I had a neighbor just next door, the perfect neighbor really. I rarely saw her, never heard her, but always thought of her as I passed her doorway just the same. I knew she was old, and a recluse. There were rumors that she had no family and that she was a hoarder. Getting a glimpse of her was like getting a glimpse of Sasquatch. Now let me clarify that she looked nothing like Sasquatch. It was just such a rare thing to see her. Being so rare, she gained her own bit of lore within the building. She even had black trash bags taped to her front windows. I still don’t now if this was for privacy or if she just really hated a glare on her TV while watching her programs. Odd either way.
My first real encounter with her was after work one day. Coming down the hall, I noticed what seemed to be mailed prescriptions piled up on her doorstep. Knowing she never left her apartment, I decided to knock on her door and let her know her packages were there waiting for her. I feared it would be days before she ventured out, and these pills were probably pretty vital to this old crone’s health. I knocked on her door a few times before she finally responded. “Who’s there?” she shrieked from the other side. If I were 9, I would have bolted at this point. It was a bit scary even being in my 30’s. I took a deep breath and responded, “It’s your neighbor. You have a package.” With the click of a deadbolt the door finally cracked open. Two black eyes peered through the crack sizing me up. I guess I looked safe (or like a delicious snack) because she finally opened it and greeted me. She looked much like one would expect from all the whispers. Old, crooked, jet black dyed hair to her waist, white papery skin. (Incidentally, this is exactly what I imagined the witch to look like when my German nursery school teacher would read Hansel and Gretel to us.)
I handed her the packages and was surprised at how sweet she really was. She thanked me profusely and asked my name. I told her, and let her know I was just next door should she need anything. She smiled, and for a moment I could see that she was once quite beautiful. For that brief second, the spooky air about her lifted. Sadly, there were few sightings after that.
One day as I headed out, the police were at the back gate trying to get into the building. Being a civic minded person (and a sucker for a man in uniform), I did my duty and let them into the building. I got back on the elevator with them and they hit the button to my floor. They asked me if I knew Miriam and I realized that they were looking for my elusive neighbor. They explained that someone was assigned to call her daily just to make sure she was okay, and this time she had not answered. The police were then called to check in on her. I showed them to her door. After several knocks, and no response the door was kicked in. No Miriam. We were baffled as to where she could have gone off to so late at night. After some time, the police gave up and we rode the elevator back downstairs. As the doors slid open on the ground floor, there she was with her walker, in all her Hansel and Gretel glory.
“Miriam!” I said, smiling. “These nice gentlemen came to check in on you. Some one was worried!”
“What the fuck are you talking about, god damn it? I don’t need any fucking cops. Get out of here you dirty bastards! Fuck off! Can’t you see I’m fine? Just leave me alone! Rat bastards! Don't touch me!”
The stunned cops looked at me for help. “You’re on your own boys!” I said as I exited the elevator laughing. Yes, Miriam was a crotchety old bitch, but, I had seen her softer side. I was actually tickled to see this side of her too. “God bless her!” I thought. She had the spirit and fire of a wild mustang even in old age. And while her lonely last days were not what any of us would hope for ourselves, she maintained a spirit about her that I had to respect. No need to worry about Miriam! She could fend for herself.
Sadly she was moved to a home a few months ago. The black trash bags were removed from her window and from my balcony I could see into her apartment for the first time in years. Books were piled everywhere. Hopeful, I awaited my neighbor's unlikely return. Soon someone came and started cleaning. Just last week, everything went. She had finally died. I can’t say I knew her, but she sure left a hell of an impression. And another great memory about this building. Thanks Miriam! There won't be another like you.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Imperial House Bar-By Firefly Films
Here is a great video by Firefly Films about the Imperial House Restaurant's lounge. David is a great host and Rick gets some camera time too. Enjoy!
The Legend of Rick Lyon
"The Legend of Rick Lyon" contest details will be up after the new year. Stay tuned!
Flight Plan
I hate packing, arriving early to the terminal, the taking of the shoes off at the security check point, the large sweaty men who inevitably ends up sitting next to me in the plane. But looking out that window at my city below (and of any cities I end up flying over), that makes me love flying. Granted, one particular thrill for me is seeing the Imperial House outside the right hand side of the plane as we come coasting into the airport. I look and wave to my neighbors knowing full well they can’t see me in this tin can, but it is a fun ritual just the same. This is always my favorite part of flying back home. And this is where it becomes a tale from the Impy.
