Party Like Big Chuck!

My dear friend Jennifer reminded me of another classic Impy moment last night.  “Party like Big Chuck” is a phrase we now use to describe a bacchanalian type evening of revelry.  For example, if the Patriots win the Super Bowl, I’m going to “Party like Big Chuck”.  (Not literally though.) This term came to be one night when one of our local newscasters partied a little too hard here. Now as you might have guessed, his name isn’t Chuck, but I don’t want to get sued by the guy, so Chuck it is.  Also, for the sake of staying out of court, this story is highly edited.  However if you have lived in San Diego for any good period of time, I’m sure you can figure out who he is.  Chuck was quite the character about town.  Many of his live, on the street interviews left many viewers scratching their heads.  He had a very un-P.C. sense of humor and the loud booming voice that would fill a room.  Yep…he was “That” guy.  We’ve all known one, right?

 Now to the night in question…I was returning from an early night out, and as I walked up the driveway to the Imperial for a night cap, I see our man Chuck sitting on the cement bench out front with a blonde, and a woman  who lives in our building.  My neighbor was in his lab and his hands were all over her. His giant head was bright red and glistening with perspiration despite the fact that the night was a chilly one.   In the few steps it took me to get from the sidewalk to the front door of the bar, his groping excelled from first base to rounding the bases, just sliding shy of third. The trio didn’t care who saw. It. Was. On! 

The sight made me wish there was a magic bleach that would wash images from one’s memories, but alas I have yet to find such a magical concoction.  I quickly went into the bar to find the next best thing, a strong drink.  The debauchery continued as soon as he and the two ladies came back inside.  My neighbor’s boyfriend was inside as well seemingly unaware of what our newsman had just been doing to his girlfriend.  The four partied well into the night despite the apparent breaking news story in the men’s room that Chuck kept going in to investigate. 

Friends of mine arrived.  We sat stunned watching the show our newsman put on with his new buddies. Every turn he did on the dance floor, every breast he exposed, every booming laugh, every trip to the bathroom had us in stitches.  All knew Big Chuck liked to party, but this was a whole new level!  A few months later Big Chuck lost his news gig due to an unrelated incident. Not being a fan of our local news coverage, I have no idea if he ever made it back on the air.  Rumor has it Big Chuck is still in town. However, I doubt he’ll ever make another appearance at the Impy.  So thus the phrase “Party like Big Chuck” was born.  We jokingly use the phrase now and then. It’s much more accurate than the tired old “Party like a rock star”. 
  

Oh, and if you have figured out who our party monster is, please don’t post it here.  I really don’t want to piss off Big Chuck.  ;)

The End of an Era

First off, it's been forever since I've posted.  My apologies!  Please ignore any errors, as I have not had time to edit today.  That said, today is the end of an era. After almost 40 years, today is the last day the Imperial House Restaurant will be open for lunch. Don't worry kids. They are still open for dinner and drinks at night, but only Tues-Sat now.  However, bets are being taken on how long before they close the whole operation.

Opened in the late 1960’s by the Kelly family, its menu really hasn’t changed, nor have the stiff drinks.  Most of the staff has been around for the duration as well.  In the most recent years the lunch crowd has been referred to as “The Wrinkle Room”.  There is a large group of business men who hold down the far end of the bar on a daily basis.  Judges, Lawyers, liquor vendors, insurance brokers, steel barons, old sports heroes...they are all part of the Impy fraternity.  Gin after Gin, Bourbon after Bourbon, beer after beer, these guys never shut up.  Each one has his special position at the bar.  Unless you are a woman, don’t you dare take one of their seats.  And if you are a woman, be prepared for colorful conversations. 

I'm heading down for the final lunch now. I'm being sponsored by one of the old-timers. I've had the pleasure of taking part in the daytime crowd from time to time over the last 10 years.  I guess I’ve earned my spot at the bar with the guys.  I was invited to the final lunch today by one of them.  It’s their playground, and I am just an occasional visitor so I didn’t feel comfortable accepting.  After a bit of cajoling, I hesitantly agreed.  I didn’t want to intrude on their final game.  As a compromise, I decided just to come down for the drink portion of the schedule. 

It’s a full house at the bar as expected, but not expected are the full booths.  Word got out to the senior citizens that lunches are done, so they all hobbled in for one last Steak Tar-tar. Blue haired ladies in their finest, old gents in their suits...For a moment I feel like I am in an episode of Mad Men.  Heck, even the outfits are the same.  Something tells me the rest of today’s story will be fuzzy.  I don’t make it a habit to drink this early in the day, but it is a special day after all.  Any details I can remember are to follow. 

