Tales of Downtown

Faking It with The Harlem Globetrotters

As I am sure you all know by now - I am a powerful player in downtown's media - at least 200 people read my blog and I might only be exaggerating by 100.

So when this press release arrived in my e-in-box and read, "Two Harlem Globetrotters coming to town. Just in time to kick off their game at the Staples Center. They will be offering basketball tips and teaching some 'Magicians of Basketball' wizardry to the media..."

I jumped at the chance. 

Is this right up my quirky alley or what? 

But before I go on, I will confess to you - this is how I really read the release, "NANCY MILLS will be shooting hoops with the Harlem Globetrotters. She is a star."

When I got to Nokia Plaza and didn't see the hoops - I was like - where am I? I must be in the wrong place. That's when Big Easy Lofton and Flight Time Lang showed up. 

The first thing I will say is this - they are very tall. The second thing I will say is that they are very coordinated. And the third thing I will say is that they are very patient.

How was I suppose to know that a fake shot meant you DID NOT THROW THE BALL? I thought everyone just threw a basketball. In five seconds (well, maybe a minute) they taught me how to twist a ball around my back, throw it under my leg, kick off my knee, dribble, and laugh, pretty much all at the same time. 

Okay, this is a short post, because I want you to watch the one-minute video with me and Big Easy Lofton and Flight Time Lang. This is my 15 seconds of fame. So watch it!

Big Easy Lofton (he's from New Orleans) is on the left and Flight Time Lang (he's a TV junkie) is on the right. They'll be playing (without me) at Staples Center on Feb. 14th - Valentine's Day.

Oh-my-God! I've Got to Move

Do I look like a pinata to you? No, of course not. But, I did to my future landlord, who will now soon be my former landlord. Obviously, I must explain.

At the end of 2008, I was desperate. I was living with my 89-year-old mother and my 93-year-old father in Century City. How and why I was in that predicament is worthy of an entire Dr. Phil show. Let's not go there. 

So what does a desperate woman in a predicament do? 

She puts an ad on Craigslist - saying she wants to move to a loft in downtown (clearly it was better than moving to Mars - that's how faraway I wanted to go). By morning, my ad was answered by Julio Martinez. "I've got a place. Meet me at the Pan American," he said.

I did. And one of the first things he said to me when he saw my "colorful outfit" was "you're dressed just like a pinata." Oh well. Just a little rough around the edges. Don't you think?

But, I fell in love with his place. And the rest as they say - is history. 

His place quickly became "my place," and filled my soul with the city. From here I've become a voyeur of downtown. A teller of tales. A humorist with a twist. A quirky woman in a loft. 

Recently, over the Christmas holidays - almost a year to the day when I moved in - Julio told me he had gotten a professorship at USC and that he needed his loft back by April 19. And since we are a couple by leasing agreement only, I was going to need to find another place.

How sad. How unsettling. How awful.

Now I am faced with the prospect of moving from a loft and neighbors, I love. My compassionate friends - wanting to make me feel better - are saying things like, "Nancy, there is always a reason." "Nancy, your next place will be spectacular." "Nancy you will find magic."

And, I, a trooper, a spirited woman to the max, must gather my wits about me and prove them right. Yes, I will find FABULOUS AGAIN. Convincing myself daily that I WILL. I WILL. I WILL. 

My new mantra, my chant.

And the moral of this tale is? Even if a guy calls you a pinata, he can still change your life. Thanks Julio.

I'll be rockin' on. 

Nancy just started a HELP-FIND-NANCY-A-NEW-LOFT contest. You can win $100 bucks, a free dinner and more.  Find out the details. 

Dancing in the Rain - Downtown Style

Anyone who knows me well, knows I hate to drive in the rain. I probably need a rain psychiatrist or someone with a magic "go away phobia" wand. I will tell you how it started - and with whom. 

First the "whom": my mother in her red T-bird on Wilshire Boulevard; the "how": when she braked too fast in the rain and did a 360 with me and my sister in it in the intersection in front of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. 

That was the moment. 

I was young. Scared. With a mother who drove like a Jewish bat out of hell. I relive that moment a lot.

But wait, before I forget...did I tell you about our trip to Tijuana when my mother DROVE DOWN A STAIRCASE in front of the police station? The cop who stopped us screamed at us in Spanish, and my mother, who looked a lot like the actress Ava Gardner then, just kept on winking at him. Even though he let us go, I was still left with my mother as a driver, and my sister as a whiner. 

