Saturday, December 12, cocktails at half-past 6. Shall I make the reservations? It’ll be under
Shostakovich, like we used to do way back in the day when Joe Callaci hadn’t died yet and we were younger than we were then and eating at Keno’s and The Ginger Jar, was as ‘busy’ as it got. Giggling like hyena’s over the blond haired blue peepered surfer gals at Denny’s tried to pronounce Dimitri’s last name over the PA speaker system. It was a BLAST! We’ll have icy cold things to drink in angular frosted glasses with multiple olives and, who knows, maybe we’ll get so stupid intoxicated, we’ll just have to check into a room at the nearby Holiday Inn, though we’d really fancy a wild taxi-cab ride downtown to a fleabag ROSSLYN hotel, for a room on the northside, over looking the L.A. Times building maybe. Perhaps. Perhaps. And then we could stay a week, order up some Bic pens, blue ink, legal pads, write. And have the nsa record our telephone conversations on drop devices as we call our agents over on the Westside, trying vainly to convince them the pages will be there by next Wednesday, we promise, so, just direct deposit any remainder/retainer, because we’ve just maxed out our second credit card for the first time in our lives and there’s only one left and there will be NO merry chanukkah this year.