fish on -- part one
The phonecam art show I was in was called SENT, and it was at the Standard hotel in Downtown Los Angeles. The building used to be the headquarters for an oil company, or an accounting firm, or something like that, and the new owners have held on to just enough of the steel and marble architecture of its former identity to give it a space-age, ultramodern feel. Think Tomorrowland in about 1978.
My wife and kids were out of town, so my friend Burns came with me to the show. We hung out and talked with lots of people, but after a couple of hours, I got antsy.
"Do you have to get up early tomorrow?" I said.
"No. I'm going to the Dodger game at 1," he said.
"Want to get out of here and go play cards?"
"Are you finally taking me to Odessa?"
"No. It's Saturday, so it's a dance club tonight," I said. "I hear it gets pretty crazy."
"Plato's retreat crazy?" He said.
"You stole that from my blog!" I said.
We both laughed.
"Let's go to Commerce," I said.
While I said goodbye to Sean Bonner, one of the curators of the show who is also a very good friend, this über hot girl who I was convinced had been giving me "the look" all night walked up to us.
"Can I ask you something?" She said. I held my breath.
If she says, "Didn't you used to be an actor," I'm jumping out the window.
"Sure," I said.
She looked at me with deep, blue, swimming pool eyes and said, "How did you get into this show?"
I exhaled, and pointed to Sean. "I know the curator."
Sean laughed. "He's also a pretty good photographer."
"Well, I liked your pictures. Especially the one of your speedometer."
My brain furiously looked for double entendres, so I could have a beer drinkin' story to share with the guys.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," she said coyly, as she turned, and walked away.
"Goddamn," Burns said. "How come girls don't talk to me like that?"
"Because you're not married." I said.
I faced Sean. "Thanks for letting me be part of the show. We're taking off to play poker."
"Are you going to Odessa?"
I shook my head. "No. It's a dance club on Saturday nights."
"I hear it gets pretty crazy on Saturdays," he said.
"Plato's Retreat crazy?" I said.
"Are you quoting your own blog?" Burns said.
"Yes. Yes I am."
We said goodbye, and walked to the elevator.
"That was pretty good," I said. "From the moment we decided to leave to the actual leaving, only ten minutes elapsed."
"That's got to be some kind of record," Burns said, as we quickly descended forty feet to the first floor.
"This place would be very cool," he said as we crossed the hipster-filled lobby, "if it wasn't for all the hipsters."
He was right. We navigated our way around several Von Dutch shirts, and into a cloud of clove smoke just outside the door.
"I guess ten is prime time for the place on a weekend," I said.
"Looks like it," Burns said.
We hooked around the corner of the building, onto Flower street, and down a steep driveway and into the parking garage. A neon sign flashed "PARK" then "HERE" on a red wall.
"I keep expecting to walk into Quincy, or Rockford, or one of those guys here."
"I don't think this is James Garner's type of place," he said.
"No, but this garage is right out of 1980. I bet you the A*Team would have parked their van in here." I said.
We got into my car, and headed to the freeway. The click clack of stacking chips was already in my ears as we drove away.