VIDEO: MISS EIGHT'S BIKE RIDE

A perfect weather day today, and little on the agenda but to enjoy it. MissEight asked if she could go ride her bike at the neighborhood Junior High parking lot, deserted save for a couple of teens and their summer driver's ed instructor, a maintenance man, and me. Inspired by the family vids by my friend Todd, and the artistic young Spencer Tweedy, I decided to give it a try myself, using my iPhone4 and the Super8 app. Here's how it turned out!

MissEight's Bike Ride 7/5/11 (song is "Steal A Ride" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club)



Afterwards, we plopped her bike into the car and drove over to the OOGCP for some eats, a strawberry milkshake for Bike Girl, and a fine 20 oz. iced latte for me. To make things even better, we saw Mr. and Mrs. Hollywood as they were exiting the coffee shop and Mrs. Hollywood smiled and said, "Oh! Hello!" to us! What a great day!

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HOLLYWOOD 12

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!

MRS. HOLLYWOOD TALKED TO ME TODAY!!!

If you are unaware, The Hollywoods are an elderly couple that frequent my favorite coffee shop. They fascinate me. I imagine them as post-Rat Pack survivors with shag carpeting and swag lamps and a rumpus room. When Mrs. Hollywood appears wearing her '60s Pucci-print jumpsuit and 5" Lucite heels (she is in her 70s, at least), my day is made. I so want to know their backstory, but cannot bring myself to ask anyone. There's something to their mystery that I guess I like.

Mr. Hollywood, a similarly-natty gent, has spoken with me briefly before, always about my kids. He really likes kids, it seems, and I bet would be a lovely and indulgent grandfather. But Mrs. Hollywood more often than not has given me the dead-eye stare down, unsmiling and serious at all times. But TODAY as I was waiting at the counter for my coffee, she brought over the empty bar creamer to bring to the barista's attention, then turned her head to me...and SPOKE:

Mrs. Hollywood: (smiling) How are YOU today?

Me: (slightly stunned) ...Fine, thank you...and yourself?

Mrs. H: Oh, very well... (eyeing my coffee just set on the bar)...ooh, that looks very good, what is that?

Me: It's a mocha. I don't have flavored coffees very much. It's an indulgence today.

Mrs. H: Well, enjoy it!

Me: Thank you! Have a good rest of the afternoon!

I walked off to get the lid for my drink, probably giddily smiling to myself over this perfectly polite and completely unexpected conversation. Her skin was really good. Her shirt had glitter on it. I've never once in these years seen her speak to or acknowledge anyone in the coffee shop outside of the staff and Mr. Hollywood.

HOT DAMN!

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HOLLYWOOD 11: MLK DAY

Half of my MLK Jr. day was spent asleep, the outcome of going to bed very late, a very loud windstorm that kept me awake, and MissSeven, who came in several times to tell me that she didn't care for windstorms or airplanes flying overhead, and especially airplanes flying overhead in windstorms. I think I drifted off around 6AM. I awoke again around lunchtime to a sunny and pleasant day and cheery but hungry kids. After a shower, we hopped over to the OOGCP.

Because it was so nice outside and a holiday, the coffeehouse was packed with the regulars and the irregulars, including Mr. and Mrs. Hollywood! I smiled as I noticed their car parked halfway over the handicapped space line. I think they deserve to park right in the cobble-bricky courtyard if they wish. Mr. Hollywood, grey hair neatly combed back as usual, was rocking a navy-and-white Fila tracksuit and his cane, but I was disappointed to see that Mrs. Hollywood, usually dressed Vegas-hot, was wearing MOM JEANS and WHITE TENNIS SHOES! AW! I have never seen her in anything but skin-tight hot mama stuff and 4" heels. She was wearing her same fluffy silver-white wig, though. As she waited for her quiche to come up, she eyed me over. She did not smile, when I glanced up to look at her. I imagine she stared down many a woman in her day. Go Mrs. Hollywood.

Mr11, MissSeven, and I took our yummy items to sit outside in an attempt to soak up a little Vitamin D.






