This blog goes out to our manager Kevin Kassover, who went to high school with Tessa and is the only buddha who can guide us through this elaborate maze of Hollywood without our heads spinning off our bodies. The only way to do LA after the age of 27 is to be invited, and the only way to survive once you’re here is to have someone watching your back. It was Kevin’s birthday tonight, so we went to the Jar restaurant and I had a pot roast with horseradish sauce, quite possibly the best meal this trip.
What? You don’t believe me about the 27-year-old part? Well, just try it. I came here in 1997 at the age of 29, and was bitch-slapped repeatedly because my boobs weren’t big enough. New York will accept you at any age, but Los Angeles eats its children.
One good thing about LA, however, is that hybrid cars are so common, you don’t have to show the valet how to drive it. When I left the Prius in midtown Manhattan, I had to give the attendant a 5-minute seminar on “going forward,” “reverse” and “park.” I mean, it’s easier than driving a golf cart, but people are used to a cockpit full of controls.
After a Jack & Coke, I was convinced we were sexier than balls, so I made Tessa drive us up to the Sunset Strip to ogle the Roxy, the Viper Room, the Hustler Book Store and the Whiskey a Go-Go. Believe it or not, I used to wander Sunset by myself in my smelly, shitty Ford Mustang back in the Bleak Years, and it always made me feel better. But big pimpin’ in the hybrid? What could be better? I ran out of the car and took a picture of me and the wife, and almost fell backwards into oncoming traffic.
What a way to go. The things I do for you, loyal readers…