Day seven: Los Angeles

…who do not answer the door or their phones when our (by now) tired puppy lovers reach their place in Hollywood at 3 a.m. Stuffed animals, Nerf footballs and Sauconys are all thrown with varying degrees of exhausted desperation against a lighted second-floor bedroom window, but to no avail.

Perplexed but ever resourceful, our boys park a few blocks away, in front of a house on a small residential street and, after a number of Tecates and a few trips to the unlocked construction-crew Port-a-Potty sitting in a nearby driveway, bed down for a few hours of sleep in the trusty van. At about 9:30 a.m., too sleepy to remember exactly how, our boys get into the house and collapse for some less cramped sleep.

Food follows the hours of catch-up sleep, and trips to a fresh-food deli and Hooters (depending on individual priorities) are made. Our saviors marvel at the Hollywood-ness of Hollywood—the Walk of Fame; Grumman’s Chinese and The Egyptian theaters; Ripley’s Believe It Or Not; Scientology buildings with street-level window displays packed with stacks of L. Ron Hubbard books; actors dressed as Spiderman and Rambo posing for throngs of tourist cameras; the Kodak Theater, home of the Academy Awards—and someone mentions the infamous scene at the end of Nathaniel West’s Day of the Locust where a mob of gawking Everymen go apeshit in anticipation of a star-studded, red-carpeted 1920s movie opening.

Like most world-renowned rock bands, His Mischief decide to drink before their LA show at Spaceland, and choose to do so with friends at Barragan’s Mexican restaurant on Sunset in Echo Park. Unlike most world-renowned rock bands, His Mischief are a little tight in the wallet, so wet squeals of excitement greet the news that the famous Barragan’s margaritas are only $2.50 apiece tonight.

Fox demonstrating his LA-inspired fashion sensibilities:


Devin and Britta, up from Long Beach, join in the margarita-swilling:


After lapping up a few of these salty beverages sent by god like the Mexican kittens they may well be, our angels of sonic splendor decamp to Spaceland in time for their set.

His Mis + Jeremy in front of Spaceland:


And the set is a good one. Fox’s vocals are sweet and sensual, as are Quinn’s. The guitar and the bass: excellent. Brown entertains even more than usual with his energetic work on the drums. Swooning and genuflections sweep through the audience, many of who have already been liquidly compromised by the $3 Dewar’s drink specials.

Here’s what the show looks like after too many $3 Dewar’s:



To ravage the Latin: en vini obscuritas. The sodden van of sublimity somehow makes its way home. His Mis and friends stumble to a chichi Hollywood bar, giving Miles ample opportunity to drunkenly heckle the overly styled clientele. Lights, faces, rooms, Kelly Osborne—these are some of the elements that might compose a blurred photo montage from the experience. Bed, thankfully, comes soon thereafter, and our pop-top princes are down for the count.

-Miles