We talk about the upcoming family trips, the pretty golden retriever with a red bandanna nearby who is so well-behaved, and what they knew about Martin Luther King, Jr. and the civil rights movement. I was surprised and pleased to hear how much they did know, although I had to roll my eyes at Mr11 when he asked if there were still slaves in America when I was young. Why you little. MissSeven piped up to comment that it was "so dumb" to be mean to someone because they have a different color skin. It sure is, I agreed.

There goes the Hollywoods, off to Hollywood-land, around the corner for all I know.





My present to you on this holiday honoring Martin Luther King, Jr., is the 2008 film, "The Night James Brown Saved Boston." From Amazon (interesting piece on NPR with director David Leaf as well, worth a listen):

On April 4, 1968, the leader of the nonviolent resistance movement, Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in Memphis. On April 5, 1968, James Brown sang, and the city of Boston didn't burn down. The Night James Brown Saved Boston tells the story of the pivotal role that James Brown, and that particular concert, played in the political, social and cultural history of the country, focusing on 1968, a defining year for America. Using actual performance footage and the personal recollections of James Brown's band members, friends like activist Reverend Al Sharpton, personal manager Charles Bobbitt, Princeton University Professor Dr. Cornel West, Boston citizens, those who attended the concert, politicians (such as former Boston Mayor Kevin White) and Newsweek's David Gates, The Night James Brown Saved Boston tells the compelling story of an artist at the absolute peak of his powers using his artistry for the greater good.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed two days before my 6th birthday. I remember the news reports, LBJ's address to the nation, the photo of everyone pointing on the balcony where he was assassinated. I remember the feeling of chaos and hopelessness and anger, and those who didn't mourn at all.

This film is worth your time, today or any other day. Enjoy.

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HOLLYWOOD 10

I saw The Hollywoods again at the OOGCP! I am always so concerned that because they are advanced in years that one day they just won't come back. Mrs. Hollywood had on her favorite Pucci jumpsuit AGAIN. She really loves that thing. Mr. Hollywood was looking all natty as usual, with pressed khaki pleated pants, loafers, a button-down shirt, and a red sweater tied at his shoulders. They were admiring a doggie tied outside the coffeehouse. I bet you a million dollars they have a little tiny dog. I bet you a billion dollars.

It has been some time since I have seen them, and a few times while waiting for my coffee to come up at the counter I have almost asked about them. But I didn't. I am not sure if their story would be less wonderful than I imagine it to be, or infinitely grander. I guess I like them to remain legends in my mind, I think, as Mrs Hollywood clacks away in her 4" heels to their car with the disabled parking permit hanging askew from the rearview mirror.

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HOLLYWOOD 9

I'm waiting for my latte at the OOGCP, and there once again is Mr. Hollywood, getting a black plastic lid for his beverage over at the bar. Ooh!, I go to myself, and my eyes search for Mrs. Hollywood, for they are never seen separately.

She is Over There, sitting at the by the window on a tall stool, wearing a faded pink polyester suit with a wavy hem on the pants, and wearing tiny little white boots with many little holes in them. My eye moves up, expecting to see her looking over at Mr. Hollywood, me, or any of the other people in the bustling coffee shop. Instead, her gaze is fixed on nothing; she stares blankly in front of her. It is odd to me when everyone is so close, there is so much chatter and life and busyness all around, so many things to take in.

It is impossible to tell anything from her face. It has been so pulled and plumped and filled and pinched that it has that strange surgery cat look like Joan Rivers or Jocelyn Wildenstein: tiny slits for eyes, pretend cheekbones, and uneven, unreal lips. Nothing moves. Her face is set like a plaster mask in this expressionless void, in the quest of never having to leave what she once was.

Do you become your face? If you lose the ability to show your full range of feelings with expression, do you lose the feelings themselves after awhile? Is your inside tightened and pulled as well?

Mr. Hollywood returns to the window seat with his coffee, and sits next to her. They both stare out the window at the street, saying nothing. I nod and smile slightly at them as I briskly walk past, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, thinking.

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HOLLYWOOD 8

Oh, the deliciousness of sitting and drinking a wonderful rich latte outside of the OOGCP when Mrs. Hollywood walks by me today, in 4" see-through resin heels.

