E3 all done…
Saturday through Monday seems like one day...is it because outside of E3 the major incidents in life are much further apart? Is it because our brains are still operating at the much faster rate required for high-level business?
No. It is the sleepy and the beer.
We wake up sometime very late on the weekend and blunder down (across? up? over?) to Santa Monica and Venice Beach, about which an Angelino later said “pretty weird” and we replied “actually it was a welcome relief.”
Think St Kilda meets Chapel Street but with more drugs, dogs, skaters, kites and thongs (for those readers in Melbourne).
It was nice. Then we had burgers the size of your ass at Johnny Rockets
An example of a thong, with a standard-size ass, for burger/ass comparison. Later we went to Universal City – this weird hilltop, outdoor, multi-storied mall thing and accidentally ordered non-alcoholic beers (Michelob
Ultra sounded so
hard-hitting on the menu) while watching people fall off a mechanical bull
Then on Sunday night, while looking through the
Your Guide to the City of Angels glossy in the hotel I happen across an article explaining that what I stupidly thought was a dud neighborhood (North Hollywood) actually has a one block section that apparently hauls it up into the company of such world class locales as the Left Bank, Notting Hill and Wherever You Live.
It’s called NoHo (oooh, like SoHo, but not) which is described as an ‘arts precinct’.
We get our fedoras, jackets and whips and go for a walk.
I don’t want to insult anyone (too much more), so I’ll keep this brief.
For future reference, pay attention everyone - one block with a thin layer of tattoo parlors, a fortuneteller, a single theater with three rotating 1 act/1 person plays and a dog grooming saloon
DOES NOT AN ARTS PRECINCT MAKE!Especially when it’s still slap in the middle of the North Hollywood suburban desert. (Not all of North Hollywood of course, especially not
your house…
your house is really nice. I love it.)
North Hollywood, mmmm, better than sex...Anyway after our short lap of aesthetic delight we took a different route back to the hotel, come around a corner and…
There’s a huge park, and smack in the middle, under the towering trees, in the orange LA dusk, is a fairground.
With everything, carousels, two Ferris wheels, a tilt-a-whirl, a crazy portable mini roller coaster and thousands of people. Awesome!
And of course it’s only when we’re in the middle of it that we realize we are considerably taller, considerably paler and considerably less Latino than everyone else there.
We are the only two Anglos.
I want to make it clear that we didn’t leave because we were afraid or because we hate
Churros or from any racial prejudice on our part, it’s just that we thought maybe it was a really big birthday party or something, and we were crashing it.
Say goodbye to Hollywood, Say goodbye my baby.And finally, out of LA in a hire car to San Francisco for combined business/relaxation. Just me and Business Partner #1.
1) Signs you might need to review your impulse control.
You only feel safe on the drive between LA and SF at top speed (legal of course *cough*) on the freeway. That was relaxing.
The big city at each end going 20mph,
that was terrifying...
2) Signs you’re a schnook…
When you come off the freeway in your cherry-red rented Pontiac and see SF spread out ahead and the crap 80’s CD you bought for the drive just “happens” to start playing the Miami Vice* theme (thanks BP#1) you get so excited you almost cry.
*yes I know that show has nothing to do with SF, but you know, somehow it still worked, and
‘Are You Going to San Francisco’ is ass.
3) Signs the world hates you…
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Okay. Stop just skimming, read this properly. This next bit is one of the top 5 most
aaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee things that’s ever happened to me…
And I grew up in a mining town called
Mount Isa, went to school in a beach-city so...so
parochial and literal that it's called Surfer's Paradise
and I work in the friggin’ game and animation industry, so pay attention.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
San Fran is beautiful, we’re pumped.
But we’ve arrived one night early and we can’t load another night on the front of our hotel stay and we can’t be bothered cruising blindly trying to find a nice AND affordable hotel at 9 at night…when we remember a backpacker/hostel joint mentioned by a friend back home. He said the rooms were nice, some were just doubles and it was in a good area and quite nice, for a hostel.
Hey it’s an adventure, like when I was young. Except I never went anywhere when I was young because I didn’t want to travel backpacker style and couldn’t afford adult style…
But we arrive...looks okay from the outside, it’s near a pub it’s all good…
They don’t have doubles.
Okay, fuck it, it’s just one night…maybe we’ll get to bunk with some cool kids. Maybe they’ll be Scandinavian and incredibly clean.
We knock.
Nada.
We unlock the door.
We stare.
Those who know me know how finicky I can be, but even BP#1 (considerably younger and more travelled) said this was
not a good room. Like Hitler was not a good boy.
All four bunks had stuff on them. The sink had a breakfast bowl in which the uneaten food had turned grey and become hardened; no longer returning calls from its family or even able to relate to normal members of breakfast cereal society.
Balanced upside down on top of the bowl was a kickboxing helmet. In the sink.
Scattered around the room were various arm and leg pads and multi-colored martial-arts jackets and pants.
From this, plus the immense mound of brightly colored, XXXXL t-shirts we could estimate this guy’s size and demeanor pretty easily – he was a 7 foot tall, 300 pound kick boxer (with hygiene issues).
I shit you not.
But then we were thrown by other evidence.
1 - Boxes and boxes of Christmas wrapping paper, so he was obviously a giver. Or a Venture Capitalist with some really bad choices under his belt.
2 - The disposable razors...in the bath
So he was obviously a ball-shaver.
And only very sensitive lovers are ball-shavers. I know.
3 - The swivel chair with a towel over it, two feet in front of the TV which was crowned by an immense stack of adult DVD’s, the top-most being
“Girls Who Ride Jumbo Joints – Or Die Trying”, so he was obviously a practitioner of self-abuse. And you can’t love others unless you love yourself.
And everywhere wet towels and crumpled tissues and stains and discarded pennies and moldy food and…
So, 4 hours, 37 beers and some crying later we return to the room.
We knock. The door opens…