Guest contributer! Welcome, Becks!

Former member of the "Imperial House Mafia" (Inside joke!), Becky has been kind enough to share one of her memories of the Impy.  Becks-Thanks so much for sending this in. I had forgotten about this night, but thanks to you the memory lives on.  This was at one of the annual Imperial Tower Christmas parties, which is another whole story I will tackle soon.  And just a sidebar...didn't he run for mayor of San Diego once?  For you to enjoy, "A Warm Cocoon" by Becky...

"Some of my fondest memories of Imperial Tower are the times I'd come home from various trips. I already felt at home seeing the building from the airplane (as mentioned by Peanut)...then taking a cab from the airport. Too tired to go back out and eat, I'd go straight to the bar for a delicious mid-day reuben sandwich and a couple vodka greyhounds. I always felt like I was back in the Sixties, Mad Men-style.

One Christmas Eve, my then-husband and I had just come home from Vegas, and I was so exhausted that I didn't think I could even handle a drink at the bar. He decided to go downstairs, and I remember sitting in the apartment feeling overly-sentimental and crying as I watched some holiday special on TV. It was cold and I felt weird and out of place, not even the holiday lights on the Mr. A's building outside my window were cheering me up. So, I got myself together and made my way down the elevator and into the warm cocoon of Imperial House.

Only a few regulars were there, and David behind the bar. Just being there and seeing the old familiar Christmas decorations made me feel better. I ordered a rum eggnog- and David proceeded to make the absolute best one I'd ever tasted. I was definitely myself again. Then the strangest thing happened- a Santa Claus-for-hire walked in the door. A Magic Santa.

Apparently, he was hired to come in every year to perform for the patrons, so he did...for all 5 of us. As he performed his magic tricks, I felt bad that there was such a small crowd, and then I started to recognize him- he was also a landlord who had shown my husband & I an apartment in Point Loma years ago. I remembered his name- Loch David Crane. It was such a surreal night...a Christmas memory I'll never forget. But I always get a warm safe feeling when I'm there, whether it be the in bar or one of the apartments upstairs, that I've never felt anywhere else. I think it's a mix of the people and the building itself. Impy is definitely one of a kind."

Thanks again, Becky!  And while this was not taken at the Impy, I did manage to find a picture of him as Santa! You've got to love Google!

Some People Don’t Know When to Leave

Anyone who knows me has heard a ghost story or two. Okay, probably more than that, but it’s another thing that keeps my fascination with this place going. One shouldn’t be surprised that there are so many here in this building. Over the years many elderly have lived and died at the Imperial Tower. My mom actually had several patients here when she did hospice work many years ago. In the years I have lived here I have attended more funerals than I would like to remember. But let’s not dwell on the sad. Let’s move instead to the strange.

From the first day I lived here there have been whispers about things that go bump in the night. One neighbor constantly awoke to the feeling of somebody tucking here feet in very tightly at the end of her bed. Another woman who moved into the same apartment years later was awakened by the sheets being pulled off her feet. (Admittedly, she had really cute feet.) The two women never met, so hearing these stories gave me pause as to what was happening in that particular unit. As time went on, it went from sheets being moved around to cabinets opening in the middle of the night and weird shadows darting about.

One man on the 8th floor and a girl who moved into the 3rd floor confessed to me the feeling of waking up with the feeling of somebody holding them down in their beds. Strangely, it happened to both of them just after moving in. The girl moved out after about three months, but I can’t say that is why. The other is still here and has been free of visitors in his bed since. (Unless of course, you count the occasional booty calls he gets from his from his ex.)

Two years ago, my beliefs got a bit of a wake up call. I had weird occurrences in my apartment on a regular basis, but as an avid Ghost Hunters viewer, I was sure that everything was explainable. Every time something happened I went into Jay and Grant mode and quickly found a reasonable answer for the event in question. Plumbing, the cats, my own general forgetfulness…these things explained a lot. Until one morning I could not rationalize away what I saw. In a nutshell, my invisible roommate didn’t like my explaining his actions away, so he made it very clear he was indeed here with me.

I stood at the bathroom mirror while I was getting ready for work. Some movement on the counter caught my eye. My deodorant which was lying on the counter was rocking back and forth a bit. I looked around to see what could have bumped it, and then figured it was just a fluke. I went back to looking in the mirror when suddenly it slid about three inches to the left on its own. That I could not ignore. I did what every TV show I have ever seen on the subject had told me to do. I politely acknowledged that I saw it move and told whoever moved it to please leave. I guess that was not the right response because as soon as I sat down, a tub of bath salts went flying of the back of the toilet and struck the glass shower door with enough force to cause me to grab the nearest pieces of clothing from the floor, and franticly dress my self as I ran out of the apartment.

