby's hair and head back to the Silverlake casa in Burbank rush hour traffic. We almost run out of gas before wheezing into a 76 station. Good thing, because tonight is going to be a corker.
