WHAT PLACES DO YOU MISS?

Volume 1 of 1000

CLEOPATRA’S BARGE: This was a lounge— nay, a vessel— that used to exist at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. (Fun fact for fellow grammar nerds: there is no apostrophe in “Caesars” because the creators of the resort wanted to convey that it is a palace of many Caesars and not the property of a singular Caesar. Had it been me, I would have put an apostrophe at the end to make it plural possessive, but I understand the vision.) Anyway, my friend Brad told me about Cleopatra’s Barge around 15 years ago, and I made it a point to visit every time I went to Vegas because I love anything frivolous and unique. The Barge itself was docked on actual water and must have been a mold and maintenance nightmare. There were apparently hydraulics involved at some point, but I don’t remember the boat ever rocking when I was there. This past December I went to Vegas solo and walked all the way from the Wynn to Caesars so I could have my obligatory Barge beverage, and… it was gone. I know it was just a lounge, but it wasn’t just a lounge. It was Old Vegas, it was live music, it was bromine-scented theme park water. It seemed right that I was alone when I came upon the grave. I’d never been to Vegas alone before, and I’d never not gone to Cleopatra’s Barge, and I guess you really don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

el the barge

DINE-IN PIZZA HUTS: I know I’m not alone here; social media is chock full of Hut nostalgia. It just makes me sad that my kids will never experience the following sequence of events: 1. Attending or participating in a performance or game. 2. Piling into a van or station wagon 3. Driving to the most iconic and intentional of retail structures, a building that could only be Pizza Hut. 4. Sitting down with your friends beneath those light fixtures, which I consider to be the greatest legacy of Louis Comfort Tiffany. 5. Sharing a pitcher of Pepsi, served in red pebbled cups. 6. The pizza, the best pizza you will ever taste, arrives in a cast iron pan. 7. Leah’s mom smokes a cigarette.

I’ve considered buying one of these on eBay but you need a basement rec room for a piece like this

GREENBLATT’S DELI:  When I first moved to L.A., I didn’t know where to go, where to live, or how to do anything. If you’re from a city with a more rational plan (or a more rational populace), L.A. can be very disorienting. I’d always come back to the Sunset Strip because I’d seen it in so many movies that it felt familiar. Like when you see a celebrity at Rite-Aid and briefly think you know them from high school. Anyway Greenblatt’s was at the base of Laurel Canyon, near the Laugh Factory and that Chevron station where insane shit is always happening, and the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf that Perez Hilton used to camp out at every day (it’s a UPS Store now). Parking was impossible, but worth it. Greenblatt’s felt like a vestige of a bygone time when the Strip had an intimate village-y charm that attracted artists and hippies and cruisers. I showed up too late to be a part of that, but I was good at finding traces of it: Tower Records (gone) the Rainbow Bar & Grill (still there!) and of course, this little 80 year-old deli with the perfect upstairs dining room, brass rails, tin ceiling, wooden booths and balusters. The pastrami was delicious, even better than Canters and Art’s (but not as good as Langer’s). When my parents would visit, I’d take them to Greenblatt’s because those trips could be overstimulating and I knew they’d feel safe there.

It was so cozy up here

JENNY G’s HOUSE: My best childhood friend Jenny lived in a split-level house on Florence Street. There was a concrete goose on the front porch that Jenny’s mom would dress in seasonal attire. (My favorite outfit was a bikini that had a padded top to simulate breasts, prompting me to shriek “Why would a goose have tits?” every time I saw it.) Inside, the house was immaculate, potpourri-scented and cooled to 72 degrees Fahrenheit. There was a jar on the kitchen counter that literally said “Munchies,” and folks, this was not false advertising— it was always stocked. Jenny’s dad was an amazing cook who made jambalaya from scratch every couple of months; I’d make sure to stay for dinner on those days. There was a giant satellite dish in the backyard so we could flip channels endlessly. (We didn’t even have cable at my house!) At some point I went over to Jenny’s house for the last time, but I didn’t know it was the last time. I think it was probably Thanksgiving of 1997, when Jenny was pregnant and about to pop, and I was home from college with a new eyebrow piercing. They moved, and I moved, and everyone moved again, and before you know it, your childhood is over. I think I want one of those porch geese. Am I ready to be the Porch Goose Mom?

gewse bewbs