Melrose Place

Our new digs in W. Hollywood place us smack dab in the middle of the action, between Santa Monica Blvd., and Melrose Ave. For whatever reason, most of our early doings we needed to be on Santa Monica. Only recently did we take our first REAL foray onto Melrose. From what I can gather, it seems like a cross between the uptown, high end couture, Madison Ave. shops and the downtown St. Marks place funky boutiques of New York. Throw in a healthy dose of good ol' California spirituality, and you then have Melrose. Plus, Andrew Shue, former hunky star of Melrose Place, is an alum of my high school, so I felt an immediate kinship to the region.

My wife Bubba is heavy on the spirituality tip. As such, she'd heard about this book store from my boy Z, The Bodhi Tree, so we figured we'd check it out while she stocked up on incense and such. You know, gotta keep the chakras clean for the new year and all. I parked the car two blocks too early, getting temporarily disoriented as to which way was east or west of La Cienega. So, we're walking up the street, and we see a crystal shop. Bubba likes the crystals, so we go on inside. Indeed, they had a beautiful array of all kinds of sized crystals, geodes and whatnot. I felt like I was back in middle school science class, where for every show and tell, inevitably some kid would bring in some amethyst geode he found in his father's den. Anyway, while Bubba was checking out the jewlery, I sneak off to the side. Figure I'll at least inquire about something. You know, maybe get a few brownie points with a post-Christmas, pre-Valentine's Day surprise. I ask the woman working there, "how much for this piece right here?" She says, with a straight face, "$88,000." Guess Bubba and I are going to have to have clouded souls for just a little while longer.

Mercifully, we got the hell out of there real quick like, and got back onto the path to enlightenment, towards the Bodhi Tree. One door away, a t-shirt with an uplifting slogan (so uplifting that I've forgotten it already) catches Bubba's eye. We venture into this funky looking clothing store. Bubba comes across this lovely, flowing number. Again, it's just after Christmas, but for shits and giggles she asks, "how much for the dress?" "Oh that? $1,400." Sweet Jesus. Does it come with an Oscar? Now blinded by sticker shock, Bubba leads me by the hand to the Bodhi Tree once and for all. I will concede it was pretty neat. But I can't get over how many books there were on say, incense. How much is there to say? "It smells nice." "It'll make your home seem like a parlor." "It may bring you a little temporary inner peace." "If you're a male college student, it might help get you laid because the hippie chick you met in the quad might think you're spiritual and deep." Done and done. I did get a kick out of this one magazine though. I can't rememeber what it was called, but it may as well have been titled, "The Unabomber's Guide to Fine Hillbilly Living." In my 5 minutes of browsing alone, I learned how to heat my home for the winter using free, used deep fryer grease, as well as make a "Philly Cheesesteak" that doesn't have any meat in it. Alls I apparently need are some empty oil drums, a pump, and some soy.

Bubba was looking for something in particular, and the one salesperson we dealt with could not have been more rude and short. Even I of all people, could palpably feel the stink of her negative energy. Or as we locals say, she was puttin' out bad 'vibes.' She was better suited for the Port Authority ticket lines, not a spiritual haven. Honey needs to start dipping into the stash, as it were, to help change her attitude or something.

So God seems alive and well out here. At least on Melrose. He's just got a very Los Angeles attitude, and can come with a high pricetag.

And so it begins...

As part of my Christmas booty, my wife Bubba got me my first ever, non-$5 pair of bitchin' sunglasses, er, "shades"as they say in the hipper circles. Is this how it starts? Is this the first step in my "Hollywood-ing?" After YEARS without a cell-phone back home, I'm already acting like a local, that 4-inch silver sliver glued to my ear more and more each day. What's next? Botox? Head shots? Keep your eyes on my soul, people. Make sure I don't lose it.

Speaking of botox, Bubba and I hit the Beverly Center mall recently for the first time. Much to my surprise (chagrine?), what did we pass by, but an IN-MALL botox shop. That's right, free poison into your face, while you sip your Starbucks and take the tags off your latest name brand clothing. Plus they validate parking, so you can't beat that with a bat.