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HOLLYWOOD 7

It took me most of the day to get over the dulling effects of two glasses of white wine last night. I rarely drink, partially because of this. It just takes up too much bandwidth. But the wine was good and fun -- I just can't imagine regularly using a central nervous system depressant of any kind of regular basis. Shit gets old.

Eventually, I shaped up and headed outside on a very pretty day with the kiddies and the dog for a stop at the OOGCP, the rock haircut place, and a local beach. All easy and pleasant. But what did I get the most excited about? Right as we were walking back to the car after getting all wet, smelly, and sandy at the beach, who is seen walking into the OOGCP? MR. AND MRS. HOLLYWOOD!!! OH, YAY!!!! I really thought they had gone away for good, but BY GOD, there they were! And OH YES, Mrs. Hollywood was wearing her signature Pucci jumpsuit, strappy stilettos, and flippy ash blonde wig, and Mr. was rocking the bright blue track suit with a leather coat over it. I must have looked like a complete nut, walking a huge wet black dog, trailing two kids with fresh haircuts and brown dirty wet sand all over them, and smiling this giddy grin at two flamboyantly-dressed elderly people going to get an afternoon coffee.

I like it. I like it more than three glasses of wine.

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HOLLYWOOD 6

I took MissSix and Mr10 to the OOGCP this afternoon for an early dinner of hot cocoa and quiche. As we left, a natty Mr. Hollywood, who was sitting by the door with Mrs. Hollywood, caught my eye.

Mr.Hollywood: You have a couple of very handsome children there!

Me: (big smile) Why, thank you very much!

MissSix: (whispering) What did he say?

Me: He said you were very handsome children.

MissSix: (indignant) I'm a girl! I can't be handsome! (pauses) Was he speaking another language?

Me: HAHAHA!

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HOLLYWOOD 5

The Hollywoods live outside of the OOGCP!

As I was walking through the parking lot of the Walgreen's, I noticed a maroon car parked at an odd angle in the handicapped space by the door. Looking up, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Hollywood, Mrs. H in her Pucci-print jumpsuit and short some-kind-of-animal-fur jacket gallantly being escorted into the passenger side door by Mr.H. The passenger side mirror still dangled limply by wires, hanging on for dear life it seems through the months.

As I walk past the car, I look up and over to Mr. Hollywood, natty with a sharp new haircut, and I smile at him. He smiles back warmly, and I go into the Walgreen's, still smiling.

I think he recognized me!

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PLUG

I like getting all behind stuff. I am a real booster of what I think is awesome, whether it is The Kinks, the perfect skinny jeans, THE SUN, or a great cup of coffee. That said, I am going to give this place a plug, because it is THAT DAMN GOOD:

http://stumptowncoffee.com/

I am a major fan of their Hairbender blend, whether I drink it here at home or down the road at the OOGCP with the Hollywoods and the hipsters. It is the best coffee I have ever had, and I recommend it highly. Order a bag or two today, or stop by their locations in Seattle or Portland. I hear they are opening a couple more in NYC soon.

Time for another cup.

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HOLLYWOOD 4

After a run to the stultifyingly dull post office, I went over to the OOGCP for a refresher latte. Ah! There's the Hollywoods! And Mrs. Hollywood is wearing the tattooed jumpsuit again! AAAHH! This time she has a tan rabbit fur vest over it. Oh my goodness. But for whatever reason, maybe the clouds coming in and the temperature drop, the Hollywoods are very quiet and subdued today. They sit silently at a table, Mrs. Hollywood writing something in a notebook, while Mr. Hollywood stares sadly out the window. They both look older today. Maybe they miss Hollywood. Somehow, I feel a little sad for them. Maybe I have become kind of fond of them.

And here's to you, Mrs. Hollywood,
The Internet loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please Mrs. Hollywood
Heaven holds a place for those who dress,
Yes, yes, yes
Yes, yes, yes.

We'd like to know a little bit about you for my blog
We'd like to know just how you see yourself.
Look around you, all you see are underdressed hipster kids,
Stroll around the coffee shop until you feel at home.