Since then I have managed to catch EVP recordings that would make Jay and Grant cream their pants. Not the fuzzy, barely decipherable, one word recordings they gather round and play over and over during sweeps week. Full sentences. Things really heated up for a while and the constant moving (or should I say throwing) of things caused me to sleep on neighbors’ couches until I finally came to the realization that I had to go home at some point, or leave the apartment all together. I resolved that if my ex-husbands nutty girlfriend didn’t drive me out of the building, no stupid ghost would. I came home.

I burned sage, burned sweet grass, had religious friends bring over their trinkets that they swore would do the trick, and had conversations with thin air asking for peace. I slept on my couch for months because I was terrified of my bedroom. I saw him once…A tall thin man in dark clothing staring at me when I woke up in the middle of the night. He was silhouetted by my closet light that I had left on for protection, and as solid as can be. I screamed at him to get out and with one blink he was gone. Over the years he and I have come to an agreement. He is still here and only toys with me slightly these days, just enough to remind me he is here and always just when I start to forget. Myles is just lonely from what I can tell. Not so much a threat as long as I don’t forget he lived here first. Did I mention his name is Myles? Yeah, we got that on a recording too.

So now I wonder if he is the same one who would tap the old lady who lived across the hall on the shoulder whenever she was doing dishes. Another family described the same man I saw in their apartment on the second floor. While they would sit on the couch watching TV, this mysterious man would peek out from their kitchen door and look at them. A similarly described man has also been seen in the kitchen of the restaurant, disappearing through walls once he is spotted. Does Myles roam the building or are these other neighbors from the past? There are also women and children here to from the reports I’ve heard. One elderly lady who lived here was seen shortly after her death by several of her closest neighbors. I’ve even had a little girl come up on a recording or two. For the most part I don’t try to contact any of them anymore. I figure if they want attention they will ask for it. No need to pester them. Just like with my living neighbors, you just have to give them some space and take the time you have together with them as something special.

Sounds of the City

Living here is so unlike living anyplace else. Yes, you could argue that it is just like living in any other city. There is a Starbucks one block away, the city bus comes by every 15 or so minutes, there is a pattern to the traffic and the sounds that surround you can be found in many other metropolitan areas. This even includes the occasional mental patient who walks up the street screaming about Jesus, talking squirrels and the aliens that are surely following him. But here we have a few oddities that you are unlikely to experience anyplace else.

For one, there have been many sparkling mornings where I have sat on my balcony with my cup of coffee just to eavesdrop on the monkeys. These beautiful mornings are why everybody else in the country wants to move here and why we pay such ridiculous amounts of money to live here. Some call it the sunshine tax. But on these special mornings, early, before the traffic starts, and when the atmosphere is absolutely still, you can here the animals in the zoo stirring. Usually it is the Howler monkeys. They really vocalize. But I have heard the Sea Lions once or twice as well. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it tickles me. Of course there are our famous flocks of wild Parrots that cruise through every morning and every dusk. Their calls are distinct. If you don’t see them, you definitely hear them.

We can also hear the sounds of the waterfront. The cruise ships coming and going. Their horns announce their departure with 3 short blasts and one long one. My favorite is the fog horn. It is rare, but on those special foggy nights, its call is always soothing. Then there are the trains. Thank god we are far enough away where we don’t hear every passing train. (I have to deal with that at my office every day.) But at night, again when it is still, you can hear the random train horn from just down the hill.

Some Sundays there are drum circles in the park. This is one of my least favorite sounds of the city. It’s hard to concentrate on my tasks at hand with an unsteady beat penetrating my windows, but luckily the circles seem to spend more time on the east side of the park these days. Which leads me to one of my favorite sounds…The California Tower bells. Every 15 minutes the bells toll. At noon everyday, a whole song is played on the bells. It’s always a welcome sound.

There are also the planes, evening firework shows in the summer, men playing Rugby in the park, the shouts of a man one block away who yells at the televised football games, dogs barking, cars honking at random protesters on the corner where the bridge comes out of the park and meets 6th Avenue, ambulances making their runs from downtown to the local hospital, and the mysterious bagpipe player who pops up a few times a year to play outside our building…All of these sounds can be heard from the comfort of my apartment at the Imperial Tower. I live in my own urban symphony. While some sound are nice, and some obtrusive, I wouldn’t give it up for the quite of the suburbs. That would surly be the death of me.

