More from the western front . . .
Well, now . . .
Following our excursion to Santa Monica beach on Saturday and our rubbing elbows with those more tanned and pulled and pushed and surgically augmented, we opted to take in another of the delicacies of Los Angeles; a nighttime Dodgers' game.
As I mentioned in a previous missive, the stadium at Chavez ravine is unequaled when it comes to post- modern ball parks. It sits atop one of the unexpected hills within the Los Angeles basin and affords incredible views in all directions. Looking to the east and through the outfield of the stadium, one can take in the impressive stadium parking lot and the Los Angeles Police Academy just beyond. To the west of the stadium, you will happen upon a classic view of the downtown L.A. skyline that sports such notables as the cylindrical Bonaventure Hotel and other wonders of vertical architecture.
The Dodgers were in their second of three games against the Colorado Rockies and just 1 ½ games out of the wildcard berth with just two weeks to go. The Rockies had soundly stomped my Dodgers the previous night, with something laughable like a 14 to 1 score. Although I steeled myself against the potential of heartbreak with a $7 plastic bottle of beer and a $5 bag of peanuts, the Dodgers once again renewed my faith by crippling the Rockies with a final score of five to nothing. (In case you wondered if I'd forgotten my young son and the wife, let it be known that the boy worked himself into a froth by engulfing a large Mountain Dew that set us back $4 and an ice cream sandwich that I've yet to find the courage to ask the price of . . .) We spent a good part of the game checking out the reserved seating with binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of Britney and Justin . . . or was it J.Lo and Ben . . . or maybe Sean and Madonna . . . Anyway, it was all for naught in scoping out celebs, as we were not able to recognize anybody whatsoever. On a positive note, Stef was able to grab a foul ball and inject himself into the annals of the lucky Dodger fan. Try not to look too critically at the photo that I've attached; the look of mock surprise on Stef's face is difficult to reconstruct with run-of-the-mill fakery and I'm relatively confident that we digitally erased the string holding up the baseball. No "Plan Nine From Outer Space" stuff here . . .
A late night return to our meager room in Inglewood revealed that we'd once again survived the possibility of burglary and the potential for running amok amongst the crack dealers and prostitutes that beckoned to us from the sidewalk . . .Well, that was until we were to awaken and venture out again to the City of Angels.
Our final day in L.A. was to encompass all things Beverly Hills and Hollywood. We began with a trip into Culver City and a hockey shop that was situated within a run-down ice rink. The place was filthy with figure skaters, what with it being some sort of competitive ice dancing show or something. We could hardly make it through all the tutus and skating moms . . .
The next stop of the day was at the "Tail O' The Pup" hotdog stand in Beverly Hills. The joint is a cliche' of Los Angeles; classic Googie architecture involving the bungalow-sized fiberglass likeness of a bun-encased hotdog. The fastfood stand is featured in innumerous movies: L.A. Story, Body Double, Valley Girl, the list goes on and on. I'd actually dined from the window of the stand about twenty years before when I was a Marine and on leave from nearby Camp Pendelton. We were happy to find that the menu was largely unchanged and that the chili dogs (aka "The Mexican Ole") were everything that had made the name for the "Tail O' The Pup."
After enjoying our meal of premium meat byproduct, we ventured across the huge four-lane intersection of St. Vincent and Beverly boulevards to the mall at the Beverly Center. (One can always tell that they've reached the pinnacle of European sophistication when able to call a seemingly mundane mall by the more jaunty title of "Center.") Regardless, the place was certainly influenced with a heavy European flair and the majority of patrons had that look of being waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay beyond my paygrade. Needless to say, we bought nothing. Whatsoever. I just wasn't willing to jump into a third mortgage . . .
We swung over a smallish mountain range to the north and took in a used clothing store (aka "vintage" or "previously owned" clothing) by the name of "It's A Wrap." The selling point to the business is that all of the clothing was previous wardrobe that was used in television and movies. I'd shopped the store on a previous trip and came away with a sport jacket that was designed for and worn by Ahmad Rashad (U of O's own Bobby Green) in his television spam series "Real TV." This time, I found nothing that suited me, but Stef came away with a cool little sportcoat from the movie "Daddy Day Care." Oh, the things that amuse us . . .
Our final task for Sunday was in walking Hollywood Boulevard and taking in the freakshow that has come to embody the mecca of moviemaking. The place is adorned with transients, punk rockers, obvious Eugene-style anarchists, teenage runaways, transvestites, gangmembers, certain loonies, tourists, and of course . . . prostitutes. A fun place to hang out, as long as you aren't forced to live there. We dined at a venerable Los Angeles restaurant known as Micelli's, which touts itself as the oldest surviving Italian restaurant in southern California. The place was opened in 1949 and has hosted countless Hollywood notables within a decor that conjures up the old time images of Raymond Chandler.
Following our dinner of salad and pizza, we took a circuitous route through the flats of Beverly Hills and Brentwood and eventually made a reluctant return to our motel in the ‘hood. It was simply astonishing to discover that one could drive from one of the world's most affluent of neighborhoods to one of the worst that L.A. had to offer, all in just fifteen minutes . . .
If I only had three wishes and some freakin' ruby slippers . . .