Day 2 begins, as so many days do, with the loud fucking sound of a huge-ass truck driving underneath my window. This very-unexpected sound pops my eyes wide open at 10 am (early for a vacation damnit) wondering if I am still in Brooklyn... all I need now is the never-ending sound of an ice-cream truck and I'll be right back where I started. Peering out the window... and.... ah yes, stupid bus. Well, looks like I am up... its beach time.
So, those of you who know me well know that I am about as white as white can get. I am referring to skin tone, not personality, so fuck you if you were thinking of how I dance. I maintain that my dance moves are a few years ahead of their time, and will inevitably lead me to stardom. Erase all negative smirks.
Anyway.... I'm pale. Pale enough to be fairly painful to stare directly at in sunlight. Pale enough to have actually caused people to look at me and say "goddamn you're pale." You get the point. What most of you don't know is that in my childhood I had no problem getting a tan. I didn't even have to try... I'd hang outside a little bit and look like I had been sunbathing for weeks. Puberty, fuckin puberty, ruined this for me. I went from being a tan, straight-haired, athletic little kid... to a tall and lanky, curly-haired, pale-white glasses-wearing awkward.... well, lets face it.... nerd.
Other guys got broad shoulders and muscle mass. Whatever. Water under the bridge. Ugh...
My point is this... I cannot tan anymore. Not without extreme effort. But what I can do is manage to burn the hell out of myself, which I thought I was immune to, but found out painfully that I am still quite susceptible to. This means, that prior to going outside, the sunscreen I bought the day before must be applied to everything that can possibly be hit by the sun.
I hate this process. Rubbing slimy cold cream all over is not nearly as enticing as sunscreen ads would have you believe... nor is rubbing it onto someone else's back, no matter how busty and long-legged they may be. All you end up doing is relishing the fact that you are rubbing some hot blonde down, then get all damn frustrated when you have no good place to wipe your hands afterwards, and have slippery slimy palms for the rest of the damn day, which isn't attractive to the busty long-legged woman in the first place. She likes her men with dry palms and good tans. And you try to explain you did this to benefit her, but all she can do is see you "like a brother" now, because a real man's palms are never slimy. Great. Thanks a lot Banana Boat.
Whatever, screw that. I'm in the bathroom of my lovely hotel room, rubbing palmful after palmful of glop on me as best I can considering that putting this crap on your back is more challenging that qualifying for a position in the 2008 Olympics. They honestly should make this a sport. Or at least film it and show it to people... I've never tried to contort my body so hard in my life... to no avail. As a result, I have random of patches of red on my back. I look like a damn checkerboard. Then I prop my leg up on the side of the tub to get my legs... take a moment.... see if you can guess where this is going... have a guess.... now wait for the payoff. I prop my legs up, get them lathered up, grab a towel off the rack, flip-flop my feet, and I am off. Beachbound.
I cross the street, get to the sand, unflip-flop myself and walk straight towards the water.
Which is a lot colder than I expected... but what can ya do? A little cold water never hurt anyone. I walk for about 40 minutes up the beach, find a little spot I like, lay down, and promptly fall asleep. Wake up later... flip over.... promptly fall asleep again.... wake up thirsty, and decide to start walking back along the beach. At some point I drop my stuff and run into the water, swim for a bit... then I figure it is time to get headed back to the hotel. I have plans for this day.
I get inside, shower all the uncomfortable sand off the odd areas it finds its way towards (which is really uncanny), and notice that there are some strange heat signatures coming off my body. Sunburn. Knew it had to happen... time to see where it got me. I stand in front of the mirror and see nothing has burned on the front. This is a positive beginning... I managed to even get a little sun from the looks of things, then I turn around. Checkerboarding back... fuck all, probably could have guessed that one. Scroll down and oh holy hell... remember when I had propped my legs up on the tub to get them? As a beach veteran I should have remembered that that usually means that you forget to put the shit on the backs of your kneecaps (which are folded closed because your knees are bent up on the tub edge). Groan. Amateur mistake, and the backs of my knees are turning the color of an irishman's face after a bottle of Jameson's. This is going to be bad... I can already tell. I have about an hour before the skin starts swelling and tightening and then I'll be waddling around L.A. grimacing with every step. I order my ticket for the show I am seeing that night, and make my way out the door to go get some sushi, which I have been craving.
I enter the third street promenade, bypass the first sushi place I come to for personal reasons, and decide to walk the entire strip first so I can see everything there. The first time I was here I only got to see one block of the place because there was a need to rush out of town, but this time (much like the drive the day before) there is no need to hurry and I get to take everything in. Its cute. Lots of fancy little shops and restaurants, plus about 8 million odd little street performers... and as I walk, I actually hear a guy playing the Eagles on his guitar and singing "Best of My Love" pretty damn well, so I drop a few bucks in his case and continue on in a stellar mood. The beach, the ocean, the Eagles, and a sunburn that won't make its presence really known for another 45 minutes or so. Life is superb.
I finally come across the restaurant called Monsoon that has happy hour food and drink specials, plus sushi... so I am sold from the get go. When all is said and done, and I have eaten some of the best raw fish and calamari I have ever had (not sure if it was really the best or just that I was in such a great mood that it tasted better for it), I pay my unexpectedly cheap tab, and go to stand up...
