Friday, December 27, 2002

There are some things LA

There are some things LA does very well.  Television is one of them; fast food is another.  They can slap together a better burger or hot dog than I have found in any other town I’ve visited; they turn these lowly foodstuffs into deeply fulfilling gustatory experiences.  And I mean “gustatory” only in the nicest possible way.  Even though San Francisco does a better burrito than LA does as far as a meal goes, there’s a lot to be said for LA burritos too.  Lucy’s is one establishment that does a fine burrito, fresh carrot juice, hot white cheese on flour tortilla, the whole enchilada.  I looked for their website - though their several locations have been cranking out the lard well into the wee hours, they aren’t on line - as they should(n’t) be… they serve up a mean styrofoam plate of arterial plaque and trans-fatties, but who’s counting… when I was a midge it was a special treat to go with my dad to work down near USC and enjoy the indigenous cuisine with him, and one of my favorite options was to go to the local Lucy’s down on Washington and Hoover or some such south central junction.  I’d get an enchilada, drowned in hot red sauce, speckled with olives and drooling fats onto the plate… but the special thing about this particular Lucy’s as opposed to the Culver City one or the Pico Union one or the others was that, at the south side of the parking lot, next to the adjacent building, suffocating under a thick layer of LA smogdust, was a bus.  This particular bus was kind of old-fashioned, with a broad bonnet hood and a flat front window.  It was painted white, with mondrian-like blue, red and yellow patches of regular geometric shapes, outlined in black, all over it from radiator grille to the back, where a diamond-shaped yellow patch bore the legend, “Caution, Nervous Mother Driving.” Recognize it?  It’s from one of the only sitcoms I could bear to watch as a child, although I don’t know why I found it less offensive than the Brady’s or Nanny and the Professor - it was the tour bus for the Partridge family.  Parked next to Lucy’s.  Falling into desuitude, grimy and tired, but still a magical form of transportation.  Ride it and you might turn into Susan Dey or David Cassidy.  I would eat my enchilada and then sneak back to check out the bus.  It was full of old cardboard boxes and Mr. Kinkaid was nowhere to be seen.  It made me a little sad to see that famous bus, erstwhile host to famous passengers, just sitting, fading, seeping into the blacktop.  It didn’t actually seep, of course, but every time I saw it it seemed a little less vibrant.  Eventually the bus disappeared.  I think that enchilada may still be in residence.  This has been a Chucklehut rememberance.  Cherish it.