Spent most of the time at my mum's fiance's house, as it's nice and close to the beach. It also contains an armory of alcohol given to him and his first wife on their 50th anniversary, all of which belonged to his father-in-law and thus was fairly old to begin with, not to mention of good quality. Dick generously dug it all out and brushed off the spiders for us to enjoy.
And enjoy we did.
Such neat bottles and beautiful labels.
I think we need to amend what we think of as a "full bar".
The true gem was a bottle of scotch given to Mr. Field as a birthday present from Carole Lombard in June of 1937. She was my all time favorite when I was young and still remains up the list. Such a wit and married to Clark Gable, with Route 66 as their honeymoon. Legend has it Gable was starting to film a movie with man-devourer Lana Turner while Lombard was heading off on a Bond-rally tour, so before leaving she she snuck a well-rounded blonde manequin into their bed with a tag that read "So you won't be lonely"---three days later she died in a plane crash returning home and Gable never shook his loneliness. That story always gives me goosebumps.
Never opened, but a quarter gone. Mental math says it's at from at least 1916.
One of my favorites.
I think my sister deserves a spot in a 1970's issue of Playboy.
Walked over to Dizz's for a cocktail, a spot described by my mother as looking like "Stevie Nick's boudoir" (which I'm not sure wasn't supposed to be derogatory) and where I'd always wanted to go after I moved away, having deemed it too adult while in high school. Probably a good thing, as the lady next to us turned out to be the sister-in-law of my middle school librarian and chatted our ear off (pleasantly enough) and I know my fake ID would've cracked under that kind of pressure. Next time we're going back for dinner, her steak looked amazing.
Took off the next day to stay the night with Andreas in Los Angeles. Never spent any time in Echo Park before now (having avoided the LA area most of the time I lived in Laguna, save a few months of weekending in Westwood of all places) and what they say is fairly spot on---its a lot like the Mission, but with 1930's bungalows instead of Victorians. At least that's one sweeping generalization, but it was fun to not hate LA and its goddamn freeway system for a bit.
Dreamed of visiting Mel and Travis's cabin in Los Angeles since we met them here in the city. Day of the Locust-visions were swimming in my head ever since our first talk, especially knowing their kitchen was built on the remains of the wagon that carried Amy Semple McPherson into town---she being the founder of the Foursquare Gospel Church (and its deco home The Angelus Temple in Echo Park, renowned for being integrated in the 1920's, a time when segregation was the norm). She's definitely one of the more fascinating evangelists, particularly starting with the fact that she's female and a bit of a knockout, which won her a following among the flappers---most notably after she was persecuted for having an affair with a married fellow-gospel-radio host, all of which came to light after she allegedly drowned in the Pacific, then walked out of the Mexico desert a month later claiming she'd been kidnapped and tortured. The damning thing was her outfit was impeccable and her spirits (and hairdo) seemed less flagged by a 13 day excursion through waterless wasteland than a couple hours tussle in a clean sheet. As for the cabin, it lived up to every expectation, as did Travis and Mel who are amazingly sweet.
Back up the 101 towards the city, detoured at Bradley to find a creek we'd gone swimming in one hot drive home a handful of years ago. Church marks the spot.
Never going back to my old school? Southern California is always a hard one for me, and Orange County in particular is not for the feint of heart, but...there are some really fascinating parts, both in the landscape and the sociological architecture that's been created there. I know I yell about him all the time, but check out Mike Davis's City Of Quartz if you haven't already. Then start digging into every corner of history that he flashes on, and before you know it you're planning a trip just to find the canyon shack where Faulkner drank his screenplays away... or in bed with Nathanial West.