He stole my phone when I was kissing him! The guy in the pink tank top? Bitch, I knew he was going to do that. Why didn’t you say anything? Would you have listened? You were too busy eating his mustache.
True Sunday story, right here. One can’t say they weren’t warned. Signs over the bar warned of cell phone pickpockets like it was Dickensian London, but with glitter. In WeHo, the young pretty things boldly exploit middle-aged longing, the middle-aged dangle free drinks to pretty young things doubled up in rooms in Van Nuys, and there’s a great drag show to distract us from all the Darwinian undertow.
At the other end of CicLAvia, there’s this post-Dickensian tableau. Only one tourist bothers to look. Others step around her like she was topiary and figure out where the restaurant is. No literary genius will immortalize the addict in the sleeping bag. She’s part of the shrubbery now.
The city will not allow you to use a plastic straw but will defend the right to camp on the sidewalk like it was God’s commandment. Don’t Normalize Trump, we shriek, but oh how we’ve normalized this.
After a lovely CicLAvian day from Vermont to San Vicente and back, I biked back to the Valley, three cocktails deep and sweaty. Small civic detail: there is no bike lane in the Cahuenga Pass. None. So right at the point where Cahuenga becomes a freeway alternative and cars accelerate accordingly, one is shunted into the gutter. A dozen rotations of the pedals later, I hear this fsssssss…. and being in a happy frame of mind decided, oh, this must be some feral creature, some urban fauna lurking in the shrubbery, warning me away from his domain. I’m communing with nature. How loverly! It wouldn’t be a flat tire. Not in under a minute. Not me. I did the right thing. I didn’t park in the city. I’m one of the good ones!
Guess who pushed his bike back over the Pass, cars nipping at his elbow the whole way? You’d think there’d be a bike path by now. Didn’t we pass a sales tax? Twice?
You can pretend for an afternoon, but the First Law of the City remains unchallenged: the car is king. To believe otherwise is one of the 23 Lies we tell ourselves about LA.
“I’m having difficulty staying a fan this year,” said Steeler Guy at Thanksgiving Dinner. “I can’t get past the CTE. It’s a gladiator sport. These guys are going to be putting guns in their mouths in 20 years time.”
He admitted it didn’t stop him from walking up to Hollywood Blvd at 10 am last week to catch the early game at a bar. He too, had tremendous difficulty finding a bar willing to put the volume on, even when there were less than a dozen customers in the room. He ended up at Hooters, of all places, where the Pittsburgh fans had taken over.
We agreed we were fortunate not to have sons to agonize over come time for the AYSO/Pop Warner family discussion. Our imaginary parenting could be flawless while we watched someone else’s son go helmet to chest plate at top speed.
The mockups for the new Rams stadium in Inglewood depict three tiers of luxury boxes and every seat filled to capacity in 2020. We’re not moving in that direction. At $2.6 billion, it will be the most expensive sports stadium ever constructed. Personal Seat Licenses will range from $175,000-$225,000 for club seats. That’s what you pay Stan Kroenke, billionaire, to obtain the rights to pay him another $350-400 per ticket to see the game live.
Here was the tailgate scene before the Texans game. Based on this tableau, I would say the median Rams fan is 45 years old, drinks beer, and works in the construction trade. Hard to see six figure PSL’s coming out of anyone’s wallet here. Somewhere in Los Angeles, the thinking goes, lurk 70,000 rich people who aren’t going to the games now when the Rams are both a prodigal returned and winning, but will nevertheless appear deus ex machina in three years time, checkbooks open. Rich people in LA will not allow their kids to play football. What makes anyone think they’ll pay a fortune to subsidize a game of which they disapprove?
The people who will keep the game alive in LA are the three guys from Arizona we ran into at Dick’s Sporting Goods who drove all night from Phoenix just to see them once. And oddballs in the Valley who are determined to have a slice of sports fan ecstasy and civic harmony after 20 years of no team.
To quote RB Todd Gurley: “Please come to our games”.
Walking down Hollywood Blvd, I found it odd L. Ron Hubbard’s prolific output as a fantasy writer was prominently displayed in the window of a Church of Scientology building. One would think the keepers of an invented religion would not be so eager to advertise the showbiz origins of its “creator”. There’s a bit of Toto pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz going on here, mere blocks from the Scientology Welcome Center, where they hook the suckers with the Free Personality Test. Somehow it’s not hurting them. There’s a lot of bright lights and noise and misdirection on Hollywood Blvd. Four blocks can be a long way.