No, I have not wrapped the Brougham around a tree. The drive simply became so intense that I’ve not had a moment to update the blog. My apologies.
Felt right at home tooling around the Hills.
While waiting on media interviews in Hollywood, I decided to knock out some of the more pedestrian aspects of traveling across country. On the first leg of this journey, I packed many fantastic clothing combinations–totally prepared for whatever climate, calamity, or critic I encountered along the way. This made for a monstrous bag, one that proved unwieldy getting in and out of the trunk.
Glamour in Hollywood
So on this leg, you may note that I always seem to wearing the same things in photos. Jeans, white shirts, lots of underwear. A blue blazer and a few rep ties are at the ready for any formal occasion. Today called for laundry.
The Andaz did not strike me as the sort of hotel with laundry facilities, so I asked the bellhop where I could find the nearest laundromat. He pointed me towards a facility about three blocks away, and I made my way there. Laundromats remind me of my days as a very broke writer in New York. Wet clothes smell awful, no matter what you’ve put in the machine to clean them. And laundromats always smell like wet clothes–somebody else’s wet clothes. One of life’s greatest luxuries is owning my own machines, counters and hampers.
Budding thespians in Hollywood.
I parked the Brougham outside the laundromat and immediately noticed a lot of 20-something, good-looking people milling around. They weren’t the least bit interested in the car, which is unusual. Driving an old Cadillac like the Brougham makes you feel like a celebrity. People point. Children smile. Adults come up and introduce themselves. Other drivers wave and let you in traffic. The downside of this automotive celebrity, of course, is that everywhere you go in the car, you are “on.”
At gas stations, grocery stores, and other routine stops, old-car drivers are accosted by “What year is that?” “My grandmother had one just like it!” “What kind of mileage do you get? Ha, ha, ha!”
Unlike a celebrity, I can switch cars and suddenly become invisible again. I’m sure many a Hollywood leading man and lady wish they could switch faces sometimes.
The good-looking people outside the laundromat were all holding sides from “Boston Legal.” Ohhh, I thought, a Boston Legal audition. Actors were busy rehearsing lines. This is great! I’ve come to Hollywood to do laundry and bumped into budding stars of the tiny screen. So as to not make them nervous, I snapped their pictures from across the street, paparazzi-style, a la Perez Hilton.
Then I went back to the laundromat to get started on my pile of whites and darks. The smallest bill I had was a $20, and I naively assumed the the change machine might give me $5 in coins and $15 in bills. Nope. It gave me 80 quarters, the volume of which caused the metal flap on the dispensing tray to lodge firmly shut. After struggling for a few minutes, I got my quarters out and began shoving them into various washing machines, dryers, and soap dispensers. That cost $7. I still had 52 quarters left.
The dullest “star shine” ever.
So I went next door to the “Star Shoe Repair” store. An elderly man came out to greet me and I inquired if he shined shoes. “Eight dollars,” he said. Damnation! Eight bucks was a lot of money for some shoe polish, but I hadn’t brought my shoe-shine kit and the kicks were looking dull. Maybe this was some sort of celebrity shine? Maybe Brad gets his mules polished here before the Oscars? Perhaps Angelina does her hair in the shimmer of his brogues? So I gave the man $8 in quarters. Maybe I’d get the Hollywood special.
That was wishful thinking. It was, undoubtedly, the worst shoe shine I’ve ever received. Truly awful. Did this guy have cataracts? Did he just fog my shoes with a little polish mist? He didn’t even blacken the soles. But instead of making a fuss, I simply said, “Thank you” and stepped, lackluster, back into the laundromat.
With 20 in quarters still jingling in my pocket, I approached a guy who was about to make change in the machine and made a trade for his $4 in bills. We struck up a happy conversation, which made cleaning, drying, and folding my pantaloons go faster. His name was Mark Bringelson, a writer, director, and actor. I should preface that with the note that he is a working writer, director, and actor. You can read his blog here.