Why I Don’t Go To Clubs-Reason #243

Many people over the years have judged me for hanging at the dark and dated Imperial House lounge. I’ve been told that I’m missing out on meeting young, wealthy, movers & shakers my age by not spending my time in the downtown clubs. First let me say, I’m not impressed by anyone who will pay $400 for bottle service on Vodka I can get down the street for $20. Second, I don’t own a pair of Lucite heels, and third, while the downtown scene has great moments I’m sure, but I prefer to drink and socialize without the deafening “thud, thud, thud” of a blown-out bass in my ear.
That being said, it might not be pretty or glamorous at the Impy, but if I was downtown when I met Serge I can pretty much guarantee we would not be friends today. We would have maybe exchanged small talk before I blew him and his button down Banana Republic dress shirt off for someone with tattoos and cynicism. I would have put him into a very small box along with all the other downtown yuppies (if that is a term still being used) and moved on not knowing what a good friend I could have found.

Serge doesn’t live in the building, but he lives a block away and he frequents the Impy. He has been around for years, and because of that he gets honorary Imperial Tower status. I can’t remember the exact moment or year we met, but he is a regular and even more importantly a friend.

Serge is special in that he is my sparring partner. Let me preface by saying he is one of the smartest men I know. I don’t just spar with anybody. East coast transplant, businessman, published author, foodie, and political junkie, we are well matched for debate. And while we fall on different sides of the political lines, nothing is more fun than having a good row with him.

I refuse to debate with the uninformed. There is no fun in that. No challenge and no respect. But my dear Serge worked both sides of the political lines before coming to the beliefs he holds today. And while I disagree with most of his beliefs, I respect them immensely. Debate for us is a weird form of nerd foreplay. Now don’t get me wrong, we are not involved. We do however both get a weird satisfaction out of debating each other. (I can only speak for myself, of course.) Election years are of particular fun to us, much to the dismay of those who happen to be within earshot of us. The bartender on many occasions has interrupted our conversations and told us we have to change the subject. Serge and I would take a break from our banter to plead with him and try to convince him that we were only having fun and that there was no need for concern. A mutual respect keeps things in check. Unfortunately the bartender doesn’t follow politics at all and thinks that any political discussion will end in a bar fight. Regardless, much fun has been had in and out-of earshot of our dear bar manager.

Sadly, Serge is planning a move back to the east coast. After many years of debating together, drinking together, even a weird incident where I had to help him out with some thugs who wanted to fight, Serge may be leaving. I wish him the best! A house on the east coast to be closer to his family, settling down and maybe even starting a family of his own, Serge will be leaving before the year ends. I hope that in the coming years we will be able to keep in touch. Who knows…I try to get to New York at least once a year. Maybe we can catch up and continue our tradition over drinks in the village, or at his new home with wife, kids and dog by his side. All I know is it won’t be at some club. And quite frankly, I’m okay with that.

The Legend of Rick Lyon Begins!

It all started one night when a friend and I were enjoying a drink at the bar. Rick had the crowd going and as we sipped our cocktails, a small group came and stood by us. One of the men started telling his friends about Rick and how he came to play here at the Imperial House. I eavesdropped on the tall tale, which was full of exaggerations and creative license, but wildly entertaining just the same. My friend and I discussed this tale we had just heard and laughed at how many wild legends must be floating around out there about Rick. We thought what a great idea it would be to try and round up these legends as a gift to Rick.


I ran the idea by Rick and he loved it! He thought it would be fun to hear what people thought they knew about him and we decided to ask for submissions of what his fans knew or thought they knew about his life story. How did he come to play music? Was he always here at the Impy? How does a legend like Rick come to be? We also realized that some people also might just have great memories to share. So we decided to ask for stories in two different categories.

Category #1-The Legend of Rick Lyon: Write a story about Rick. Who is this man? Is he the love child of Janis Joplin? A secret CIA operative? Or just a guy with great talent? Write what you think his story really is or just get creative and perpetuate his myth. Rick is curious to see who gets the closet to the truth, and I am curious to see how wild some of the legends are.

Category #2-Memories of Rick: Share with us one of your favorite Rick moments. Was there one night in particular that stands out? Or is there something that you experience with him at each visit that you want to share?

Rick’s favorite stories will be published here, and we are working on a special treat for one big winner. Stories can be emailed to peanut5f@hotmail.com . Please put “Legend of Rick” in the subject line so you don’t end up in the junk mail box. Let us know which category you are submitting for as well. You are also welcome to post any brief comments below. Thanks and good luck everybody! We look forward to hearing from you!

P.S. A special thanks to Lovers of Lyon: The Rick Lyon Club.  Thanks for posting about this endeavor!  And thanks for starting the club. It means the world to Rick!