Tales of Downtown

Laughing Out Loud - Without Being Committed

Right now, I am holding my sides - that is with a heating pad. I just finished my first Laughter Yoga class. And that my friends is what sets the Westside apart from downtown.

That part of town is a different kind of nuts.

Yeap. It is so pristine, with such fresh air, and no hassles with parking - that the people there do laughter yoga. I mean what else is there to do when you are bored out of your mind, and you want to release stress without going to a therapist?

Hah. Hah. Hah.

You laugh.

You do the sticky laugh. You do the "ho, ha, ha" laugh. You put a laughter pill in your mouth. You sing a Disney song and you laugh while doing a downward dog. I laughed so much, that I am writing this post with a laughter endorphanized buzz. In other words, I'm stoned on myself.

I went to laughter yoga because I am a searcher. A seeker. Maybe even a Chinese Woman Living in a Jewish Woman's Body. Plus, the woman who teaches the one-hour class has been wanting me to go now for three years! So I went.

And I have since realized that all the street guys on the corner - let's say the ones on Main and 6th, or Broadway and 9th - you know the ones who laugh to themselves out loud - ARE NOT NUTS, and they don't deserve to be taken away in a strait jacket - ever.

They are just in touch with their inner laughter - their stress throttle has been unthrottled - and they unlike myself held on to their $15 bucks.

Now that's worth a laugh SUCKER.

That would be me.

7 Women Schlepping 14 Chairs Down Spring Street

The first thing I will say is that Spring Street, between 5th and 6th, has A LOT of potholes. The second thing I will say is NO ONE CARES, when women in heels are stuck pulling a heavy dolly stacked with chairs on Spring Street. And three, at some point in my life I WILL kill the chair guy.

The one who PROMISED ME, he'd be there to pick up the chairs. The one who made MY LIST - yes, that list - the one we all keep in our secret draw - where we WILL someday find away to get back at that person. Even if it means shifting the balance of karma.

All right. I can breathe now. I'm a writer - I've got that need for unnecessary drama out of my system. 

But, here's the story. That is, if you are still interested.

I lead downtown conversation series. I have for almost two years now. For my last conversation, I interviewed a downtown visionary in the recently renovated Spring Street Arcade Building - which is not my taste, whatever - but, "his guy" was supposed to have chairs at the event and then pick them up afterwards.

As I always do, the day before my event, I scope out the reality of what's going on. Turns out the chairs had been returned before my event. Which left me with having to find 14 chairs FAST.

In a panic, I ran over to Bert Green's Gallery. "Bert, I need to find 14 chairs. Who has chairs?"

"Oh, that's easy. Go next door to Russell Brown's place. He has lots of chairs." So, I ran next door to Russell's. Thankfully he was in.

"Russell, you look great, fantastic. But, I need 14 chairs to take over to the Arcade Building. I neeeeed chairs Russell." 

"I've got the chairs but this is ridiculous, the CHAIR GUY just returned those same chairs. The ones you are picking up to take to the same place." 

Huffing and puffing, I lifted the chairs into my SUV.

When I finally caught up with the chair guy (I had texted him so much, my fingers almost fell off) - because I needed him to help me unload the chairs from my car - and he got lost finding me and was 10 minutes late - HE PROMISED me that he would be there on time to pick up the chairs. 

And I fellow Americans....BELIEVED HIM. 

Boy, am I a dummy.

So when he didn't show up, I had to ask the women who attended the conversation (my guests!) to help me lift, stack and pull 14 chairs on a dolly back to Russell's on 5th. We schlepped (and I mean, schlepped) them through the arcade, in the elevator, out the lobby, down Spring. In heels, no less.

If anyone wants to know what the chair guy looks like, just e-mail me. I'd be happy to send you the flier of his face that I keep on my desk.

I Slept Like a Contortionist on Ambien

So when was the last time you took a longggg train ride and had to pay coach because you didn't have enough money for a sleeper and rationalized the whole experience before you went because trains are so romantic and you'd be unplugged from the world and the scenery was gorgeous and, and, and....

Well, I'm here to tell you whoever does PR for trains is a genius. Or else we are all romantic suckers.

Sure it was fun. Yes, I had an adventure. The scenery was to-die-for, but it's two weeks now, since I came back from Eugene, Oregon and I am STILL TIRED.

I might as well begin at the beginning. 

Since I was a little girl, some 100 odd years or so, I had a fantasy about leaving on a train trip from downtown's Union Station. 

When I finally got the opportunity, a few weeks ago, to attend a women's festival in Eugene, I jumped at the chance to take a train instead of a plane or a car. 