The Imperial tower just happens to be the southern most highrise on the flight path into our airport. The beauty of it is nobody can ever build infront of us and block our ridiculous view of the city, the Coronado Islands, or Mexico. The flight path is an invisable shield that keeps us from melding with the downtown skyline. A little corridor of noisy solitude. There is a bit of noise from the planes as they come in for landing…But nothing you don’t get accustomed too. After eight years here I know the planes by sound. I can tell you whether it is a Southwest Airliner or the Fedex plane just by the sound and time of day. I don’t know if that is cool or sad, it just happens to be a fact.
I never knew how much the noise of the planes meant to me until they stopped one day...September 11th, 2001. I had already had a sense of forboding days before it all happened. I come from a family of women who can see things coming. I knew this time it would be big, but even my premonitions could not prepare me for what I woke up to that morning. Then it happened.
The towers fell and the planes stopped. All flights were grounded. Like everyone else, I wept in the initial hours of the horror, and for many days to come. That night, Phil and I managed to pull ourselves away from the constant coverage and sat out on his ninth floor balcony that overlooked the flight path. The silence was deafening. Tears were shed some more.
The country’s mood surrged from shock and horror, to anger, to new found patriotism that at times seemed misguided. Eventualy the FAA annoucended that the groundings had been lifted and nothing seemed more patriotic to us than to grab a six pack and sit on his balcony cheering each and every flight that came in. Granted the beer was Mexican and it had limes in it, but patriotic just the same. We sat out there for hours and every plane that passed by seeemed like another victory for us. Other neighbors sat on their south facing balconies, presumably enjoying the same victories. I had always loved this view of the planes, but the noise I had once complained about was now another strange yet treasured part of living at the Imperial House.
The Imperial tower just happens to be the southern most highrise on the flight path into our airport. The beauty of it is nobody can ever build infront of us and block our ridiculous view of the city, the Coronado Islands, or Mexico. The flight path is an invisable shield that keeps us from melding with the downtown skyline. A little corridor of noisy solitude. There is a bit of noise from the planes as they come in for landing…But nothing you don’t get accustomed too. After eight years here I know the planes by sound. I can tell you whether it is a Southwest Airliner or the Fedex plane just by the sound and time of day. I don’t know if that is cool or sad, it just happens to be a fact.
I never knew how much the noise of the planes meant to me until they stopped one day...September 11th, 2001. I had already had a sense of forboding days before it all happened. I come from a family of women who can see things coming. I knew this time it would be big, but even my premonitions could not prepare me for what I woke up to that morning. Then it happened.
The towers fell and the planes stopped. All flights were grounded. Like everyone else, I wept in the initial hours of the horror, and for many days to come. That night, Phil and I managed to pull ourselves away from the constant coverage and sat out on his ninth floor balcony that overlooked the flight path. The silence was deafening. Tears were shed some more.
The country’s mood surrged from shock and horror, to anger, to new found patriotism that at times seemed misguided. Eventualy the FAA annoucended that the groundings had been lifted and nothing seemed more patriotic to us than to grab a six pack and sit on his balcony cheering each and every flight that came in. Granted the beer was Mexican and it had limes in it, but patriotic just the same. We sat out there for hours and every plane that passed by seeemed like another victory for us. Other neighbors sat on their south facing balconies, presumably enjoying the same victories. I had always loved this view of the planes, but the noise I had once complained about was now another strange yet treasured part of living at the Imperial House.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Second Floor Sex-capades
Another Friday night in the bar, another cigarette break outside. I stood outside in the crisp air downing yet another Camel light. Suddenly I hear a “smack-smack” sound. Being alone on the entranceway to the bar/restaurant I was baffled. “What the hell was that?’ A few more whacks and I decide to wander out to the sidewalk to try and discover the source of this sound. I see nothing in the street and as I turn around to head back in to the bar when something catches my eye. On the second floor just above the bar, there it is! A naked woman pressed up against the sliding glass door of one of the apartments being spanked by one of my neighbors.