I saw something else I never thought I'd see the other day. Coming back home from doing this or that, Bubba and I decided to hit the ol' IHOP. You know, for a little taste of home. I pull in to the parking lot, and what do I see: Valet Parking. Are you f'ing kidding me??? At IHOP?!?!?! I know parking is at a premium around here, but come on. IHOP?!?!? I couldn't justify handing over my keys in the name of a short stack of pancakes and some swine on the side, so I scavanged the mean streets for my own spot. I'd rather go park at home and walk, than use valet parking at IHOP.

Lastly, we took our first trip out to the water recently. We live about 30-45 minutes from Santa Monica, depending on the traffic. The drive itself is fairly uneventful, save for the 5 minute stretch where we pass Beverly Hills. It's remarkable how formally quartered off the haves and the have-nots are in that part of town. I haven't picked up my local maps of the stars houses yet to warrant the trip into the long money, but just passing by, you can see, "from this point to this point, THIS is where the money lives." Anyway, we get to the literal end of the line, the Pacific Ocean. Santa Monica Blvd, aka the famous Route 66, starts right there (well, technically it's like 1 or 2 blocks in from the ocean thanks to the idiots in the city planning dept.). We park the car just off the boardwalk carnival, and make our way to the beach. We wanted to ceremoniously dip our toes in the Pacific, as a sort of Christening for our west coast rebirth. Kind of like Apollonia purifying herself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka in "Purple Rain." It felt good. Cold, but good. And somehow, with seemingly almost diving intervention, as I pulled my size thirteens out of the water, I turned to Bubba and said..."Dude." I knew I was home.

'Tis the Season

So, no sooner do I lament my lack of celeb sightings than Bubba and I get our first. An A-lister no less. Whilst shopping at the local Whole Foods, we see none other than Kirsten Dunst. We were looking at some flowers outside, and I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Not convinced because she was dressed down, we naturally followed her. We did the requisite, “pretend we’re reading the ingredients” of whatever it was we were shopping for, while altering our path to intersect with her in the next aisle. It was her all right. Tiny little thing. Also remarkably UN-spectacular. I called my boy Z, another New York transplant who’s been here about 7 years now. I said, “Z, she looked nothing like a movie star.” He said, “None of ‘em do.” I wouldn’t even paid her a second glance had I not seen her before. I felt proud because my wife DID (and does) look like a movie star.

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It’s Christmas time, which I remember only because I happened to glance at my calendar. Nothing about this place says Christmas. Not the weather (even though it’s been unseasonably ‘cold’ here), and certainly not the atmosphere. Very few folks have the lights or lawn ornaments I’m accustomed to. Understand, I grew up in North Jersey, and bodacious displays were commonplace. Palm trees. Just palm trees. So, like they say, “when in Rome,” etc. To get into the “spirit,” Bubba and I decided to go full California throttle for the holiday, so we got a 7-foot tall, artificial, palm Christmas tree. Something like 650 lights on it. Good stuff. I miss the pine smell, and sticky sap and all, but this one has its own charm to it.

Unlike New York, where it’s every man for himself on the streets, both in a car or on foot, I HAVE to say, I’m VERY impressed with the road etiquette around here. The cars, for all of the congestion, function very politely. In the midst of total gridlock, they’ll always leave just enough space and not block the box, for cars to turn. But the best part is, pedestrians have carte blanche to act the fool. There’s crosswalks mid-street all over the place. I accidentally started crossing in the middle of a light cycle, completely oblivious to the world around me for a second. EVERYONE stopped on cue. Fantastic. I wanted to test how far I could take it so I pulled a Letterman. The same way Dave Letterman’s band is always on alert for Dave’s random cues for a drum hit, I started dashing in and out of the crosswalk. Back and forth. They always stopped. It’s good to know that I’m void of responsibility whenever I opt out of driving. I guess they figure, no one drives ANYWHERE, so we want to make it comfortable for anyone with the chutzpah to walk.

Goin' Back to Cali

“The white zone is for the loading and unloading of passengers. There is no stopping in a red zone.” These were LITERALLY the first words I heard as I exited LAX with my wife Maryellen (aka “Bubba), as an official Californian for the first time (save for when I was born in Oakland that is). So of course, MY eternally silly mind flashes to a classic scene in “Airplane,” where two voices argue about abortion over the LAX p.a. system, starting off with that exact recording, while Ted Striker pleads his case with Elaine. Guess I really am in Hollywood now, and my mind is already adjusting to the cinematic mindset, even though I’m a musician, not an actor.

