Finally, Chad is earning his keep. Actually, he’s doing just fine riding shotgun and keeping things fun. He’s like Julie from the Love Boat, always arranging the party situations and shit.
On the tech side of crap, I put about 5000 miles on the car since we left Austin. So I took her get her juices drained and to get her oiled up proper. We walked around Hollywood while they got the car lubed up as evidenced in these fine touristy-pics. Feel free to print these and mail them to your parents and claim that you were in L.A. That’s what we did.
To add injury to injury, I had the water pump replaced 12 months and two weeks ago. It is barely 500 miles out of warranty. What a load of shit. They want $518 to fix it. I can fix it for about $40. So we’ll just keep an eye on it as we drive through the dessert next week. I’m thinking that the water pump might be kinda important in keeping the car cool… we’ll see how far we get with this new plan.
A highlight of the recent days was meeting and putting around with Harvey Sid Fisher. He was fun. We putted around the green and drank warm beers form his duffle bag.
You guys heard of Harvey Sid Fisher? He’s an entertainer out here, just one of the many bigwigs we hobnobbed with in Hollywood. I’ve always thought he was an interesting guy, and had briefly met him through some friends back in Austin, so I had my people call his people, and we did lunch over a round of golf. I’m taking to L.A. like a duck to water. I know all of this seems improbable, but it’s captured here on film, including a video hello from Harvey to his friends back in Austin:
We putted around and shot the shit with Harvey for the whole day and evening. He gave us a bunch of pointers on our upcoming stardom, and also laid out for us some of the pitfalls and hurdles that we can expect as fame takes over our lives. He’s particularly bothered by websites that have clips of his astrology songs posted up, getting thousands of hits, but he doesn’t see a cent of it. Clips like this one:
We met up with another old pal from Austin and had drinks with Dave Bennett at the Dresden. We caught a tad of Marty and Elaine’s piano act.
At the bookstore next door, I saw this:
I know everybody is expecting me to get arrested on this trip, and I certainly don’t want to let anybody down, but all I could muster up tonight was a thorough pat-down and handcuffing up against a fence. I even let the cop find our weed pipe, and he still wouldn’t arrest me. The police out here have their hands full, so Bob and I had to literally walk down Hollywood Boulevard drinking a twelve pack of Keystones to get them to even pay attention to us, to begin with. As a final reminder of our insignificance, when I picked up all my belongings from their pile on the sidewalk, the cops had slipped the pipe back in with everything else before driving off, laughing.
Yeah, that was odd. All we were doing was heading to a pool party on the roof of the Roosevelt Hotel. Or maybe it was a pool party on roofies? We weren’t exactly sure and our info was shaky at best. Turns out there is no pool up there. But as we strode through the streets of L.A., chugging shit-beer from a can like we own the goddamn place, a couple cops decide to bust our balls about drinking in public. “Hey! What are you drinking? Wait right there!”
Chad needed to jettison the weed, so I put up a diversion as I started blindly crossing the street to meet our uniformed buddies at their car. Can tilted skyward and chugging more beer, the cop demanded that I stop and step back on the curb. I figured to not waste it is all. Besides, look at me! I think it worked. We felt in control even as we were cuffed and up against the wall. We sounded coherent and confident and the cops appreciated that. We were mentally Alpha-humping them and they knew we were in command of the situation. I played the Texas card: “Y’all can’t drink in the streets here in California? Down in Texas you can drink on the streets all day long,” I insisted with a newfound Texan accent.
It was a powder-puff affair, all be told. As part of the inquisition, we told the cops we were going to a party on the roof of the Roosevelt. “I been up there. It ain’t that impressive.” Cops gotta burst my bubble too?
We ended the night partying at the Chateau Marmont with Chepo Pena and some of the folks he is on tour from Austin with. I learned a little something just now. I’ve gone through life thinking that a “Marmont” is a medium sized rodent very similar to a groundhog. Turns out, these things are called “Marmots”… there is no “n” in Marmot. A “Marmont” is a French guy. I think I have been subconsciously blending the words “Marmot” and “Varmint” all these years. It was not until this very minute that a combination of spell-check and google led to this discovery.
I’m glad y’all were able to grow with me just now, but this is all detracting from the biggest news of the trip so far by a fucking landslide… I PARTIED WITH MRS. STANWYCK!!! That’s right, motherfuckers. Mrs. Stanwyk from Fletch. I was partying in a room. Mrs. Stanwyk was in the room. I partied with Mrs. Stanwyk. I played it totally cool, and sure as hell didn’t say anything stupid, like “Can I borrow your towel for a sec, my car just hit a water buffalo.” I just acted like everything was normal and even opened a bottle of wine for her at one point. She’s more beautiful in person now than she was in the movie, just in case you’re wondering.
Yeah, that was nice. And this was funny. Earlier in the night, Chepo stuffed some cold beers in his man-purse. Unfortunately, the condensation form the beer combined with a faulty lid on his Xanax bottle led to the contents of his bag being coated in an orange Xanax shell. Enjoy:
Then there was more singing and drinking and hash smoking.
Anyway, shit must have gone downhill from there because I woke up the next day with this on the camera. I wasn’t able to make heads or tails of it, so you shouldn’t expect to either…