I am aghast and dumbfounded. Little was I to know, in the weeks and months that came to pass this would be a regular occurrence. This non-descript 40-something neighbor of mine had a fetish...It was to be watched. He continued his antics in his front window for months. The more people outside watching, the raunchier it got. I swear he held off on his escapades until there was a large enough group of hipster kids out front smoking and chatting to make it worth his while. The doorman at the time (an ex NFL player) even took to hurling rocks at his window in the middle of coitus in a feeble attempt to get this man to stop the obscene displays. It was of no use. Every week, it was a different woman and a different position in the window for all to see. Complaints were filed and management said their hands were tied. What he does in the privacy of his apartment could not be controlled.
This man creeped me out to no end, but he hit his peak one day when I was out front washing my car. A neighbor came by after her morning jog to catch up on the week’s events. As I talked to her something caught my eye. Sure enough, there he was again in his window, but this time solo and apparently enjoying the view. I never had the heart to tell my jogging neighbor what he as doing as he watched us chat. She would have been damaged for life. I did manage to take my frustrations to the local police, and as luck would have it the sergeant I talked to was a woman. She took my concerns seriously and told me what I had to do to get the situation taken care of on a legal level. I’ve got to give her credit. After our first encounter, squad cars suddenly started cruising by the building at the most appropriate of hours. Alas, no legal action was taken. He finally moved out and oddly enough my underwear stopped disappearing from the dryers on laundry night. Once in a blue moon while standing out front smoking my beloved Camels, he will still drive by in his company car and stare up to his old playground. I guess he really misses those big sliding glass windows.
I am aghast and dumbfounded. Little was I to know, in the weeks and months that came to pass this would be a regular occurrence. This non-descript 40-something neighbor of mine had a fetish...It was to be watched. He continued his antics in his front window for months. The more people outside watching, the raunchier it got. I swear he held off on his escapades until there was a large enough group of hipster kids out front smoking and chatting to make it worth his while. The doorman at the time (an ex NFL player) even took to hurling rocks at his window in the middle of coitus in a feeble attempt to get this man to stop the obscene displays. It was of no use. Every week, it was a different woman and a different position in the window for all to see. Complaints were filed and management said their hands were tied. What he does in the privacy of his apartment could not be controlled.
This man creeped me out to no end, but he hit his peak one day when I was out front washing my car. A neighbor came by after her morning jog to catch up on the week’s events. As I talked to her something caught my eye. Sure enough, there he was again in his window, but this time solo and apparently enjoying the view. I never had the heart to tell my jogging neighbor what he as doing as he watched us chat. She would have been damaged for life. I did manage to take my frustrations to the local police, and as luck would have it the sergeant I talked to was a woman. She took my concerns seriously and told me what I had to do to get the situation taken care of on a legal level. I’ve got to give her credit. After our first encounter, squad cars suddenly started cruising by the building at the most appropriate of hours. Alas, no legal action was taken. He finally moved out and oddly enough my underwear stopped disappearing from the dryers on laundry night. Once in a blue moon while standing out front smoking my beloved Camels, he will still drive by in his company car and stare up to his old playground. I guess he really misses those big sliding glass windows.
Thanks to the Impy brethren
Just a quick thanks to those who were kind enough to give me feedback on this new undertaking. Your support has been amazing! In turn, I would be honored to share your stories about this little place of ours. I'll get an email up soon where you can send your Imperial contributions. I know that my experiences here only scratch the surface. There is so much more to be shared. It's official. Tales From The Impy is underway!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Catching up with an old friend
The manager of the tower has become a dear friend of mine over the years. He saw me come into the building fresh and new and still in my 20's. He was there when Phil and I started dating. We had dinner parties with him and his wife and he saw the divorce too. He saw me rebound and date wildly inapppropriate men, and never judged me for a second. Through it all he remained a true friend to both Phil and I and we are all still friends today. At the annual Christmas party this year we had a chance to catch up one on one for the first time in a long time. This married man with three beautiful children and an amazing wife has always been a bit of an inspiration to me. So this rare moment at the bar with him will be another classic Impy moment for me.
