Dad got me home last night from LAX. Dropped me off here this morning, well actually by the service entrance where they’re packing up boxes, big crates for the auto show emblazoned Toyota, Mercedes Benz, the rest, GM, Ford, et al bailed not bailed out going out of business. And here we are, lots of people looking (or trying to look) like writers, and players, “He wanted to sell the rights for $10 million!” loudly said by passerby as I walked into the airy foyer. No lie.
My mom sent me off with bananas and nuts, the irony of which I didn’t note until squatting over beer shits in crappy bathroom stall. I haven’t told her I’m on the meds, psychiatrist told me to; so how could she know. I would have took no offense either way.
Home. LA. A few years on Bainbridge, nearly two decades in the Bay Area and I hardly recognize the place. Last time I was down here, down by the convention center, none of this existed, no Staples (Fabulous Forum you’re not), no…, well, I don’t even know what else is down here but it looks like a lot of gentrify (simper fi, gentrify?)
Oddly enough, I came to an auto show here once with Dad and Uncle Bob, had dinner at the Hofbrauhaus (gone, of course) old beer hall, alpine scenes, murals with cows and blonde pigtails (on Heidi not cows), polka music and a woman who’d walk around with a Polaroid taking pictures and selling them framed in cheap cardboard.
The Pantry’s still there and I might go check it out just so I can write about how it’s not like it was in the old days when I’d put the phones on hold and leave the office for lunch with Dad and the crew: lawyers, accountants, a secretary or two. There or Philippe’s or Taix or Canter’s or, or, or Denny's or sumpin'.
Now it’s bananas, nuts and I’m going to roam the hall.