In my mind, such as it is, Clark Gable would come walking through the Beaux Art doors. Mink clad starlets would be carting huge trunks. Men in tuxedos would be sipping martinis.

Clearly, I am a Pisces, with a vivid imagination who lives in a dream world and most likely will be visiting Mars very soon. 

This is what really happened. 

My friend Peter walked me in. That is after he paid $3.00 to park for 20 minutes. The station was really humid and hot. No air-conditioning in ANY ORIFICE. As I sat there (in the big sticky leather chairs) waiting for my train to come, the guy sitting across from me in the lobby was picking his pimples. Several other families were mulling about, each member either talking on their cell phone or listening to their Ipod. When I went to get a snack - I had to wait 10 minutes in the gift shop line, because most people were buying lottery tickets.

Yep, this was Union Station. And I really don't care how many movies they make there - the station needs a TUNE-UP. Are you listening? Do you hear me? Does anyone know Councilwoman Jan Perry?

It needs to be rescued by non-dreamers.

Finally when I hopped on the train, I had another reality. There is no such thing anymore as being unplugged. EVERYONE (but not me, of course) was on their cell. Even though in most places the reception was AWFUL. 

"Hi Mary, this is Harry. MARY. MARY? What do you mean you're on a raft in the river? You're 80!" yelled my seat mate Harry when he called his girlfriend Mary. 

Then there was the conductor repeatedly yelling over the loud speaker, "Remember the buzz won't make you wiser!" As passenger after passenger bought wine, beer, whisky, gin - you name it. I was on board with a bunch of drunken sightseers. 

I, on the other hand, was reading one mystery after the next. In record speed. Sitting in my seat minding my own business. Until, it was time to go to sleep. And then it hit me. I was on this train for 24-friggin-hours each way, and I had to sleep in a seat, not a sleeper. 

That is when I realized I needed to be a contortionist on Ambien. Wiggle this way. Woggle that way. Put my head where? Go to the bathroom when?

What does this lead up to? After 24 hours on a train - returning smelly, without a shower for two days, and blurry eyed - Union Station is sensational. And forget what I said before. I lied.

Bad Movie Karma or Whatever

It is definitely payback time. Non-issue. In fact, it might even be karma. As in, don't you mess with me - you, you, you schmuck. 

In January of this year, I was in my PJ's minding my own business when I was lit up like a Christmas tree in my loft. No movie director or producer came by to ask me if it was okay. They just did it. Flashed this huge, humongous spotlight on my windows and started shooting late at night. I wrote about it in "They Got Me in My PJ's." 

It turns out they were shooting the movie Dinner for Schmucks, a re-make of a popular French comedy. And as I predicted then - wayyyy before its current summer release - that with a title like that - and a director like that - this movie would probably go straight to DVD.

Okay, so I was wrong. The movie has not gone to DVD yet.

Maybe because it stars Steve Carell and Paul Rudd. It even grossed over 23 million dollars this weekend in movie theaters - but my initial instincts were right  - IT SHOULD HAVE GONE STRAIGHT TO DVD. 

Out of curiosity, I went to see Dinner for Schmucks. It wasn't horrible. It was THE WORST MOVIE I'VE SEEN IN A DECADE. I even asked for my money back and left half way through. Now, as a writer that was painful - what creative asks for their money back unless they are demented or deranged?

Well, I did and I am not demented or deranged.

Plus it broke my heart to do so - since there were so many awesome downtown sights in the movie - such as the Eastern Columbia lofts building and the Morono Kiang Gallery on third - that I wanted to enjoy. 

But, the movie quite simply was for schmucks. Which apparently no one in the theater was - no one laughed, no one clapped or even snickered. Several of us, just walked out.

And I say, it is because they got me in my PJ's that night in my loft many moons ago. I put a hex on them. And they in turn put a hex on you. That's how karma works.

It is a known fact. 

Whatever the reason -- the movie stinks! Save your money and go on a ferris wheel ride or buy a hamburger or get your nails done.

Goats, Not Goat Cheese

They belch. They bleat. They munch.

And they are one of my most memorable downtown moments.

But, I need to fill you in. 

Last year in July when it was really hot (I swear that was not the issue), I was walking down Hill, in front of the Central Market, and I looked across the street at Angels Knoll park, right next to Angels Flight and I saw about 100 goats.

Goats. Not a vendor for goat cheese. Not someone serving goat stew to foodies. Just goats. Lots of them - in a crooked formation on a hill with the tall buildings of Bunker Hill as a back drop.

Not one to miss a bleat, I pointed to everyone that I could stop, "Look at the goats. Do you see the goats? I mean there are goats in downtown LA?"

