Editor's Note: I received a missive from Pacific Gold writer Trip Darvez on Friday afternoon to meet up for a "state of things" update. I suggested a "brewpub" in Hollywood. He agreed.
However, it was my mistake when I considered "the parking situation" currently in Hollywood. Both of us arrived late...naturally, I arrived first. I was enjoying a good, strong beer when Trip stormed in. We were both a bit off due to said parking problems.
"What the fuck is this? It's like you have no choice now...you're gonna pay for parking when you come to Hollywood. That's it."
Hollywood's city councilman, best friend to construction and demolition companies, and general dipshit Tom LaBonge ensured this would happen by not only placing parking meters everywhere, but giving them 1 hour limits...even through Friday night! We were stunned. Trip was merciless.
"That fuck...they don't nickel and dime you enough around here?! He wanted a giant W hotel on Vine...just to raise the rates. Then, he allows an outdoor club, right below the rooms. I bet the tourists like that. Bet it's not in the brochure!"
I attempted to give a "what are you gonna do?" attitude to Trip, but it didn't make a difference. He calmed down when our Nordic Lass of a waitress would come by...but the beer was not putting out the fire. We hit the bricks to wander up and down this street...to see the change, good and bad.
"I feel like...you know, we see something cleaned up, like those apartments...and I like that. I remember when that was bombed out. But then I remember when I first came out here...a lot of punks lived there. That place was fucking rocking. Now...it's nice...but listen to how loud it is with all these fucking clubs. All these girls waiting to get in."
I ask if it was noisy then...and he agrees, to a point. I remind him that we are in a gigantic city...one where each fire truck that goes by acts like the entire city is burning to the ground. There's always going to be noise.
"Yeah, but not as much then."
Wasn't that...I don't know, over 30 years ago?
"Fuck off."
We see these clubs, and we can see what others can't. Or, specifically, refuse to look at. Inside, the club is essentially empty. Outside, a line 50 feet deep of girls, wearing next to nothing. I don't hear him complaining. Instead, after we pass another...
"I feel bad for these girls. They're all dressed up, looking ready to fuck but will give YOU a dirty look if you glance at them...which is the point, right? But they're gonna be in line for another hour or so...and by this point, they let everyone in. They get a drink...comically overpriced. They go home. They pretend it was fun."
Yes, Trip. But it was their choice. My point is met with silence. We continue to walk.
What you may not know is that I unknowingly met Trip before he started writing for this blog near 5 years ago at a notorious Hollywood dive, Power House. The jukebox was top notch, the drinks cheap, and the bathroom disgusting. We both lived close enough to walk...we would both be in there. And then, one afternoon (during the week...which seemed strange since there were other derelicts inside as well) Trip brings in a bag-full of hamburgers from Burger King next door. We ate and talked...and were drunk in public at 5PM. No one cared.
I remember noticing, before my first move to the west side, that I hadn't seen Trip in a while. Maybe he was arrested, or evicted, or on assignment. Then I entered Power House...and saw all the lights on. I was given a plastic cup for a drink. It cost more. I recognized no one. I quickly fled...and had yet to return to Hollywood to drink. Coincidentally, neither had Trip.
To break our silence (conversational silence) I remind him of the 'good ol days' just to get Trip talking.
"Yeah, runaways, hookers, that kind of thing. I kind of get flashbacks, seeing all these sluts...but they're not that kind of prostitute."
It isn't necessarily late, but I can tell Trip is itching to leave this city council annoyance. I get into his 1979 Plymouth luxury car, and Little River Band's "Help is on the way" is blaring...after some prodding, he agreed to turn it down. Now...just why did I get into his car when I drove separately? I have no idea. But he's out of gas, and, as with everything else around here...the prices are a tad inflated. I point out a Mobil on LaBrea, and he tells me "give him some cash."
Now, why should I fill HIS tank? Forget it...so I
"HELLO SIR, GOOD EVENING. HOW MAY I HELP YOU?"
Holy Shit...a cashier on uppers! This is sensational. He must be working the all night shift. Trip would love this, but he's not getting out of the car.
"$2 ON NUMBER 9, THANK YOU SIR." I remember Rich Hall once said that getting gas out here is like placing a bet at a race track.
I return to tell Trip that I need a ride back to my car, essentially on the other end of Hollywood.
"Can't man...gotta get home. I'll send ya something."
So...I've got a long walk ahead of me, and he doesn't notice $2 bought half a gallon. In his beast, that won't get him far. Eventually, I made it home...and called Trip to see if that gas was, indeed, enough to get him home.
"No, man, why? I'm just having some M&M's on the floor. Why - we talking deals?"
