The Oscars.
Been going down to Los Angeles for years, for the hotels, for the bars, for the stars and usually a Los Angeles I’ve never seen before. But this year, nah, just didn’t feel the desire to admire, but this year the Pacific Palisades fires — someone I know lost their home and I lost a village and a neighborhood I’d come to know quite well. My friend the curator at Will Rogers State Park, Rogers’ historic Pacific Palisades home, was burned to the ground, a loss, personal, profound, where I first found the “real” Los Angeles beyond the beach. And Trump spooked me into spending my money, spending my time. Go — because who knows? A chance to leave some flowers near the Pacific Palisades.
So I find myself on the still somewhat fine ride on 99 South, the old soul worn but not out, what was and the newer, vines and muffler stops, still enough Route 66-ish left to keep you attentive, unlike I-5 South which keeps you indifferent.
From 99 to 5 to over the green/brown Tehachapi mountains, on past Magic Mountain Playland with its seasonal closure, the empty skeletons of the roller coasters looking like a Blade Runner future and on to Santa Monica Boulevard, around 6 p.m. still blue sky and snow mountain clouds setting their sun over Rodeo Drive, a fair-sized pro-Ukrainian demonstration on the park grass of the Beverly Hills City Park beside Beverly Boulevard. Fine shops and your usual stuff, the Beverly Laural Motor Hotel.
Normal extra.
Not your normal stuff, the Ivy Restaurant on Robertson off Beverly Boulevard, the Ivy tucked in behind its greenery, film scenery here, black limos, no notables in sight.
For tonight, my home sweet for not too, too a price, classic blue and white sign, almost chic, tall and obvious. Been staying here for years, in the Fairfax/Jewish district, the motor hotel once clean and neat, a real motor court from the time of Route 66 but now a bit more stylish. Still next door to Streaker’s Café, a be-bop gem, a gem of a day ending, storms a’brewin’, wind, which means the Pacific Palisades fires.
I’ve come to leave flowers as close to the burn of someone I know, and the strangers who lost and most importantly, sadly, Will Rogers State Park, where that friend was the curator, where I first discovered “real” Los Angeles, the Rogers home burned to the ground along with the well-used Reel Inn Restaurant and the little wooden cabins of the Topanga Ranch Motel both right up against the PCH. I’ll get as close as I can with flowers.
Dinner in Canter’s Jewish Delicatessen Restaurant - been around on Fairfax for at least 75 years, 1950s like. Again, worn but not out, servers from a movie of a Brooklyn server gone gray. Pastrami on rye, chicken soup. I’m from Long Island, so I’m somewhat Jewish, so it’s all homespun.
The motor hotel is quiet, worth the price. Now, speaking of price, tomorrow evening I’m staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Again, that Trump elbow to the ribs, go, stay, spend, do it. I’ve seen many a star and spoken to a few in the Beverly Hills Hotel, so no one stay can happen. Don’t ask the price.
Breakfast at Streakers Café next door, funky fine. Today’s assigned, flowers, check, to one end of Sunset Boulevard to see how close I can get, wind blowin’ like Santa Ana’s revenge, west on Sunset to the ocean end, National Guard cutoff well before the burn area. Can’t see any of the burn.
That’s OK. I show the National Guardsmen the flowers and voice my intention. He smiles and waves me away. Then Santa Monica Boulevard all the way to the ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway. Wind blowin’, can feel the sadness in the wind, the ocean a comfort and there’s the National Guard all in gear turning away those without a pass. I show the flowers. He waves me away, feels like 1960s.
Will Rogers State Beach will do, the ocean waves a nasty gray, volleyballers, bikers, runners and strollers braving the sand in the wind. Two ladies in the parking lot luck out, one flower to the wind, the rest to two pleasantly surprised and pleased children with the sudden flowers and explanation.
Good. Do good.
Grand view of the ocean, parked in Santa Monica Beach parking, some time to breeze before check-in at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Like Trump hasn’t happened, skaters, bikers, runners, flag football, slight sandstorm, the Santa Monica Pier very much in carnival business. Enjoy, relax, spend my dough because now who knows?
“Who knows you, baby?” They kind of do at the Beverly Hills Hotel, after a nice drive on Sunset Boulevard on past Athens, UCLA and megaish rich Beverly Hills.
The pink palace hotel up on its short hill, across the Boulevard from Will Rogers City Park all luscious green. He was once the honorary mayor of Beverly Hills. See how sad the loss of his home is.
Attack of the valets, my little white KIA a speck among the bad-ass black line of limousines. My car, my bags, myself immediately attended, up their red carpet to the front desk of the lush facility. You can feel the unique atmosphere, the unique privilege. I’m somewhat used to it, but now its officially a visit, a stay, my first, my front desk dapper fella with a French accent. He’s… He is, more than glad to see me, actually taking me to my room, guiding directions to other lushness, my bags on the way, tips, tips and more tips. Let ‘em rip.
It’s a dream come true or better yet the truth become a dream, the hallway quiet as a church to the casual, floral and pinkish. My room not up to what I’d imagined I’d paid for it ($1,700), but way above and beyond anywhere I’ve stayed before, swanky-normal, all one requires and then some and just a tip away from anymore service I may require, pure white BHH crescent bathrobe hanging in the closet. I need a coffee.
How’s the Cabana Café, next to the pool, down the carpeted staircase to the shimmering blue pool, kids at play, white attire with shorts on the servers, Ralph Lauren casual, bagels and lox, coffee Americano. “Charge it to my room,” like a Bogart would.
Time to clean up and change my clothes, brand new casual purchased just for the occasion, always an eye out for a star, across the lush lobby to the back bar and green balcony, big screen for the Oscar show, wealth and overdressed all around with jeans and flannel shirts as casual as you come; what the hell, you just might be a somebody. I’ve been asked. I’ve never answered, “Yes.” Jack Daniels on the roks: “Charge it to my room.”
Let the show begin.
Conan O’Brien real good, the rest just filler awaiting the results for “A Complete Unknown.” No awards for the fine film. That ends my show, in no rush to leave the soft seat and the swell crowd, the heavy wind blowing in off the patio, open doors, palm trees bending, swappping stories with a fella in jeans and flannel, noticing that the rich are different.
Dinner is different, Steak Tartar and a martini, the meal prepared right at the table by the white jacket waiter. Polo Lounge, where Cary Grant et al… the dinner a myth. Now to sit and await. The lobby, soft lounge chair, carpeted like that’s the natural, blooming bouquets, security and here comes Oprah. I give her a Quincy Jones shout out, not too loud. Her tribute to Quincy Jones at the Oscar show. She raises a “right-on” fist. Next is Andrew Garfield, down-dressed in brown, just dashing by. Adam Sandler, hangin’ around, sort of sharing with me, a fella I’d been talking to and a mother and daughter from Maine. Funny fame. Famous as Oppenheimer, Gilian Murphy just dashing by. Jamie Fox strolin’ in with two regal looking posse guards. The actor who played Joan Baez in the Dylan film, Phew! All made human, made real. Fun.
About done in, done good. The room, the bed, the Alice in that land.
Just a morning coffee by the pool. Overslept so time is driftin’; the shimmering pool inviting but enough is enough, already.
99 North again, over the still wild west Tehachapis and down to the dusty central valley. A re-run of an old movie with a new scene, scenes: a stop in Porterville, why? A friend from there, sad, worn out, crippled Main Street.
Delano, looking for the Cesar Chavez home. Not right away, up, down and around the dusty Mexican/American streets so at least my respect. North, nothin’ left.
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