My laundry mission complete, I tooled through Beverly Hills. It’s not as pretty as the Tiny Kingdom but it has it’s finer points.
My friend Tad Weyland, master chef.
Later that afternoon, I ventured to Santa Monica to visit my friend Tad Weyland, who is the chef at a hot new restaurant called Huckleberry. Huckleberry is clean, spare, and very fresh. Allow me to put on my former food-critic hat for a moment: the baked goods absolutely blew me away.
Huckleberry at 1014 Santa Monica Boulevard.
The breads were crusty and perfect–especially the tangy sourdough. The pastries made me glad I didn’t live within 3,000 miles of the place.
Little bits of chocolate heaven.
The fresh breads were some of the best I’ve ever tasted.
Now this is genius! Biscuits with the bacon built right in.
And Tad, who took a barbecue pilgrimage across America, of course made a killer BBQ sandwich. That’s a pretty amazing feat in California, where you can’t exercise your God-given right to smoke barbecue as the Lord intended it. Tad has to make his ‘que in the oven. But it’s still great.
Tad’s version of a BBQ sandwich.
I ate the whole thing.
Now that’s sassy: a shirt that says “MEATBALLS!”
The waitresses were very sweet to me and made a to-go box as a housewarming gift for my longtime friend, Elizabeth.
Esza Kaye, musician, mom, star.
Elizabeth and I worked together at Vanity Fair in the 1990s as assistants. We fetched a lot of coffee, dry cleaning, and every now and then worked on a story. Both of us dreamed of bigger things, and Elizabeth has certainly achieved that. To listen to her music and gift of songwriting, visit her website here. She has an amazing voice and gift of entertaining. She also has become a super-mom, which (for good reason) she ranks as her greatest accomplishment. I immediately loved her son: he took one look at the front of the Cadillac and immediately cried, “Boobies!”
A young man destined to love 1950s Cadillacs.
An astute child.
A glam evening in the Pacific Palisades.
Elizabeth and her husband Darrell kindly put me up for the evening in their gorgeous Norma-Desmond-styled palatza in the Pacific Palisades. We stayed up late chatting with Elizabeth’s cousin, Fin-Olaf Jones, a contributing editor with my old employer, Forbes.
THE FUZZ
Setting out early the next morning, I aimed the Cadillac towards Malibu, California. Every beach in California creates a different feel. Yesterday, I visited Venice Beach, which feels absolutely nutters. For those of you who have not been to Venice Beach, it is a convenient place to a.) get a henna tattoo b.) pick up a lifetime supply of incense and c.) meet a half-naked snake handler. I did see my first Babe Watch lifeguard shack, yet unfortunately, Pamela Anderson was not in residence.
Now, driving through Malibu I kept a sharp eye out for Barbie’s Dream House. The phone rang. It was my sister Marissa. I told her I was looking for a house inhabited by a plastic woman with legs in her arm sockets and a gay boyfriend who looks remarkably similar to John Kerry. As 0f yet, no luck.
Suddenly, red and blue lights appeared in my rear view mirror. It was CHPS, the California P.D., on a motorcycle no less, coming after me. My first instinct, whenever I am chased by cops, is to floorboard the car see if the fuzz has what it takes to catch me. Have you ever noticed that the best police chase shows take place in the South? Perhaps it’s because our law enforcement officials are still allowed to engage in hot pursuit. Or maybe it is because our rednecks watch too much NASCAR. The last great police chase in California took place at 20 mph in a white Ford Bronco. Ho-hum. So I pulled over.
Ponch approached the right side of the Brougham. He knocked on my passenger window and motioned for me to roll it down. Good luck with that, I thought. Of the Brougham six power windows, only three are operational, and the passenger window is not one of them. So the best I could do is roll down the rear passenger window.
“ Why doesn’t this one go down?” the patrolman asked. Because the car is fifty-one years old, I thought. Instead, I replied, “It’s broken.”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
I decided to err on the side of more information and said, “Well, when I had the door panel off two weeks ago I noticed we had 12 volts going to the main switch as well as 12 volts going to the window motor. My suspicion is that old grease has probably seized the lift mechanism.”