You would have thought it happened everyday. No one even reacted, other than one guy on a skateboard, who said "yeah, lady, now we can have a barbecue." Very funny.  

Well, it turns out, once I got over the shock, and googled them, the goats are faster (and cheaper) than a team of real people weed wackers, and good for the environment, too! I also found out they had been in downtown once before and I just read they were in downtown again. 

Maybe the goats will become a regular presence and the chamber will feature a "downtown goats bus tour" and sell goat memorabilia or something crazy-LA like that. I don't know, I just made that up.

What is the moral of this tale? I don't have a clue about that either or even own a Ouiji board. I just think it's a fun story about downtown and goats. After all we don't live in Kansas. That's all. I'm finished.

Photo credits by DrinkEatTravel.

A $9 Pitcher of Margaritas (An Urban Legend Bites the Dust)

Okay, you already know I am big on happy hours. You don't have to be a genius to figure that out. I mean if you've been following me for any length of time - you've read about my escapades (or at least the ones that I can remember).

So, when I was invited by some friends to go to the new El Cholo (on Flower across from LA Live) for "happy hour" margaritas, I jumped at the chance. Not only do I love margaritas, but I've been going FOREVER to El Cholo for Mexican food - the first one opened a thousand years ago on Western - then I followed them to Santa Monica and beyond.

Well, now to the story that led to the urban legend biting the dust.

Before I go to any happy hour, I call the restaurant to see what their specials are. I have this need-to-know-before-I-go-thing. So, when I called El Cholo, the woman who answered said, "We do not have any happy hour food specials, but we do have specials on our pitchers of margaritas. They are $9." 

Not bad. Probably can get five drinks out of a pitcher. 

I got all dolled up, got to the restaurant early, found my friend George there, and proudly said, "they have $9 pitchers of margaritas during happy hour."  

Let the party begin. 

To all newcomers I boasted, "Guess what - they have $9 pitchers of margaritas." And we drank and toasted, toasted and drank. In essence we had appetizers with our drinks, not the other way around. 

Then the bill came. 

Yes, before you go there - I was a little fuzzy. And yes, I did forget my cash (I left it in my other purse), and yes George did turn a little white. But - it seems as though the pitchers were $29 and not $9. Unbelievable! 

We asked the waitress what the deal was, and she said, "Our pitchers are $29." Period. End of subject. Da...dum. 

The bill was paid by emptying our purses and pockets. 

Yet, I knew what I heard on the phone. The next day, I asked to speak to the manager. Joey got on the phone. I explained the whole story. "Yeah, lady, well, it says all over our restaurant that our pitchers are $29," with the implication that I was clearly wrong and maybe even an idiot.

That did it. I resorted to press blackmail. "Have you heard of Tales of Downtown? Well, it's my POPULAR blog and I will write about this Joey!" 

A pause of silence. Then changing his tone he said, "When do you and your friends want to come in? We'll treat you to a round of drinks. Our pleasure." 

Next week we are going back to El Cholo. Okay, so I muscled Joey. Used the power of the press (you can laugh now), but I was upset. I knew what I heard. It was not - an urban legend - not.

And who ever heard of a $29 pitcher of margaritas anyway? 

She Moved From Umbria to The Brewery - For Love - Just Another Downtown Story

One of my favorite things to do is to go to downtown gallery openings. Perhaps, in a past life I was a painter - because in this life - I can't even draw a straight line.

I love going solo, too. All dressed up (for what I haven't decided), having a glass of wine, meeting the artists, looking at the art - I feel deeply satisfied. 

Well, one night early last year I went to the Tarryn Teresa Gallery in the Arts District. Standing in front of me in the sea of people with a BIG camera around her neck - was this woman. Dressed in a great colorful outfit, hat to match, and a BIG smile.

I don't know why, but I felt compelled to meet her. "Hi, my name is Nancy Mills, I live in a loft in downtown, I love it here, and isn't the art just great!" I said so quickly, that even I couldn't understand myself. "What's your name?" I asked just as quickly.

"My name is Cielo Pessione, and my English isn't so good, I recently moved here from Italy." "Your English sounds perfect to me. And why did you move here? And where do you live?"

"Well, I moved here from Umbria for LOVE and I live at The Brewery." 

Oh-my-god. How romantic. "You moved here for love?" "Yes I did. I married the downtown artist John O'Brien. And I came with my daughter Gaia."

That was it for me. This was a remarkable woman. A brave woman. She moved from the gorgeous Italian hillside village of Umbria to the downtown industrial-looking Brewery. For love. 