What a life.

So what does this have to do with downtown? Before I moved here, I NEVER had a fear of WALKING in the rain. In fact, that was my salvation - since I was too scared to drive. Having little rain drops fall on my face felt good. Refreshing. I imagined myself a dancer like Gene Kelly, singin' in the rain. I turned my phobia into a fun game, since I didn't want anyone to think that I was stuck in a rut.

That all changed though when the big truck turned the corner on Spring & 7th. It was a rainy, rainy day, which meant the streets of downtown turned into big deep puddles - particularly around the corners and cross walks. I don't know who built the gutters here - but they must have been dummies. Okay, I will be nice. 

Back to the story. The truck wiped me out. From head to toe, I was covered in water. I looked like a walking, dripping rag doll. With stringy hair and washed up make-up.

Singin' in the rain. No way. I was drenched. Miserable. But not one to be down for the count. I let that little episode slide. Until, I was walking another day in the rain, and an old T-bird with four young guys in it - made a quick turn - and drenched me in water on Main and 4th. That was it - my mother - in the form of four young guys - came back to haunt me. 

Then it happened again and again. 

No matter where I walked here when it rained, someone got me with their car, truck, ambulance, police car, whatever! You get the picture.

How have I responded to this travesty? Well, some days it's just too painful to leave my loft - for fear of turning into a sponge.

And...for those of you who care...I am seriously considering marrying a rain man. I have decided it is better for him to get wet (and buy the groceries) than me. And maybe just maybe, he will dance away my fears, do a chant over downtown, and be good looking, too.

They Got Me In My PJ's!

Remember when I wrote my post "Is Downtown LA an Episodic TV Show?" and my answer was YES. Well, it is also a movie set. BIG TIME. The film shoots seem to be everywhere these days. If you don't watch out you will electrocute yourself on a cable, get bumped in the head by a swinging camera, or mistakenly become an extra. 

Filming is just a part of life for downtowners.

But......there are limits my friends, limits. And I will gladly explain how I finally reached MY LIMIT a few nights ago. Don't get me wrong - most of the time, I like the fact that there is filming here. It adds color. Excitement. Gorgeous crew guys. The smell of catering trucks.

But, back to the but part...I will set the scene for you. I was working on my laptop in my loft about 9pm - fairly late for me. Sipping a glass of vino in my pink PJ's with the black dots. Minding my own business with my window shades up when wham, bam, thank you ma'am - the spotlight was on me.

Now I want you to picture this: any thriller movie, let's say The Great Escape - where the captain takes this really bright light and shines it on the prison guy to see if he escaped.

Well, I was the prison guy. In my 4th floor loft. In my pink pajamas with the black dots. With no where to go. Boy, was I mad. I looked out my windows and this is what I saw. A HUGE CRANE - maybe about 200 feet high, with a humongous glowing light on the end, with a movie crew operating it on Broadway.

I was trapped. In my own home. I couldn't scream, or yell obscenities at them (that they could hear anyway). And to add insult to injury, I was lit up like a Christmas tree....for the world to see. All in the name of a "background shot," that makes mega-bucks for the city.

So, I had to close my blinds and pout and figure out how I could meet the director or producer and give he/her/it a piece of my mind. 

Luck struck the next morning in Joe's parking lot next to my building. All the Star Wagons for the film company were still there, as were the wardrobe trucks, and security guards, and film crew. and as big as day in front of the catering truck was this sign for the movie shoot, "Dinner for Schmucks."

My prayers were answered. 

I didn't need to talk to the director. Or the producer. Or the executive producer. Or the film permit guy. I knew then that this film was going straight to DVD with a name like that - and it only goes to show you, that a schmuck is a schmuck is a schmuck.

I rest my case.

Takin' The Metro With Bryan (Like Who's Bryan?)

Bryan is a champ. My neighbor. The guy who lifted my Cost Plus couch (that came in a box and had to be assembled) with one hand. The guy who is an architect and put together my couch in five minutes without any tools. The gourmet cook. The one who always asks how I am when he sees me. I've crowned Bryan super-loft-man.

But, now it is time to get to where I'm going with this post (no pun intended). Bryan loves to take public transportation. He hops on the Metro to go to his favorite Farmers Market in West Hollywood. He takes the bus to Super King on San Fernando Road. He rides the Dash to LA Live. 