He blinked vacantly at me for a few moments and then said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
I don’t like getting pulled over. I wasn’t speeding. In fact, I was doing 35 in a 40. My taillights are functioning (now). I wasn’t making any illegal lane changes. I was simply talking to my sister . . . ah, that was it. California must have an anti-cell phone law. That, or Nancy Pelosi had put out an A.P.B. on me for the cigar comment at Asia De Cuba back in West Hollywood.
“I couldn’t say, sir,” I replied.
“The state of California has enacted a cell phone law for drivers and you must use a hands-free device if using a cell phone while diving,” he said. The fact the state of California has not put up any signs to that effect is beside the point, I suppose. Still he didn’t give me a ticket and let me photograph his Honda motorcycle. I pushed my luck and asked him to turn on the lights and sirens. He obliged. Nice guy.
It was the first time I had been pulled over in ten thousand miles and I was happy to be leaving scot free.
Continuing my drive northward, The Pacific Coast Highway got curvier and curvier. Beaches turned to farmland, farmland turned to craggy cliffs, craggy cliffs turned to miles of twisty nothingness, albeit with beautiful seaside vistas.
Eventually, I wound my way to San Simeon, W. R. Hearst’s California castle. It’s stunning views and golden setting must have been a romantic place for he and Marion Davies. After a brief tour I hopped back in the Cadillac and headed north.
I hoped to make it to San Francisco, or maybe even Napa, but twisty roads and a 1950‘s Cadillac do not mix. Fortunately the Brougham air ride system kept the car level and stable, which permitted the bias-ply tires from squealing howls of protest as they would have on any other car from the era. It actually handled pretty well.
After hours of winding roads I finally arrived at a gas station (much to my relief) in Cabrillo. One gallon of premium cost a whopping $4.60. That is the power of a monopoly; when you are the only gas station in 60 miles $4.60 seems reasonable.
The station’s concession attendant, a bearded skinny guy who would look more at home in Appalachia than in Northern California, asked me if I’d like to see his ride. Who wouldn’t? Ralph’s mode of transportation was formally a Schwinn bicycle. “I outfitted it with the motor off my weed whacker,” Ralph said. If gas goes to $5 a gallon again, we’ll all be riding Ralph’s weed whackers.
A few miles later, near Big Sur, I came up upon some crows in the road. I wasn’t going fast. The crows didn’t seem very motivated to get out of my way, which I found unusual. Most birds, upon hearing the rumble of the Cadillac, seem to scurry in a hurry. Nonetheless, I maintained course and speed, figuring the birds would move.
They didn’t. At least not until the last second, which was too late. One particularly large crow collided, ass-end, into my windshield and somersaulted head-over-talons across the stainless steel roof, landing with a thud on the trunk lid. Was it drunk? What the devil? If you could fly, wouldn’t you get out of the way of my 6,000 pound Cadillac? I hope it didn’t scratch the stainless, I thought.
I felt guilty about striking one of God’s creatures with Heavy, so I doubled back to check on the crow. Aside from looking slightly dazed, he seemed fine. I motored on.
Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal built the Pacific Coast Highway. The original Bridge to Nowhere, the views are spectacular and I had a hard time deciding where to pull off to snap images of the car. At one particularly gorgeous overlook, I happened upon Robert Davis. He had stopped to admire the same beauty. Robert is driving his Honda motorcycle across the United States, a longtime dream. Retired from Southern Company where he served as an electrician, he’s sustained a six-year headache, the result of a workplace accident. You wouldn’t know talking to Robert that he had any complaints however. His approach to life is open and enthusiastic–much like his motorcycle.
For the rest of my time on US 1, Robert and I motored in tandem. Stopping for dinner in Moss Landing, California, we ate dinner at Phil’s Fish Market and swapped tails of the road.
I left my new buddy with Motorpool t-shirt and kept driving north through the night.