The facade of professional man, father, and husband hides very well the rock star rebel he really is. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but he has lived quite the life, and if you are ever lucky enough to sit down and have a Scotch with him, you would agree. Former stand up comedian, witness and participant in the second wave of the L.A. punk scene, Autism advocate, screenwriter, and actor (whom I was lucky enough to represent back in my agent days), Mr. X is quite the character. His skills as a storyteller and writer amaze me, and as I tried to convince him last night to start a blog, he unknowingly inspired me to do the same.
It was great sitting down to have a drink with him again after so much time has passed. As usual, he kept me laughing and once again convinced me that this is not the first lifetime in which we have been friends. On a parallel universe I suspect we are getting into tons of trouble together. Perhaps we have our own band or are hiking the Andes and smoking Peyote together. But I digress. Mr. X is on the cusp of his big hollywood break and I couldn't be happier for him. I suspect he will be the one to finally write a screenplay about this place. I just hope he chooses someone good to play me.
The facade of professional man, father, and husband hides very well the rock star rebel he really is. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but he has lived quite the life, and if you are ever lucky enough to sit down and have a Scotch with him, you would agree. Former stand up comedian, witness and participant in the second wave of the L.A. punk scene, Autism advocate, screenwriter, and actor (whom I was lucky enough to represent back in my agent days), Mr. X is quite the character. His skills as a storyteller and writer amaze me, and as I tried to convince him last night to start a blog, he unknowingly inspired me to do the same.
It was great sitting down to have a drink with him again after so much time has passed. As usual, he kept me laughing and once again convinced me that this is not the first lifetime in which we have been friends. On a parallel universe I suspect we are getting into tons of trouble together. Perhaps we have our own band or are hiking the Andes and smoking Peyote together. But I digress. Mr. X is on the cusp of his big hollywood break and I couldn't be happier for him. I suspect he will be the one to finally write a screenplay about this place. I just hope he chooses someone good to play me.
Gettng hit by reality in an elevator
There is an older German couple that lives in my building. They are very sweet and everytime I see them they want to chat about my car. They love my old Mercedes and apparently had one at some time. I always loved running into them and having nice chats about cars and their homeland, and how life was for them back in the day. (I suspect they are in their 80's) I haven't seen them in ages and yesterday I was happy to see the gentleman getting off the elevator. I greeted him with a big smile and acknowledged how long it had been. In a rush for the elevator, I asked him if he would be coming to the annual Christmas party tonight and asked if we could catch up more then. Sadly his response was a firey "No, I will not be going. My wife died a year ago and since then I have no interest in anything, nobody, nothing!" He was quite angry.
I don't know what was more jarring. The horrible shriek of the elevator alarm going off because I had held it to long while talking to him, or his response. This always smiling cheerful neighbor of mine whom I had not seen in so long had suffered a great tragedy, and I had not noticed. My heart broke. I had seen him alone a few times as I would drive off to go to work, or coming back from dinner with friends. I figured his smiling bride was at home waiting for his return.
I'm sad I won't get to see them tonight and sadder that he is alone and angry. I'm sad that I got to busy to notice. It is a good reminder that we need to take the time to remember those arounds us, both near and far. So tonight I will go to the party and raise a glass to his beautiful wife, and say a secret Christmas wish for him. And when I leave I will sneak a piece of dessert up to his door with a card that says "Merry Christmas. Thinking of you. The girl with the red car."
I don't know what was more jarring. The horrible shriek of the elevator alarm going off because I had held it to long while talking to him, or his response. This always smiling cheerful neighbor of mine whom I had not seen in so long had suffered a great tragedy, and I had not noticed. My heart broke. I had seen him alone a few times as I would drive off to go to work, or coming back from dinner with friends. I figured his smiling bride was at home waiting for his return.
I'm sad I won't get to see them tonight and sadder that he is alone and angry. I'm sad that I got to busy to notice. It is a good reminder that we need to take the time to remember those arounds us, both near and far. So tonight I will go to the party and raise a glass to his beautiful wife, and say a secret Christmas wish for him. And when I leave I will sneak a piece of dessert up to his door with a card that says "Merry Christmas. Thinking of you. The girl with the red car."