One day, he said to me in the hallway, "Nancy, do you do the Dash?" And I said, "Bryan, I no longer jog." And he said, "Huh?" I'm originally from the Westside, I DRIVE - how was I suppose to know that the Dash was a long bus-y thing that drives you around downtown?

Once we got that straightened out, he asked me if I'd been on the Metro. Well, I am sure you know the answer to that question. "No, Bryan, I haven't but I'd love to go!" I said enthusiastically - lying through my teeth because I wanted to make him happy. "Okay, then, I'll take you."

Oh no. I was stuck. So we made a plan. We'd take the Metro Gold Line from Little Tokyo to Pasadena and then have lunch in Old Town. I was actually getting excited. Maybe Bryan was on to something. This was going to be fun. Fantastic. I was takin' the Metro - and I started telling anyone who would listen. It was as if I was going to Russia or something. 

The morning we went, the sun was shining and Bryan and I walked to the new Metro Station in Little Tokyo (it just opened in November) and bought our tickets. Only $1.25 to get to Pasadena! The Metro came right away. Then we boarded. There we were sitting in our seats and looking out the window and pretending we were on a trip. Oh boy.

Then we got off on the wrong stop. 

And that's when Bryan told me about the Metro Police and the honor system. He said we bought our tickets on the honor system and that if we missed our stop, we were not suppose to get back on the Metro with the same ticket. So we got back on the Metro with the same ticket. 

We were bad, bad, bad. Looking over our shoulders for two whole minutes until we got to our stop. Getting our story ready for the Metro Police. Feeling so guilty.

But we had laughs. And you know what? I've been back on the Metro several times. And I thank Bryan everyday. And the City of LA. And the Mayor. And the Chief of Police. Oh just shut up Nancy - you only cheated the city out of $1.25.

I'm Still Standing - So There!

The last time I went ice skating - it was with my mother when I was eight. I wasn't good then, and you don't have to remind me that A LOT OF TIME has passed since then. I'm looking at the same picture that you're looking at. 

But sometimes your spirit just calls you to do something crazy. And my inner spirit said, "Nancy, go ice skating in Pershing Square. You'll have a blast."

Well, my spirit lied. Sort of. Not really. I'll explain.

What actually happened is this - the woman who does PR for Pershing Square contacted me. "Hey, I like your blog. You're funny. You wanna go ice skating?"

"Sure," I said, liking the idea, because it was interesting, eccentric (come on, it's like 80 degrees here), very downtown LA in the winter time, and nuts. 

And once I hung up, I said to myself, "I AM NUTS. I'll kill myself. I'm going to fall on my face - need plastic surgery. Get crushed by a skate. Turn into a popsicle. Die."

So I tried to cancel. Have you ever tried to cancel once you've said 'yes' to a PR person? Impossible. They've got every angle covered. "It's a landmark. FUN. It's only over the holidays"...until I finally said, "ALL RIGHT, I'LL GO."

And that's how it happened that I went on a Saturday with my friend Stacy and her two young daughters. Stacy is one of those friends who is up for anything, and since I needed support and I knew her kids would love it - we went. 

Once we got there, her kids were on skates in two minutes - whizzing by. Stacy one minute later. And I stood there - on the side of the rink in picturesque downtown - frozen. I couldn't move. I was so scared. "Uh, Stac, I think I'm just going to take pictures."

"What do you mean - you're just going to take pictures?" "I can't move my feet, they are stuck to the ground," as I pointed to the sign that said, "Skate at your own risk."

"Oh, that sign. It's nothing. They have to put signs up like that. Nancy, SKATE. We're here. It's easy."

But I was frozen. Shaking. Until........

...I saw the rink's "Ice Guys." Tall, gorgeous athletic young guys who skated faster than lightning (I know that's a stretch) - they were there to help everyone skate. I figured if the Ice Guys would skate with me, I could skate (or at least, swoon). 

So, I laced up, wobbled up to the outdoor ice rink like a 90-year-old, and preceded to hold on to the railing with all my might. How did I know it would take two Ice Guys five minutes to un-stuck my trembling hands?

Once they did - Stacy was busy taking my picture. They were busy holding me up for the picture. And I was busy wondering if I had lost my mind all together.

We skated one foot and I was done. Yet, there is a moral to this tale: it is not how far you skate, it is the fact that you took the risk to skate. 

And I, my fellow Americans, am a risk taker! Still standing. With no plastic surgeon in sight. Just another downtown adventure.

Oh! What a Night!

