Largo at 432 Fairfax Ave. has closed its doors. Largo at the Coronet opens next month. The last night...last night. All photos by Steve Agee, a talented asshole. Thanks to Flanny.
Went out last night...took a lot of pictures…I’m on a photo bender…it’s not healthy but I might as well do something with them. Is a blog "something?" First stop: Booze Clues, a pub quiz my friends run in Silverlake. Second stop: The Griffin, a bar in Atwater Village that, like any bar, is great when it’s not packed with assholes. Third stop: It’s a secret. Been fuckin’ around with the pictures during the down time before my dreams come true. I’m not bragging, but I ate bread pudding from a catering cart today. Oh...and speaking of bragging, I’m in a Titanic themed coffee shop in Korea Town by myself at 1:45am. The music fluctuates between American rap and Korean ballads. The lattes are $5.50.
BOOZE CLUES
My only contribution to my team is e-mailing the RSVP.
MARIA TRIED TO STEAL OUR ANSWERS!! She seems sweet and innocent, but she’s a quiz cheater.
Well, the final night of the festival may have been my favorite. "Why?" you ask. Was it because Patton Oswalt blew the roof off your mom's nutz? Certainly not. I am in no way discrediting Patton for "bringing it" (the kids still say that, right?) but no show, no matter how well attended or star-studded, could have captured the surreal bliss of getting to perform at The Eagles Lodge. Yes, the Fraternal order of the Eagles welcomed a half dozen drunk young people into their hallowed halls, and while only two audience members (and the reluctant sound guy) were genuine Eagles, I think we all walked away that night with a newfound respect for wood paneling and membership cards Met some comics from Portland and Seattle, Kyle Kinane and Brent Weinbach did great, and I spent a lot of my set talking to couple in the the crowd who had been married for 50-something-years. In other words, they were old…and the show didn't even get started until after 11. I was told they'd sat through the show before that as well. That might very well be the last comedy show they ever see, and I was proud to say "fuck" in front of them about 16 times. Tig wrapped it up with a fantastic set. In between watching acts, I wandered around the lodge, looking at photos of members past and present. I ordered Jameson from a lady behind what I would call a counter, rather than a bar. A particle board bookshelf housed a handful of booze bottles, and damn near everything was four dollars. A few Eagles, each in their 60's, and each wearing leather vests, sat at the counter, clearly unhappy that something unfamiliar was going on in the next room. I tried to break the ice, but a fraternal order isn't easy to infiltrate when you're pointing at things in their "club," laughing, then taking pictures. I thought the festival was an overall success. The venues were diverse in size and tone, and the crowds were mostly affable. I got to see family, hang with friends, and watch and afternoon of Sanford and Son in my hotel room. I hope it returns next year. Bigger and better? I don't know. I liked the intimacy of it. I hope it doesn't sell itself to Rupert Murdoch and throw parties sponsored by Alize and Maxim. But here are the last of the pictures. (ps read the new mortal sins)
Natasha and some fans (but not comedy fans).
My cousin Boo and I at Indian food.
Indian food the next night, with Natasha, Duncan, James, and some Australian guy James met at a bar. Our waiter was shit-faced.
developing a new problem
The Eagles have a lot of pictures of eagles.
The "showroom!"
The "bar!"
prom dates.
Duncan and Lil' Hobo in the "forest."
me, natasha, and tig braving the elements.
kinane post-set.
The LADIES of the Eagle Lodge
key ingredients to an any comedy show. Sound dude, and BINGO board.
how can you NOT like these people?
completely sincere laughter.
impossible-to-win claw game.
honor system popcorn.
Tig and Natasha takes turns nursing Lil Hobo.
breakfast at the hot cake house.
seriously.
view of Portland and Mt Hood from my cousin's house
good ol’ fashioned photo blog of Tempe, AZ (light)
me wishing someone a happy birthday or anniversary.
me using a bottle of water as a crutch.
this is stacy. we were best friends in 8th and 9th grade. when i had my first kiss, she jumped out from behind a moving truck and yelled "I see you, I see you!"
This is my first kiss. He plays in the NFL. Yep.
this is a pretentious photo i took while experimenting with the color pick-up option on my camera. i am not actually black & white. the couch IS orange. magic.
Drinking decaf. Buying plane tickets online. There's a guy next to me who appears to be brushing his teeth with a straw. He has not purchased anything. He is on his third straw, the other two rest on a small table between us. He's taken the consideration to wrap the "used" end of each straw in a napkin, so as not to contaminate shared surfaces (or so I'm assuming). Strange that a person who believes they should sit in a coffee house relentlessly scraping their teeth and gums with a straw would also be vigilant of other people's germiphobia. It reminds me of the time I shared a large table with a possibly-homeless woman at a Starbucks. It was the only seat left near a power outlet. I was working on something that I never finished, and she was working on presenting her graphomania to an audience of piled up newspapers. She scribbled gibberish in page after page of a yellow lined notebook, furiously grinding pen to paper as though writing a secret note to the prisoner in the next cell before the guard returned. I noticed this before I sat down, so it came as a surprise that when I joined her, she acknowledged me by softening her hold on the table. She scooted back in her chair and tidied up her mess (I'm sorry...her "collection"), allowing me a 50/50 share of the surface space. Then, back to her rambling. What a bizarre moment of clarity in the midst of what appeared to be unceasing detachment from reality. It was as though she was kind enough to stop being crazy. What a considerate gesture: like an insane gentleman removing his tinfoil hat in a fine restaurant. But who knows, maybe I appeared to her to be a monster, an assassin, a giant shoe...something she was afraid of. Maybe she was terrified. So terrified that she backed away just slightly, but her manic need to doodle had such a hold on her that she couldn't flee entirely. For all I know, I spent an hour of my life scaring the shit out of a woman who, if she had a home, would probably exchange it for pens...no questions asked. The straw/napkin guy, who I have unduly credited with some consideration of social norms, is now enveloped in his sweatshirt. His arms are tucked inside, relieving sleeves of their purpose. The neck hole has been pulled up to just below his eyes, and he's giggling. I have to go. I don't really want to. Someone at a nearby table with an LAPD hat (without listing the evidence, I can assure you he is not a police officer) is adamant he is going to have his internet provider arrested for "misrepresenting their cause." Now that I really look around, everyone in here is either psychotic or writing a screenplay. Where I fit in remains to be seen. Never been psychotic. Never finished a screenplay.