An Introduction
Built in 1969, the Imperial Tower is anchored to 6th Avenue by the Imperial House Restaurant and Bar. The apartments above have seen an eclectic group of characters. Going into my ninth year here, I have seen judges, lawyers, priests, budding rock stars, sexual deviants, war heros, old Hollywood heavyweights, aging athletes, neuroscientists, restauranteurs, ghosts (yes, lots of ghosts!) and everything in between live here at one time or another. Regardless, everyone seems to be a part of an extended disfunctional family. We all are connected to each other by the "Impy".
Owned by a family that started our city's St. Patricks Day parade (the largest west of the Mississippi) it has quite the history. The three brothers stayed true to the Irish stereo type through and through. They like their shenanigans, and their whiskey. One passed just last year, but the other two remain dilligent overseers of the tower.
The head maitre d'of the restaurant has been here since day one. A true latino Cassanove who rolls his R's and who still has the the ability to juggle multiple "lady frrrrrrriends" in his 70's. He is a tuxedoed legend, and anyone who's ever met him loves him. It is worth the price of dinner here just to have a conversation with him.
On weekends the legendary Rick Lyon plays piano here. His motto is "From Rock to Bach" but the kids these days prefer his renditions of Journey, Queen, Super Tramp, and Neil Diamond. He keeps them coming back week after week. Good tunes, strong drinks, and no cover. What could be better?
And as for the residents? Well, as I've already mentioned...A mixed bag of nuts. Most of which you can find in the bar on any given night. And the patrons are not limited to the residents. Kevin Spacey, Zach Quinto, Modest Mouse, Jonah Hill, Michael Cera, (and my personal favorite) Edward Norton have been patrons as well. That's the beauty of this place. You never know who you will see or what will happen when you walk in. A drink at the bar here can easily turn into the most memorable night of your life.
Owned by a family that started our city's St. Patricks Day parade (the largest west of the Mississippi) it has quite the history. The three brothers stayed true to the Irish stereo type through and through. They like their shenanigans, and their whiskey. One passed just last year, but the other two remain dilligent overseers of the tower.
On weekends the legendary Rick Lyon plays piano here. His motto is "From Rock to Bach" but the kids these days prefer his renditions of Journey, Queen, Super Tramp, and Neil Diamond. He keeps them coming back week after week. Good tunes, strong drinks, and no cover. What could be better?
And as for the residents? Well, as I've already mentioned...A mixed bag of nuts. Most of which you can find in the bar on any given night. And the patrons are not limited to the residents. Kevin Spacey, Zach Quinto, Modest Mouse, Jonah Hill, Michael Cera, (and my personal favorite) Edward Norton have been patrons as well. That's the beauty of this place. You never know who you will see or what will happen when you walk in. A drink at the bar here can easily turn into the most memorable night of your life.
And so it begins...
I Discovered the Imperial House Restaurant about nine yars ago with my dear friend Jennifer. We were looking for a new bar for her anual Christmas party. All our old favorites had been overrun by the local hipster scene and coming upon our thirties we felt we were ready for something new. I mentioned to Jennifer that we had never been to the Imperial House and it might be worth a look. All we knew is that our parents and grantparents had all frequented the place back in the day. We set a night to scout it out, and the rest as they say, was history.
We arrived and automatically fell in love with the dimly lit bar, the dark naugahyd booths, and the untouched late 60's decor. Our venue had been chosen! Little did we know that this place would become such a huge part of our lives (Or that this place too, would soon be overrun by hipsters). Shortly thereafter, we became regulars. I met my soon to be ex-husband, moved in to one of the apartments above with him. All the time frequenting this infamous bar below. The events that unfolded over the years year nothing short of Peyton Place, and many have commented that a screenplay about this place should be written. I'm not the screenplay type of gal, but I'm more than happy to share some stories. Enjoy!
We arrived and automatically fell in love with the dimly lit bar, the dark naugahyd booths, and the untouched late 60's decor. Our venue had been chosen! Little did we know that this place would become such a huge part of our lives (Or that this place too, would soon be overrun by hipsters). Shortly thereafter, we became regulars. I met my soon to be ex-husband, moved in to one of the apartments above with him. All the time frequenting this infamous bar below. The events that unfolded over the years year nothing short of Peyton Place, and many have commented that a screenplay about this place should be written. I'm not the screenplay type of gal, but I'm more than happy to share some stories. Enjoy!
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