When I was a little girl I had big dreams. Lots of big dreams. I wanted to be like Annie Oakley. A cowgirl of the West. I wanted to be like Nancy Drew. Solving every mystery in sight. And I wanted to be me - whoever that was - when I grew up.

Well, I am happy to report that on December 13th, at the Company of Angels Theatre, one of my dreams came true. I didn't shoot anybody or solve a crime, but what I did see was a part of myself come alive. My words were performed. Not yours, or Harry's or Bob's or Betty's - but my words. MY WORDS.

When I began Tales of Downtown, about my adventures living in a loft in downtown LA, I had no idea, that my posts would make the leap from blog page to theater stage. That they would be performed by four actresses - Juanita Chase, Deborah Geer, Betty Goldstein, and Jill Weiss -  who were funny, and talented, and kooky, and endearing. Women (except for Betty) who I had only met four days before at rehearsals!

But, as I sat there in the audience, an observer of them observing me, I couldn't believe it. It was as though someone else had written the words - as if I had heard them for the first time, even though I knew what the next line would be. How could that be? 

Okay, the whole experience was surreal. Out of body. Fantastic. A dream. And I laughed - oh how I laughed. At MY WORDS. 

So did many others. They actually giggled - some with tears streaming down their faces when they heard, "I Am a Chinese Woman Living in a Jewish Woman's Body," "The Ghost of Alfred Hitchcock Talks to Me," "People are Graffiti," and eleven more tales. Granted many of them were my friends, there to support me - but if I realized one thing that night - you can't make someone else laugh - it's either funny or it isn't. And they laughed!

As we all left the theater on our way for hot dogs and champagne at Julie Rico's Weeneez, we were all on a high. "We did it!," we shouted.  "Oh! What A Night," I said again and again.

And it was. One of the best nights of my life. Nancy

See more pictures from the event here.

My Flat Tire Leads to a Good Hair Day & Salvation (or something like that)

When I drive, I must say I am a little spaced. Not so much outer spacey but inner spacey. I zone into a place that only I seem to know about. So it took three different cars honking - and two guys pointing, and one woman shouting, for me to realize that I had a flat tire.

"Okay," I finally yelled. "I get it." And I turned my car around (actually in the middle of the block on Hill - but don't tell anyone) and I came right back home. I whipped out my Triple AAA card and went into action. As in, "I need to be towed to a car place that sells tires. And...I NEED TO BE ABLE TO DRIVE MY CAR." 

I'm sure the Triple AAA operators hear that a lot. But a few minutes later, wonders of all wonders, I got a call back, and that's how I met the tow truck guy, Hernando, whose name was written on his crisp white shirt.

Tall and handsome, with a nice smile, he jumped out of his truck, got ready to put air in my tire - so he could follow me instead of tow me and said, "With all due respect, I love your hair." What? "I have to color my hair several times a month, and your hair is dark and beautiful and it fluffs." Oh-my-god. He's here for my tire, but he "loves" my hair? Yes, it was true. And after we discussed different hair color brands, he followed me to the tire guy. Just a touch strange - don't you think?

But, that was only the beginning of my experience. 

We get to the downtown tire place, and this really nice, efficient guy says after checking my tires, "I'm only telling you what I would tell my mother. You need four new tires to be safe." Oh-my-god. Again. "How much?" I asked. "Only $750." What? Only $750! I plucked down my credit card - because a little voice within me believed him - and let out a sigh that could be heard in Nebraska.

Now to the second strange part. The really nice guy says, "Jesus, you've got to give Nancy here a ride home, while we fix her tires." "Okay, I will take her home!" says this short guy with curly hair and a sort of crooked looking grin, who worked there. So, he hops into his small truck and so do I. It was then that Jesus, started talking about Jesus.

"Nancy, I believe in Jesus. I love Jesus. I love all religions. They are all the same. Oh, Nancy, it is not about religion it is about people - I love people. All kinds of people. What do you think Nancy, do you believe in Jesus?"

And, I'm thinking if he says Nancy one more time as if he knows me, I'm going to punch his lights out.... But, I say...

"Uh, uh, uh...sure, but Buddhists too, and people who live in Malibu, and the talmud, and rabbis, and uh, uh, uh, sure, Jesus, I believe in God."

"Yes, we are all one!" And with that statement he ran a red light and started speeding down Los Angeles Street. Oh-my-god. Again. "I LOVE THE PEOPLE," he screams. And I scream back, "SO DO I." Then I say, "BE SURE and drop me off at the corner of Third and Hill."

