Woke up and went to Beverly Hills. The streets were empty. Walked up Rodeo Drive, past a store that sells a wallet for $3500. You would think that for $3500 you get something exotic like pterodactyl skin or something, but this is not the case. It's just a plain leather wallet. Rich remarked that you could buy "9 K-cars for that price." Walked past the most beautiful woman either of us have ever come in direct contact with. A flower at the peak of her prime. We tried to figure out who her money man was but could only conclude that it's probably not a biomedical engineer from Cleveland, OH or an electric propulsion engineer from Lancaster, CA, because she didn't even notice us as we Lenny & Squiggy'd our way across the street, just to walk in her path. Whoever he is, he's my hero.
We moved on to dine at the Beverly Hills Breakfast Club. This sounds impressive, like the hangout from 90210 or something, but it's actually just a dressed-up version of a greasy spoon where a glass of orange juice is 3 bucks. So much for Rich's nose for bargains. I had French Toast and two poached eggs and drank iced tea. Grand total-- $13. I tried to get the waiter to tune in the Duke-UNC game for my viewing pleasure, but he said he couldn't because the antenna only picks up 2 channels. Ahhh, Beverly Hills!
On the walk back to the car, Rich decides he needs to extricate last night's revelry from his bowels. So naturally, we choose the bathroom at Barney's. From the moment you walk into the shiny gold revolving door, you can feel the penetration of their eyes on you. Clerks and customers alike are staring at you, judging your clothing and manner to see if you're "allowed" to be in there. As you can probably guess, a guy from Ohio in a gray Old Navy T-shirt and cutoff white shorts isn't the sort of customer Barney's usually attracts. I've been in situations in life where I've been the only gentile at an all-Jewish function, the only white man at an all-black party, the only WASP at an all-Asian gig, and I have never, EVER felt more uncomfortable than I did walking through that store. We recognized the humor in the fact that we thought they just didn't get it, and they thought we just didn't get it. We rejoiced in the inherent poetic justice of the fact that Rich walked in there and took a shit, then left. I don't know if he flushed the toilet or not, but I sure hope he didn't.
From Barney's Aryan Nation, we drove to Venice Beach. At Venice Beach you can find anything or anyone. It's like a free zoo, with all-human exhibits. You can get a shiatsu massage from any number of shysters, see scantily-clad men and women on roller blades, buy weirdo art, have your fortune told by a psychic cat, buy a bong, get a temporary henna tattoo, see a man in a turban, wrapped in a white sheet, roller-blading around with a portable mini-amplifier playing Jimi Hendrix tunes on his electric guitar and singing, and watch a mysterious looking woman playing drums while 2 gang bangers breakdance in front of her. We continued along to muscle beach, to see what we've evolved from. There were two guys sparring with Tae Kwon Do, several steroid-freaks working out and flexing in mirrors, and more grunts than I ever cared to hear at one time in the company of so many men. They shared about 30 neurons between them. I saw the basketball court where White Men Can't Jump was filmed and, true to form, the games had deteriorated into two guys arguing over whether somebody fouled somebody else while everybody stood around. If you ever want to do behavioral research, set up an office at Venice Beach and start writing-- all the data you'll ever need is right outside your door. I would pay John Fabian's plane fare, just to watch him walk down Venice Beach.
Then it was on to the Getty Center. So you pull out your map of hell and you see that it's not too far from where you are and you think to yourself, "This should only be about a 15 min. drive." Sure it is, any other place except hell. This 15 min. drive turns into a 2½ hour debacle on the Santa Monica Freeway. AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now I know why these people shoot each other. I was amused by the image of a $120,000 Lamborghini Diablo (0-60 MPH in ~4 secs.) right beside the ol' Toyota Corolla rental car, inching its way along. Thankfully, our fortune took a turn for the better at the Getty Center. We pull up to see how late it's open. You actually have to make an appointment just to park at this place. We get the lecture on not having an appointment blah, blah, blah. Then the guy says, "Tell you what... this is your lucky day. I have a few spots open and I'll let you guys in." I think it was Rich's superfly leather jacket that did the trick. Regardless, for $5 in parking we were in. No line, no reservation. The Getty Center is the only place in L.A. where peace and quiet rules. This multi-billion dollar structure was absolutely my favorite part of the trip. The grounds, gardens, fountains, and structures are beautiful and unlike most others I've ever seen. It also has the best view available of L.A. from its perch high up in the hills (the neighborhood you look down upon is Brentwood-- former home to some ex-football player named OJ). It took them 15 years to build this place, but their good planning shows through in the final result. If you ever visit L.A., put the Getty Center on top of your list. There was a salsa band playing in a courtyard in front of a fountain. People of all races, colors, and creeds were dancing, smiling, and having fun as the sun set over Los Angeles. The only way this could've been better is if that little vixen from Beverly Hills had come up and asked me to dance. It's the perfect antidote for a 2½ hour (10 mile) drive. Coming down the hill from the Getty, I get a good aerial view of "The 10" (Santa Monica Freeway) and all I can see are 8 lanes crammed full of red brake lights going one way, and 8 lanes crammed full of headlights going the other way. We are descending back into hell. Grrrrrrrrrrr.
Next it's off to Red, a chic L.A. eatery where celebs are often spotted. Our good luck continues with a primo parking space right in front of the restaurant. Of course when we walk in, the place is empty. Fortunately, we get one of the aforementioned wannabe actress waitresses as our server. We munched on a mango-brie quesadilla, turkey burger, and meatloaf and saw plenty of Land Rovers and Jaguars, but still no K-cars, as we dined outside.
After dinner, we head downtown to catch the L.A. Philharmonic for a $6 matinee performance. Too bad they weren't playing (doh!). After some discussion with our friendly theater sales person, we decide to buy two front-center seats for The Trials of Oscar Wilde. In his words: "...an astonishing piece of theater." Thanks, babe.
We roll on up to Griffith Observatory, where James Dean was filmed in Rebel Without a Cause. The funny thing about this place is that there are all these couples trying to steal a romantic moment with the breathtaking view of L.A. (although, not as good as Getty's). But it's impossible to be romantic, because while all these couples are making out, there are literally hundreds of people walking around, bumping into them, excusing themselves to get by, and staring at the couples making out. Way too crowded to be cool.
Finally, we call it a night early, as Rich is still feeling the after-effects of trying to keep up with Marty and Elayne last night. The Econolodge looks virtually identical to the apartment complex in Melrose Place. Too bad it doesn't have the same clientele. Right before I go to bed, the newsman tells me that two CHP officers plummeted to their death when the road they were driving on sheared off the side of the rain-soaked hill. Sweet dreams...