Los Angeles
Friday, August 13th
I pick up some tennis balls at The Racquet Doctor. Unfortunately, they are sold out of my preferred brands, Wilson and Penn, so I settle for Babolat. The popularity of the sport combined with Covid-19 is causing ball delays. I hate using off-brand balls, but it doesn’t affect my mediocre game. It’s all in my head.
Then I meet Jason at the Glendale Community College, our quiet, suburban tennis oasis. It’s almost 100 degrees. The courts are empty because ordinary people don’t play in the heat of the day, but Jason and I love the sweat. He uses an Apple Watch to track his calorie burn, data which I like to hear, but refuse to collect myself because I hate wearing a watch of any kind.
I get home and take a shower before spending 45 minutes in my Normatec 2.0 Leg Recovery System. It’s an insane contraption that uses compression to speed up recovery. I treat my temple like a real athlete in hopes that I eventually behave like one. I am texting with our booking agent, and he tells me that our Bowery Ballroom show has sold out.
Alix and I meet Jason and Karolyn at Freedman’s, which is now Greekman’s in the cursed neighborhood of Silverlake. The food was good, and the vibe was fun. It did not transport me to the clubs of Mykonos, and I am thankful for that. We argued about toothpaste. Karolyn hates Marvis, and she prefers Tom’s, the crunchy health food store toothpaste. I don’t hate Tom’s, but I love the faux luxury that Marvis provides. No one wins the argument; at least we all brush our teeth.
Saturday, August 14th
My legs are cooked, but Saturdays, I run. I drive down to Melrose and park my car. Melrose is fucking gross. I don’t know why I do this. Maybe because it’s flat? I pass all the “cannabis” stores, second-hand sneaker stores, barbershops, and Reformation. After passing Byredo and Palace, I hang a left on Santa Monica and run until I hit Rodeo, an abandoned electric scooter storage facility. I listen to embarrassing music that I genuinely enjoy. Nothing gets me going like Taking Back Sunday.
We have decided to spend the night at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. The pool is the main attraction. We arrive at noon to catch the most of the sun, and the pool is predictably bumping. The crowd is a mix of hot TikTok teens in tiny bathing suits, wealthy good looking Israeli families with many loud children, and the odd tourist from Texas who proudly tells the waitress that she doesn’t recycle before ordering another skinny margarita. They play SoulCycle music a little bit too loud and serve water in cans. I read New York Magazine. An article about a writer who overdosed before his first book came out to critical reviews and a story about a powerful Hollywood and Broadway producer who threw staplers at his assistants. I get a little too much sun.
As we set out for dinner, the sun is hidden behind a dusty grey film. A wildfire is burning nearby. This is how it goes in California. Night + Market is excellent, but the Silverlake location is too busy for me. We realize we are across the street from the new WeHo location and go for dinner. The crowd is tourists from Austin wearing boots with jeans in the summer. The maitre d’ listens to my podcast and sends out some vegan larb. Sweet guy. Asleep by 9:30 PM as god intended.
Sunday, August 15th
If I am honest, I hate the weekends. They are boring. The action slows down while people spend time offline with their friends and families. I prefer when my email is booming, and Twitter is moving like the Autobahn. So what do other people do on Sundays? Recharge? LOL. Dorks.
Alix orders an almond milk latte from room service. Getting a single coffee delivered seems extravagant, but that is the whole point. I watch a Youtube video of Gillian Welch playing in 1997. What a voice.
I travel, even locally, with my podcasting equipment. It’s lame, but luckily it is all contained in a blaze orange Pelican hard case. It demands respect. I wish podcasting in a hotel room made me feel like a touring musician laying down an essential demo before getting on the bus and heading to the next city. Sunday’s recordings are just Jason and me, no guest, making it a bit easier and looser. We do it early, so we are both buzzing on cold brew. I like for Jason to be hungover. He pushes us back 15 minutes because he has to walk the dogs. That is not a euphemism. Pets seem like a pain in the ass. We theorize on the mic about starting a restaurant that combines the flavours and customs of Italy with the Salt Life brand. SEC Football meets Champions League with a raw bar, Peroni, and cocaine. We Google Joe Rogan’s wife.
Post podcast, I meet Alix at the pool to read The New York Times. A “Work Friend” question stops me in my tracks. A young woman, “Brit” from Indianapolis, is wondering if the 40-hour workweek is, in fact, a reality. She has “hobbies, creative pursuits, therapy, laundry, and a small dog” that keep her too busy to work. This, of course, makes me mad. I immediately post about it on Twitter. I wonder how many hours a week I work.
On the way home, we make a stop at Bristol Farms. You hear a lot about Erewhon, but Bristol Farms is the most underrated grocery story in the Los Angeles metro area. It has everything, and the setting is luxurious. It’s a scene in its own unique way; Beverly Hills milfs with Range Rovers filling up carts with expensive must-haves like bottled mint water and fresh gluten-free pasta noodles. It’s the closest thing to Dean & Deluca that we have.
I received an old issue of Dazed and Confused I ordered from eBay. It’s all about New York City from the year 2002. It’s got a front-of-book piece on Interpol, 18 pages of Terry Richardson photos of his friends, and eight pages of Ryan McGinley photos with text by then-Vice magnate now-Proud Boy leader Gavin McInnes. What ... a different time! Ryan’s photographs are so good, and I am happy that I have many of his early books in my collection. I chat with my friend Jed about it for a while via direct message. A vintage rugby shirt also arrives in the post; it doesn’t fit. You win some, and you lose some.
Chris Black is a writer, consultant and co-host of How Long Gone.