He did. I jumped out fast! And that morning, I found salvation with Jesus with the crooked grin. And I was never happier to leave a truck in my life. Amen.

Hot Socks & Mangos

I own a ga-zillion pairs of socks. Now that is an exaggeration. But not by much. You need to come over to my loft and see the piles. Purple and pink. Red and magenta. Green stripes. No stripes. Flowers. Pastels. Just endless pairs of SOCKS.

The next question you might be asking yourself is how did this happen to a middle-aged woman living in a loft in downtown? Well, I'll tell you - since I AM that middle-aged woman. With A LOT of one dollar bills. That's how.

Okay, I will further explain. I live on Broadway. And for those of you who don't know - Broadway is the sock capital of the world. THE WORLD. I know this for a fact (so, what if I don't and I'm making it up?) that there are more sock vendors on Broadway than anyplace else. 

Soho in New York doesn't hold a candle. Paris on the Left Bank can't even compete. London in one of those fancy stores is a wayyyy distant third.

Why? Because almost every pair of socks on Broadway is HOT. Hot off the truck. Hot from the factory. Hot to the touch. And if you buy a pair NOW, just one dollar, please. Just one dollar. And a pair of socks are yours for $1!!!

So, since I seem to walk the street endlessly and have feet that need endless covering and I usually have one dollar bills in my wallet, I BUY SOCKS almost everyday. Always believing, that one day the sock vendors will be taken away in a paddy wagon, and that I will miss the bargain.

What am I NUTS? No. But, hey this is LA. 

And let's face it - you never know when you'll need them for a 5k, a mad dash to the super market, a run from a thug - I don't know - I'm making this up too. But, socks are important to survive in la-la-land. So I buy hot socks. Lots of them.

Now to the mangos. 

In between the sock vendors are the mango carts - filled with lots of mangos and fresh fruits. When I shop on Broadway for my socks, I always stop and get mangos. I do this because I need to have energy to buy more socks. And I have found that mangos refresh me. And remind me of orange colored margaritas, which I have never had and just made up, too.

But, here are some truths to this post. Socks are definitely hot (in more ways than one) and need to be swooped up - endlessly. And...if it takes eating a mango for you to realize that life in downtown is filled with socks, I say, "eat a mango."

End of story.

Lights, Action, Cowboys?

Now this is a story to rope you in. I hope so, anyway. It all started with "Howdy ma'am."

"Howdy ma'am," said cowboy #1 in the really big hat. "Howdy ma'am," said cowboy #2 in the flashy rhinestone shirt.

And while they were howdying me and ma'aming me (to death), I'm thinking to myself, where the heck am I?

I mean, the last time I did a reality check, I was sure I was walking down Broadway. I was not, I REPEAT NOT, on the Ponderosa or at Disneyland. 

As a matter of fact, I was out solo for the monthly art walk, minding my own business. Honest, ma'am. Honest.

It wasn't until I saw the strobes and the limos and this other really tall cowboy #3, looking like he had just shot 20 bad guys, went to a saloon, belted a few, and was back to shoot some more - that I finally realized where I was.

I had wandered onto the red carpet in front of the Million Dollar Theater where the 40th anniversary of the cowboy movie, The Wild Bunch was taking place. Yippee or not. I was in cowboy land, PR-studded bliss. Downtown's answer to bringing premieres back to where they had happened long ago. 

And being a "cowgirl" at heart (okay, and a starlet, too), I decided it was my chance to play along. Get caught up in the action. Live the dream. Suck it all up. 

I mean, wouldn't you? This is Hollywood, my friend, and you never know when you'll get discovered. Plus, it's good for your imagination.

So I yelled at cowboy #3, at the top of my lungs, "Oh cowboy, I just have to take your picture." Believing by this time that he was real and maybe even a little sexy.

"Okay, ma'am." he yelled back.

"Just call me Nancy, or Annie Oakley, if you want." Not one to miss a beat, he said, "Sure, Annie, I like the way you use a gun," as he pointed to my camera.

I laughed. My most charming laugh. 

Then I took his picture which you see above. I couldn't get him to smile though and I didn't know why until.......the very real bouncer came and asked me to leave the tall cowboy, the land, and the premiere. 

You see, cowboy #3 knew what I didn't. I hadn't been invited and they were coming to get me. 

So much for playing along and using your imagination.