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck....
And I sit back down. Yep, sunburn's finally set it, and I am having a hell of a time straightening out my legs. Looks like I'll be walking slightly hunched and bowlegged for the rest of the night because I am NOT going through that feeling again if I can help it (which I couldn't... that was the first of about 10 times that night I nearly amputated my own legs with a butter knife). I wander out of the restaurant looking like the latest victim of prison rape, which I would imagine may have discouraged a few of the people waiting outside. A shame, the food really was quite good.
Hobbling back to my hotel, I struggle into some nice going out clothes because I will be damned if some charred skin is keeping Billy Robison from seeing some live rock music at one L.A.'s best known clubs. Billy is going out, drinking whiskey and beer, and hearing some fucking awesome music surrounded by young and hip L.A. party people. Right? That's what Billy is doing tonight. Isn't he? Isn't that what he just bought a ticket to when he was surfing the web? Goddamnit....
Not knowing what I am headed towards, I jump (a.k.a. fall painfully into, suppressing a sob) the car and race into Hollywood. I am going to the Viper Room, which is most famously known for being the club where River Phoenix died. The fact that this is the first thing anyone says about this place when you mention it could be considered Bad Omen #1... quickly followed by Bad Omen #2 "Johnny Depp used to own it. But he sold it a few years ago."
So the Viper Room's claims to fame are a dead actor and another actor who didn't like it enough to hold onto it. In its defense, it has had some amazing people play there, and my hope would be that tonight was going to be a follow up to that.
My first impression is how it looks kinda small but pretty cool from the outside... all black exterior, no windows, and bouncers who look like they could easily beat me into a sticky mess (which ain't sayin much as I am walking like a penguin, pivoting my legs so I never have to bend my knees as I walk). As I wait outside and make a few "catch up" phone calls, I begin to notice that the "young and hip" crown around me isn't so "young" at all. In fact, I am surrounded by what appears to be an entire line of 40-somethings waiting to be let in by a woman at the rope who looks to be about 50, and I'm pretty sure dines on nothing but rat heads and used drug needles. What the hell am I walking into?
I bypass the terrifying woman who could give you Syphilis with just a look, and find myself inside getting a beer as quickly as I can get there (which again... isn't too fast.... there were fucking stairs.... quite a few.... and I am suppressing sobs again). Stella in hand, I secure my place at the bar (as one must when not out with friends) and wait for the show to begin. As I wait I begin to notice that people keep coming up and talking to the guy beside me at the bar, and they seem to be treating him as a pretty important person. I look at him, think he might be vaguely familiar, and he looks over and says "Hi."
"Hey man. How's it goin'?"
"Good. Just waiting for this thing to start up."
"Any idea who is playing tonight?" I ask him.
He smiles, gives me an odd look and says "You don't know who's playing?"
"Naw... just got the ticket and decided to come take my chances. I wanted to check this place out."
"Well, there are a few bands playing. Its for the launch of a 80's cd compilation. You should stick around, you'll probably recognize some of them."
And with that, and a handshake where I gave my name and he introduces himself as Tommy, he departs and I go back to my Stella. It isn't until the opening chords of the eternal hit "867-5309/Jenny" begin and he walks onto the stage to loud cheers from the aging crowd of 80's fans, that I realized Tommy was Tommy Tutone, one of the headliners of the evening. By the end of the night Tommy Tutone (who is still pretty damn good with that song), Men At Work (who are fucking great actually, and played "Down Under"), The Motels ("Only the Lonely"), Jane Wieldin of the GoGos (no idea) and the dude who sings "Always Something There to Remind Me" have played a who bunch of tunes to get this group of old farts dancing around like they were 26 again... jamming out. This... this on the night that I could not have danced if the famous Kidman herself were to come up and try to pull me onto the floor.
Despite that it was not exactly what I had thought it was going to be, it's still kinda cool to hear a few of these old tunes from the original people who did them. And the guitarist from Weezer plays with the Motels woman, which I am pretty sure that I am the only one around who cares, but what can ya do?
The night ends at this edgy famous club by 11 pm... because I guess it was past everyone's bedtime, and now I still have a lot of time to kill before going back to the hotel. So on the one night that I should never have gone for a walk, I decide to walk along Sunset Strip for a few hours and see all the famous places I have heard about. Skybar, Whiskey a Go-Go, The Roxy, The Rainbow, Mel's Diner, etc etc etc.... I see them all. And then I come across the Hustler superstore, which, get this.... has a fucking coffee bar and cafe' in it.
"Honey, I was thinking this coming Sunday we could go get some brunch before the church picnic."
"Why don't we just eat there?"
"I'm tired of the same potluck foods... kinda wanted to do something different this Sunday."
"We could go to Hustler."
"Yeah... that sounds good. We can get some muffins and... I dunno.... dildos."
"And coffee."
"Yeah, and coffee."
Fuckin weird.
After grabbing a cup of coffee... sans dildo, I'm sad to say... I hop (fall painfully into) in my car and start driving back to the beach. And yes, on the way I stop and grab some Cup O'Noodles... because a 99 cent meal sounded nice to the guy who just paid 25 bucks to see the "867-5309/Jenny" guy.
A few noodles and a little tv later, I'm asleep... knees slightly bent.
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