As a writer I was in heaven. In my mind - this had the potential of a romance novel. A movie. A play. The love story of the century!

Back to reality and long story short, I gave her my card, she gave me hers, and in time, we have become good friends. 

Turns out - Cielo is a talented fiber arts artist who makes sensational wearable art. She comes from a famous Italian family, has appeared in her own one woman play in Italy, has written three books and is the spokeswoman and curator for her grandfather - the renowned Italian actor Aldo Fabrizi.

I admire her greatly. She is also a kind, humble woman.

But the point of this post is that Cielo followed her dream - even if it was "for love." At age 48, she let nothing stop her from coming to a place she'd never been (except for a week here, a month there). Not her family, friends, fame, or culture.

And like so many downtowners (brimming with their own stories) - she was willing to start a new chapter in her life. Take a chance. And just do it! 

And I shout, "Bravissimo!" "Mazel Tov!" "Salut!" You get the picture.

Thank you Cielo for being my second guest in my current "Downtown Conversation Series With Co-Creators and Visionaries." You are the best! Nancy

Remember When I Told You About...The Naked Guy? Well...There's A Naked Woman Too

When I needed a pick me up, I walked over to Origami's. Corner of Third and Spring. They had the best happy hour in downtown. That is until they changed chefs - but hey, this tale is not about chefs it is about...gossip and body parts.

One night, after working for countless hours in my loft, I put on my flip flops, grabbed my purse, and headed over for a $3 glass of wine and half-price sushi appetizers. Easy. Right? Until...I got to Origami's. 

That is when I met the new bartender. He had tattoos all over his arms, a pierced ear - well now that I think about it many pierces in both ears, and he was really in the fashion business and a designer but he was a bartender on the side - if you catch my drift. 

I asked him for a glass of wine on the happy hour menu and he said that it had ended five minutes ago and that he couldn't give me the happy hour price. Pleeeeeze I begged. "Nope, no can do - the computer won't take it." 

"Oh, I am so disappointed," I said. Resigned to my fate.

Then, he said, with glee, "But, there is no happy hour prices when it comes to wine - all night it is $3 per glass." Hah, hah, hah, he laughed. Oh what a guy. 

But that was only the beginning of my night. Seated next to me were what appeared to be two regulars. Since Origami is on the first floor of the Douglas Building, it was no surprise that one of the "regulars" lived in the Douglas. Not one to miss a beat (that would be me), I said, "I live across the street in the Pan American Lofts and I saw a Naked Guy on your roof."

Well, you would have thought I dropped a bomb. The woman regular said in a huffy voice, "There are no naked men on our roof. That would be impossible. But......there is a NAKED WOMAN in your building."

"What???????" I asked. "How do you know that?" "Because, the tenants who live on THAT SIDE of our building have seen her." 

"What floor?" I asked. "I have no idea," she answered, "but.......apparently she prances around naked all day with her shades OPEN."

Okay, it was clear that we were in a contest of one upmanship. We glared at one another. Then, she toasted the other regular. I toasted the tattooed bartender, who I clearly had nothing in common with. She embellished her story. I embellished mine.

Until we finally left. Exhausted. 

But, between you and me, there was ABSOLUTELY a naked guy on the roof of the Douglas Building and her story was simply bull....

Thank you for listening. And before I forget, I rarely walked around naked.

The Whole Enchilada

Before I moved downtown, I lived on the Westside. A yawn. A sigh. About as ethnic as white toast or Wonder Bread. Well, at least to me anyway. 

To get away from the boredom, I would get in my car and drive downtown to the Fashion District. I would pretend that I was in Mexico on one street. Guatemala on another. Paris on another. 

I didn't care where I was on my travels - I just felt as though as I was transported to someplace else. A foreign land where people spoke a foreign language, with vendors who wore vibrant colors and hocked their vibrant wears, and children ran up and down the streets with new toys in their tiny hands.

Heaven, sheer heaven. 

What most of you don't know about me is that for years prior to my downtown adventures, I was a travel journalist. It was my way of earning a living, having some fun, and GETTING AWAY FROM LA. 

But once I found downtown about five years ago - after a friend recommended the Fashion District, which I didn't even know existed - I was hooked. And if I needed my "travel fix," I just got in my car and drove downtown.

Soon I expanded my adventures.

One day I would go to Chinatown, where I would walk Chung King Road - the charming windy street with many galleries - and pretend I was a Chinese maiden looking for my long lost artist lover. Or, I would go to Little Tokyo, and have tea in the Japanese American National Museum, and write in my journal. Or one night when I was really feeling restless, I even had the courage to go to The Hive Gallery on Spring - a street I had never been to - for my first Art Walk.  