<> So, having been here almost four weeks now, I’m not a fish out of water per se, but I AM maybe a humpback on the back end of his first migration. More or less among his peers, but new to the surroundings nonetheless. Not yet comfortable, but not UN-comfortable. After several years of plotting, my wife and I decided to take the plunge finally, and we picked up shop, leaving the bright lights of New York City for the headlights and spotlights of Los Angeles. We barnstormed W. Hollywood in October, and found a cozy abode on a lovely side street. Soon after we got settled, it became glaringly apparent that there is a SIGNIFICANT Russian population in our ‘hood. Therefore, I have affectionately decided to refer to our area as “Little Minsk” going forward, doubly appropriate because of the surprisingly high number of strip joints and x-rated video stores nestled in our otherwise unassuming neck of the woods. <>

So far, the mental adjustment hasn’t been as dramatic as I’d anticipated. It’s different to be sure, but easier really. The pace is slower, almost to the point of annoyance, at least for now. My wife and I are definitely still on New York time, as our short tempers with the various service people we’ve dealt with would attest to. I imagine it will serve us well ultimately, reversing the life-shortening trend that Big Apple living had started. Given that I moved to New York in 1994, I’ll hopefully be back at the break even threshold of a standard male 76.2 year life expectancy by around 2018. <>

I wouldn’t say I’m out here with stars in my eyes. Quite the contrary, I’d say I have more, “C-List” stars in my eyes. I’d be much more geeked to come across say, Meeno Peluce, child star of all kinds of 70’s tripe I grew up on, than I would, Jennifer Garner. So far though, the closest thing I’ve had to a celebrity sighting is the car dealer, Pablo, who sounded exactly like Danny Bonaduce. I half expected him to go on a steroid induced tirade when we turned down his deal, but no dice. He just shook my hand and said, “No problem, Bro.” Still, just being in this environment, one can’t help but at least entertain the notion that most everyone you encounter is either ASPIRING to be Jennifer Garner, or WAS a Meeno Peluce. I drove past Beverly Hills the other day. I see four older gents kibbutzing on a bench. I’m thinking to myself, “for all I know, one of those guys is ‘Paulie’ from the Godfather. You know, the one ‘we won’t see no more’” except, maybe I just did see him. <>

Much to my surprise, L.A. is the friggin’ burger capital of the world (I thought East Orange, NJ staked that claim, but I was wrong). I expected a tofu stand or something on every corner. Instead, there’s burger chains I’ve never even heard of. Astroburger. Fatburger. Sonic. In n’ Out. Carl’s Jr. All of the nationwide chains of course, and a bunch more I’m already forgetting. There’s also donut shops galore. And while the health nuts abound as well, it seems it’s all or nothing for most folks out here. <>

I’ll spare the traffic cliché’s, other than to say, they’re all true. Sonofabitch it takes a while to get places here. But it’s all right, you know? What’s the rush? I told my mom the other day, “I swear no one works here. I see cars filling the roads constantly, yet my neighbors are always home, and no one seems to GET anywhere. I don’t know what anyone DOES here, save for the people serving me in the burger joints.” Interestingly, my older sister apparently felt the same way when she did a 2 year tour at ‘SC out here in the 90’s. <>

As expansive as Los Angeles is, I’ve found it remarkably easy to navigate. Much like New York, the city is cut by a modest number of significant parallel avenues. Everything else is a side street, akin to any numbered street in Manhattan. Couple that with the consistent backdrop of the hills, and the fact that you’re stopping every 9 seconds in traffic, leaving you nothing BUT time to ponder where you are, it’s very easy to know where you are at all times. I also owe a huge geographical debt to O.J., Boyz n’ the Hood, and all of the Death Row artists I was weened on in the 90’s as well. As I’ve been driving around, it’s ALL coming back to me, usually in song. Slauson swap meet, Crenshaw, the L.B.C., Rosecrans, Inglewood (always up to no good), Bundy drive, the 405, I owe it all to 90’s pop culture. <>

I don’t know what it means exactly, when I say I think I’m gonna fit in nicely here. I’m definitely not a typical L.A.er, and if I become one, I demand my east coast peeps take me out on site. That said, I think my laid back, schmoove, schmoove style will play well out here. Hell, I was cold chillin’ right out the womb, as that picture of your boy at the top of this blog, mackin’ in the velour robe will attest to. <>

So here we go…