Tales From The Impy

Party Like Big Chuck!

2012-01-21T12:24:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Jennifer reminded me of another classic Impy moment last night. “Party like Big Chuck” is a phrase we now use to describe a bacchanalian type evening of revelry. For example, if the Patriots win the Super Bowl, I’m going to “Party like Big Chuck”. (Not literally though.) This term came to be one night when one of our local newscasters partied a little too hard here. Now as you might have guessed, his name isn’t Chuck, but I don’t want to get sued by the guy, so Chuck it is. Also, for the sake of staying out of court, this story is highly edited. However if you have lived in San Diego for any good period of time, I’m sure you can figure out who he is. Chuck was quite the character about town. Many of his live, on the street interviews left many viewers scratching their heads. He had a very un-P.C. sense of humor and the loud booming voice that would fill a room. Yep…he was “That” guy. We’ve all known one, right?

Now to the night in question…I was returning from an early night out, and as I walked up the driveway to the Imperial for a night cap, I see our man Chuck sitting on the cement bench out front with a blonde, and a woman who lives in our building. My neighbor was in his lab and his hands were all over her. His giant head was bright red and glistening with perspiration despite the fact that the night was a chilly one. In the few steps it took me to get from the sidewalk to the front door of the bar, his groping excelled from first base to rounding the bases, just sliding shy of third. The trio didn’t care who saw. It. Was. On!

The sight made me wish there was a magic bleach that would wash images from one’s memories, but alas I have yet to find such a magical concoction. I quickly went into the bar to find the next best thing, a strong drink. The debauchery continued as soon as he and the two ladies came back inside. My neighbor’s boyfriend was inside as well seemingly unaware of what our newsman had just been doing to his girlfriend. The four partied well into the night despite the apparent breaking news story in the men’s room that Chuck kept going in to investigate.

Friends of mine arrived. We sat stunned watching the show our newsman put on with his new buddies. Every turn he did on the dance floor, every breast he exposed, every booming laugh, every trip to the bathroom had us in stitches. All knew Big Chuck liked to party, but this was a whole new level! A few months later Big Chuck lost his news gig due to an unrelated incident. Not being a fan of our local news coverage, I have no idea if he ever made it back on the air. Rumor has it Big Chuck is still in town. However, I doubt he’ll ever make another appearance at the Impy. So thus the phrase “Party like Big Chuck” was born. We jokingly use the phrase now and then. It’s much more accurate than the tired old “Party like a rock star”.

Oh, and if you have figured out who our party monster is, please don’t post it here. I really don’t want to piss off Big Chuck. ;)

The End of an Era

2011-12-30T14:29:00.001-08:00

First off, it's been forever since I've posted. My apologies! Please ignore any errors, as I have not had time to edit today. That said, today is the end of an era. After almost 40 years, today is the last day the Imperial House Restaurant will be open for lunch. Don't worry kids. They are still open for dinner and drinks at night, but only Tues-Sat now. However, bets are being taken on how long before they close the whole operation.

Opened in the late 1960’s by the Kelly family, its menu really hasn’t changed, nor have the stiff drinks. Most of the staff has been around for the duration as well. In the most recent years the lunch crowd has been referred to as “The Wrinkle Room”. There is a large group of business men who hold down the far end of the bar on a daily basis. Judges, Lawyers, liquor vendors, insurance brokers, steel barons, old sports heroes...they are all part of the Impy fraternity. Gin after Gin, Bourbon after Bourbon, beer after beer, these guys never shut up. Each one has his special position at the bar. Unless you are a woman, don’t you dare take one of their seats. And if you are a woman, be prepared for colorful conversations.

I'm heading down for the final lunch now. I'm being sponsored by one of the old-timers. I've had the pleasure of taking part in the daytime crowd from time to time over the last 10 years. I guess I’ve earned my spot at the bar with the guys. I was invited to the final lunch today by one of them. It’s their playground, and I am just an occasional visitor so I didn’t feel comfortable accepting. After a bit of cajoling, I hesitantly agreed. I didn’t want to intrude on their final game. As a compromise, I decided just to come down for the drink portion of the schedule.

It’s a full house at the bar as expected, but not expected are the full booths. Word got out to the senior citizens that lunches are done, so they all hobbled in for one last Steak Tar-tar. Blue haired ladies in their finest, old gents in their suits...For a moment I feel like I am in an episode of Mad Men. Heck, even the outfits are the same. Something tells me the rest of today’s story will be fuzzy. I don’t make it a habit to drink this early in the day, but it is a special day after all. Any details I can remember are to follow.

