Jeez, I love sports bars. I like when the Buffalo sauce seeps into your cuticles till three days later. I like when the barmaids ring a little bell – ding-ding -- when you leave a tip.
Did you know there were still Good Samaritans left in LA? Me neither. But there they were, helping me save the dog.
The golden retriever pup hears voices that aren’t even there. She hears the whispered second-thoughts of wayward angels … she hears aphids making out in the trees.
I don’t think I could ever leave LA. You don’t quit on your team after a few bad seasons. Plus, there’s Damon’s. And Porto’s. And my attorney Billable Bob, a magnificent man and an inspiration to so many.
I lost my entire fortune in the Great Depression of 2022. Yet, like most tycoons, I plan to start over again. At the race track.
There aren’t too many venues in America like this. When Disneyland closed for the day, you could see the fireworks show 40 miles away.
A foot-high fish sandwich ($23) arrives that reminds me of the final scene in Moby Dick, when they’re kabobing the poor whale – jab, jab, jab -- which might be a metaphor for dining out in Los Angeles.