As some of you may recall, I have a funny way about going about my duties here at RoundSeventeen.
I normally write the entire week's entries all on Saturday morning. I occasionally revisit the posts during the week for touch up and to check for typos -- I should probably spend more time on that endeavor -- but my routine rarely changes.
This Saturday morning is a little difficult, as last night my wife and I and some friends made our first ever visit to Dear Johns in Culver City. I'm sure we drank all their whiskey and I am clearly the worse for the experience. However Dear Johns was always on our bucket list and now we can cross it off.
A longwinded way of introducing an idea for a theme-based week that I had earlier in the year.
I would be a tourist in my own home town, visiting sites and venues that somehow I had never managed to see.
It's embarrassing but, for instance, I have never been to the Griffith Observatory. Never. And I like planetariums.
Like every other kid growing up in NYC, I spent countless hours at the Hayden. I'm almost certain these field trips were nothing more an excuse for the teachers to hand the kids off to a planetarium tour guide so they could get a break, go shoe shopping or smoke cigarettes in Central Park.
My wife and daughters have been to the Griffith. I have not.
Nor have I ever been to the Greek Theater. This may not be all that surprising as I am a confirmed misanthrope and generally avoid large crowds of people. Plus, I have a hard time reconciling two hours of entertainment with one hour of driving hell getting into a parking lot. And another tortuous hour and a half getting out.
I've driven by it thousands of times, but I've never been inside the Hotel California, more accurately the Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset.
This seminal Eagles album was nothing less than the soundtrack of my youth. You couldn't get off the elevator in my college dorm without hearing it. And yet, I've never bothered to turn off Sunset and meander through its lush hallways.
My father, a schnorer, must be spinning in his grave. He made it a habit of visiting five star hotels, stripping down to his trunks and swimming in their fancy-schmancy pools. Once, he took us to the tony Kutsher's Hotel in the Catskills. He told us to act like we belonged there. Until one of the pool boys got curious about our unbranded towels.
"Sir, are you a guest at this hotel?"
"Absolutely. We're in room 428."
"Uh sir, we don't have a room 428. You and your family will have to leave."
That was a walk of shame I'll never forget.
I've never eaten at Pinks.
I've never been to the Getty Museum.
I've never hiked up to the Hollywood Sign.
And never been to Disneyland.
Oh wait, I have been to Disneyland, I'm just trying to block it from my memory. We waited 94 minutes in line for Thunder Mountain and when it was our turn to escape the searing Santa Ana winds and relentless heat, the roller coaster broke down.
The Crappiest Place on Earth.
But, as I mentioned earlier, I didn't get to visit these must-see sites. Mostly because I've been extremely busy this year, quite possibly the busiest year in my dozen as a freelancer. The staycation will have to wait.
Not only do I have two more posts to write this morning. I've got to gear up for my afternoon assignment, the fine folks at Collins Colostomy Bags, "Doing your do-do right since 1937" want to exploit this new social media thing and have requested a brand engagement unit.
It's going to be a long afternoon.
I don't think I have enough aspirin.
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