I couldn't stay, but I did peer just a little into their TOYOTA OF HOLLYWOOD car, which I didn't even notice was parked next to me until I returned to my car. The passenger mirror is still dangling, outrageously. There was a deck of cards spread all over the backseat floor, a bottled water there as well. On the dash was a small stuffed cheetah. That made me think about the lingerie of Mrs. Hollywood, which is surely 90% animal print fabrics. Maybe 95%.

I wonder if someday soon they will return to Hollywood to follow the sun, driving the Toyota down Highway 1, mirror clanking against the side of the car, looking for a good place to get a cup of coffee.

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HOLLYWOOD 3

Stuffed up and sluggish, I headed out on this apparently very sunny and pleasant afternoon to go and pick up the kiddies from school. Driving down the road, even I realized that I am not myself, as I am actually going under the speed limit. This will not do, and I drifted, sort of literally, over to the OOGCP to ingest a Grande Latte to help ameliorate some of the side effects of my cold, and late night out.

Ah ha!!! Who is sitting on a chair by the entrance to the coffee place? Our friend, Mr. Hollywood! I am glad to see him, and smile a tiny smile, and try somehow to up my observational abilities though my haze brain. He looks rather subdued today, in light gray pants and a plain white shirt. Again, his longish white hair is slicked back somewhat. He is talking to his Assumed Grandson, today’s barista. I place my order in my ripped-up voice, and stand over to the side to wait for my delicious, life-enhancing beverage to come up. But… wait…

HOLY SHIT! Out from the bathroom walks Mrs. Hollywood! Oh man oh man oh man oh man! She has outdone herself today. At first I thought I was hallucinating; there is a chance considering my altered condition that I did, but I really am sure I saw what I saw. At first I thought I was looking at someone naked with full-body tattoo work. Mrs. Hollywood today had selected for her sartorial offering to the world the tightest, sheerest, pseudo-Pucci-print jumpsuit ever made. This is a jarring thing to see on a 20-year-old model; Mrs. Hollywood is 70 if she is a day.

Well. Whoa. She stands there, talking something at Mr. Hollywood, and I cannot even hear what she is saying because I am so focused on taking in her garment. The print is in swirly muted colors of pink, purple, light blue, and white, the pattern vaguely mystic India-meets-finger paints. Although Mrs. Hollywood is in good shape for her age, we are seeing way way way way too much of her here. Her stomach pooches out like a 5 month pregnancy, I can see her underwear in detail and, most disturbingly, she has a giant camel toe thing going on in the crotch area. Oh, dear. She stands tall and proud on her high high purple patent strappy heels. I glance over at Grandson, who seems fine. He just must be used to this.

I am still staring at her, incognito with my own sunglasses on, when Mr. Hollywood rises, reaches for his cane, and shouts over to Grandson, “We’ll see you on Friday! Friday! OK!” My coffee comes up and I quickly put a black plastic lid over it, and head out the door a minute or so behind them.

Their maroon car with the TOYOTA OF HOLLYWOOD plate is close to mine. There are other stickers on the car window that also say something about Hollywood, but I can’t quite make out what they are. They must’ve really liked living there or something. Mrs. Hollywood slowly backs out of the parking space, and I see that their passenger side mirror dangles by the smallest of wires. Oh, man. I imagine Mrs. Hollywood driving around in that jumpsuit and running into all kinds of stuff, and never admitting that it was her fault. Maybe I will head over to the OOGCP on Friday. I totally don’t mean to stalk them, but damn. This is pretty good stuff.

I slug down half the coffee by the time I arrive at the school, and find my daughter covered in dark blue finger paint. Ha ha ha. I help her wash up while my son gets his backpack. On the ride back home, I am once again driving at my proper speed, 5-8 miles over the speed limit. “A Punk” by Vampire Weekend comes on the radio, and my daughter’s tiny voice pipes up.

“Oh! I remember this song! I like this!”

“Yes, I do too,” I agree. It is a short song, and the next one is by Beck, one I haven’t heard for a while and am glad to hear again.

“Mama? Can you find a song with a girl singing?”

“No, I like this one, I’m going to leave it on.”

“Dammit!” she says cheerily.

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