To me, downtown was my trip. My whole enchilada. My adventure of surprises. 

So, when I finally took the leap and moved downtown my surprise was that there were still so many more surprises.

The teller at the bank, who always smiled (they don't do that on the Westside - they are very serious). How the same guy slept on the same corner every night. The fact that when you moved here, the first thing you asked when you rented a loft was, "Does it come with a parking space?" A ridiculous question in most parts of LA. 

And...I realized very quickly that in between the nooks and crannies were stories. And the windows only a very small reflection. 

Yes, an ADVENTURE. One that you don't need to purchase a ticket for...all you have to do is step on for the ride.

How Cameron Diaz Helped Put It All in Perspective

Today, I am filing this post from my parent's condo in Century City. Since I live in a loft in downtown and write about my adventures from there - I'm sure you've figured out something is up.

OH YES IT IS. That is why it's taken me so long to write this post. I apologize for missing a week. I just didn't know what to say.

But inspiration came to me last night in the form of Cameron Diaz. 

As a little back story - I moved into my "new loft" on Sunday, April 18th  - since then I have not been able to sleep in the unit for six nights - due to a severe reaction to the cleaning fluids used to clean it as well as MORE YUCKY STUFF that I will fill you in about later. 

Right now though I want to tell you about my friends. 

I am blessed with many wonderful, caring friends. Many of whom have gone "way beyond" to help me this week - one of the hardest in my life. I refer to them as saints. St. Stacy, St. Susan, St. Betty, St. Frederica, St. Ruth, St. Peter, St. Marc, St. Jaimi, St. Dawn and on and on. Boy, am I lucky. 

St. Susan, who in real life is known as Susan Miller, is the founder of Astrology Zone, a successful internet company. She lives in New York and we're close friends. I greatly admire her. Not only do millions visit her site monthly, but she developed an astrology "software" program before anyone knew that "soft" and "ware" went together, and her own mobile application - way ahead of others, too. This, in addition to raising two daughters solo. 

A famous astrologer, she happened to be in LA this week. Knowing what I was going through, she insisted on taking me to dinner last night. "Nancy, you need to eat!"

Just as I arrived at Susan's daughter's apartment in West Hollywood to pick her up, I got a call from her. "Nancy, I'm at the Chateau Marmont. Can you pick me up here?" 

What? Frustrated and exhausted from my loft ordeal, I screamed into my cell, "I don't know where the Chateau Marmont is!" Actually, I did, but I had forgotten and besides I was already at the place where I was suppose to pick her up! 

"I'll put my friend on the phone to help you," she said. 

MOST DEFINITELY NOT my thoughtful charming self, I rudely said, "Geez, can you drive Susan to the restaurant? What about a cab?" Her friend answered very sweetly - "I have a car, but I can't drive it. Sure, if you want I'll put her in a cab. But it's really close. All you have to do is go two blocks east and make a left on Crescent Heights and then another left on Sunset." 

"Okay, I said begrudgingly, I'll be there in eight minutes!" And, I'm thinking why can't she drive her car?

When I pulled into the hotel's parking lot, Susan and I waved at each other - and in the corner of my eye I noticed her friend standing next to her. 

Oh-my-god. Her "friend" was Cameron Diaz. I was rude to Cameron Diaz. And Cameron Diaz was walking to my car! 

"I swear to you, I am not my normal self. I was talking to you? You are so adorable. Prettier than in the movies. Honestly, I've just had a really bad week." "I know, she said, "Susan told me, and I wanted to come down and meet you."

"Really?" Then I started babbling - how I was having so much difficulty, and I knew that one of my loft property management guys was single, and if she could just talk to him, I'm sure everything would be okay. And how about if I drove her downtown, and....

....Without a stitch of make-up on, looking beyond stunning, she smiled her gorgeous smile, giggled her famous giggle, and said she would help but that she needed to leave now and she gave Susan and I more directions.

I was ready to kill Susan. "Why didn't you tell me she was "the friend?" "I did!" Then she said, Cameron was at the hotel to help another friend. Her friend's friend went into labor THAT DAY in Boston. At the age of thirty, while giving birth, she unexpectedly died and so did her baby.

Now that was a tragedy. 

And in a poignant moment I will never forget, I realized that life is all about perspective. And in my case, it took the kindness of a famous stranger to help me see it.

I'll fill you in on my moving saga later. 

But before I finish this post, I'd like to lovingly thank my elderly parents for being there when I needed them, at a great inconvenience to themselves. THANK YOU Mom and Dad.