In Hollywood, at the Chula Arms Apartments, on July 5, 1981, the tenants decided to throw a party. Among them were the Dutchman and myself. We took a Sparkletts water bottle and filled it full of white wine, bought a ton of beer, and invited thirsty friends. We even hung out a banner facing the next door apartment. The banner suggested our neighbors alert the police and complain about the noise. Helpfully, it listed a number to call. (Though the number was for the Griffith Park Pony Rides.) In any case, the Dutchman and I started out in the afternoon, drank into the evening, walked to a nearby bar and closed it, then stopped off for a night cap in the apartment of an 88-year-old World War I veteran. After singing a rousing medley of "Over There," "It's A Long Way to Tipperary," and other period songs, the police finally showed up. They politely applauded our choral efforts, then asked us to hold it down. We did as the Dutchman and I passed out and didn't wake up until August.Just remembering all that makes me grab for the Alka Seltzer.
3 comments:
I remember it like it was yesterday how we had the party and then settled things with the five families. They're all gone now Moe Greene, Tattaglia, Barzini, Tessio, Stracci, Cuneo... Sollozzo, Carlo and even Fredo. Some memories never fade. Although I wish the ones of New Zealand would stop waking me up at night. And Tokyo, oh boy, oh boy, talk about your night terrors.
Was this the place with the pool nobody ever swam in?
Ah, you remember well.
They never swam in it sober.
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