Cactus Taqueria: the best late-night food in Hollywood
Cat & Fiddle: We crossed two different worlds – some of the Amoeba crew and some of the Technicolor crew gathered for drinks, food and conversation in that dark and glittering courtyard just off of Sunset Boulevard. Most of us ordered food. We traded tales of thievery, insanity, artistry, drudgery and depravity for three hours. Halfway into it, I began to wish I had an audio recorder.
Meal: everyone had fries. I had chicken marsala.
Woke up by seven, in spite of having been out at Cat & Fiddle till late. Crept out of Kirk and Steve’s Beverly Drive apartment into a hazy, sunny morning, threw my stuff in the car and headed up Western to the 101. I shot up the highway to North Hollywood and peeled off at Magnolia to have breakfast with world famous bassist, Sara Rivas at Andrew’s North Hollywood Diner, which is the new and terribly boring name for what used to be Sitton’s North Hollywood Diner (I like the name Sitton more than I like the name Andrew.) More stories, and some decent complaining on both sides. I’m getting a little tired of the story of my ridiculous year, but I’m getting at better and better at telling it.
Meal: scrambled eggs, Italian sausage, coffee
Having time to kill afterwards, I wandered into downtown Burbank to see what was up there, but it turned out that there was nothing up at all. People were just hanging out, buying stuff, going to work and drinking coffee. I bought some coffee, too, to see if I could blend in. But that got boring, so I hopped back into the Beetle and drove down Glenoaks Boulevard to my old neighborhood in Glendale. My old apartment was still there, a full year later. And it looked exactly the same, so I didn’t take any pictures or nothing. I swung around to Brand instead and parked on the street and went to Porto’s Bakery, where all the large people eat breakfast. In the year I’d lived two blocks away from this joint, I’d never actually set foot inside. Now seemed to be the time.
Meal: croissant, plain, unheated
Then to Burbank, where I parked, strapped on my elaborate knee brace (not because I needed it, but because it looks cool) and met up with the Technicolor subtitling gang. We kicked back at the on-campus cafeteria and spent the next hour slinging stories back and forth over the growl and roar of the Metrolink trains and the planes taking off from the airport. “Drive safe,” said Alicia, as we the meeting finally broke apart and we headed our separate ways. “I need you to be able to work.”
Meal: vegetarian pizza slice and a salad, which I barely touched.
Then that was it. I was done with Los Angeles. I climbed into the Beetle, threw the knee brace into the trunk and wheeled onto the 5 to the 118 to the 23 to the 101.