Guest contributer! Welcome, Becks!

2010-02-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

Former member of the "Imperial House Mafia" (Inside joke!), Becky has been kind enough to share one of her memories of the Impy. Becks-Thanks so much for sending this in. I had forgotten about this night, but thanks to you the memory lives on. This was at one of the annual Imperial Tower Christmas parties, which is another whole story I will tackle soon. And just a sidebar...didn't he run for mayor of San Diego once? For you to enjoy, "A Warm Cocoon" by Becky...

"Some of my fondest memories of Imperial Tower are the times I'd come home from various trips. I already felt at home seeing the building from the airplane (as mentioned by Peanut)...then taking a cab from the airport. Too tired to go back out and eat, I'd go straight to the bar for a delicious mid-day reuben sandwich and a couple vodka greyhounds. I always felt like I was back in the Sixties, Mad Men-style.

One Christmas Eve, my then-husband and I had just come home from Vegas, and I was so exhausted that I didn't think I could even handle a drink at the bar. He decided to go downstairs, and I remember sitting in the apartment feeling overly-sentimental and crying as I watched some holiday special on TV. It was cold and I felt weird and out of place, not even the holiday lights on the Mr. A's building outside my window were cheering me up. So, I got myself together and made my way down the elevator and into the warm cocoon of Imperial House.

Only a few regulars were there, and David behind the bar. Just being there and seeing the old familiar Christmas decorations made me feel better. I ordered a rum eggnog- and David proceeded to make the absolute best one I'd ever tasted. I was definitely myself again. Then the strangest thing happened- a Santa Claus-for-hire walked in the door. A Magic Santa.

Apparently, he was hired to come in every year to perform for the patrons, so he did...for all 5 of us. As he performed his magic tricks, I felt bad that there was such a small crowd, and then I started to recognize him- he was also a landlord who had shown my husband & I an apartment in Point Loma years ago. I remembered his name- Loch David Crane. It was such a surreal night...a Christmas memory I'll never forget. But I always get a warm safe feeling when I'm there, whether it be the in bar or one of the apartments upstairs, that I've never felt anywhere else. I think it's a mix of the people and the building itself. Impy is definitely one of a kind."

Thanks again, Becky! And while this was not taken at the Impy, I did manage to find a picture of him as Santa! You've got to love Google!

Some People Don’t Know When to Leave

2010-02-23T21:27:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me has heard a ghost story or two. Okay, probably more than that, but it’s another thing that keeps my fascination with this place going. One shouldn’t be surprised that there are so many here in this building. Over the years many elderly have lived and died at the Imperial Tower. My mom actually had several patients here when she did hospice work many years ago. In the years I have lived here I have attended more funerals than I would like to remember. But let’s not dwell on the sad. Let’s move instead to the strange.

From the first day I lived here there have been whispers about things that go bump in the night. One neighbor constantly awoke to the feeling of somebody tucking here feet in very tightly at the end of her bed. Another woman who moved into the same apartment years later was awakened by the sheets being pulled off her feet. (Admittedly, she had really cute feet.) The two women never met, so hearing these stories gave me pause as to what was happening in that particular unit. As time went on, it went from sheets being moved around to cabinets opening in the middle of the night and weird shadows darting about.

One man on the 8th floor and a girl who moved into the 3rd floor confessed to me the feeling of waking up with the feeling of somebody holding them down in their beds. Strangely, it happened to both of them just after moving in. The girl moved out after about three months, but I can’t say that is why. The other is still here and has been free of visitors in his bed since. (Unless of course, you count the occasional booty calls he gets from his from his ex.)

Two years ago, my beliefs got a bit of a wake up call. I had weird occurrences in my apartment on a regular basis, but as an avid Ghost Hunters viewer, I was sure that everything was explainable. Every time something happened I went into Jay and Grant mode and quickly found a reasonable answer for the event in question. Plumbing, the cats, my own general forgetfulness…these things explained a lot. Until one morning I could not rationalize away what I saw. In a nutshell, my invisible roommate didn’t like my explaining his actions away, so he made it very clear he was indeed here with me.

I stood at the bathroom mirror while I was getting ready for work. Some movement on the counter caught my eye. My deodorant which was lying on the counter was rocking back and forth a bit. I looked around to see what could have bumped it, and then figured it was just a fluke. I went back to looking in the mirror when suddenly it slid about three inches to the left on its own. That I could not ignore. I did what every TV show I have ever seen on the subject had told me to do. I politely acknowledged that I saw it move and told whoever moved it to please leave. I guess that was not the right response because as soon as I sat down, a tub of bath salts went flying of the back of the toilet and struck the glass shower door with enough force to cause me to grab the nearest pieces of clothing from the floor, and franticly dress my self as I ran out of the apartment.

Since then I have managed to catch EVP recordings that would make Jay and Grant cream their pants. Not the fuzzy, barely decipherable, one word recordings they gather round and play over and over during sweeps week. Full sentences. Things really heated up for a while and the constant moving (or should I say throwing) of things caused me to sleep on neighbors’ couches until I finally came to the realization that I had to go home at some point, or leave the apartment all together. I resolved that if my ex-husbands nutty girlfriend didn’t drive me out of the building, no stupid ghost would. I came home.

I burned sage, burned sweet grass, had religious friends bring over their trinkets that they swore would do the trick, and had conversations with thin air asking for peace. I slept on my couch for months because I was terrified of my bedroom. I saw him once…A tall thin man in dark clothing staring at me when I woke up in the middle of the night. He was silhouetted by my closet light that I had left on for protection, and as solid as can be. I screamed at him to get out and with one blink he was gone. Over the years he and I have come to an agreement. He is still here and only toys with me slightly these days, just enough to remind me he is here and always just when I start to forget. Myles is just lonely from what I can tell. Not so much a threat as long as I don’t forget he lived here first. Did I mention his name is Myles? Yeah, we got that on a recording too.

So now I wonder if he is the same one who would tap the old lady who lived across the hall on the shoulder whenever she was doing dishes. Another family described the same man I saw in their apartment on the second floor. While they would sit on the couch watching TV, this mysterious man would peek out from their kitchen door and look at them. A similarly described man has also been seen in the kitchen of the restaurant, disappearing through walls once he is spotted. Does Myles roam the building or are these other neighbors from the past? There are also women and children here to from the reports I’ve heard. One elderly lady who lived here was seen shortly after her death by several of her closest neighbors. I’ve even had a little girl come up on a recording or two. For the most part I don’t try to contact any of them anymore. I figure if they want attention they will ask for it. No need to pester them. Just like with my living neighbors, you just have to give them some space and take the time you have together with them as something special.

Sounds of the City

2010-01-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

Living here is so unlike living anyplace else. Yes, you could argue that it is just like living in any other city. There is a Starbucks one block away, the city bus comes by every 15 or so minutes, there is a pattern to the traffic and the sounds that surround you can be found in many other metropolitan areas. This even includes the occasional mental patient who walks up the street screaming about Jesus, talking squirrels and the aliens that are surely following him. But here we have a few oddities that you are unlikely to experience anyplace else.

For one, there have been many sparkling mornings where I have sat on my balcony with my cup of coffee just to eavesdrop on the monkeys. These beautiful mornings are why everybody else in the country wants to move here and why we pay such ridiculous amounts of money to live here. Some call it the sunshine tax. But on these special mornings, early, before the traffic starts, and when the atmosphere is absolutely still, you can here the animals in the zoo stirring. Usually it is the Howler monkeys. They really vocalize. But I have heard the Sea Lions once or twice as well. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it tickles me. Of course there are our famous flocks of wild Parrots that cruise through every morning and every dusk. Their calls are distinct. If you don’t see them, you definitely hear them.

We can also hear the sounds of the waterfront. The cruise ships coming and going. Their horns announce their departure with 3 short blasts and one long one. My favorite is the fog horn. It is rare, but on those special foggy nights, its call is always soothing. Then there are the trains. Thank god we are far enough away where we don’t hear every passing train. (I have to deal with that at my office every day.) But at night, again when it is still, you can hear the random train horn from just down the hill.

Some Sundays there are drum circles in the park. This is one of my least favorite sounds of the city. It’s hard to concentrate on my tasks at hand with an unsteady beat penetrating my windows, but luckily the circles seem to spend more time on the east side of the park these days. Which leads me to one of my favorite sounds…The California Tower bells. Every 15 minutes the bells toll. At noon everyday, a whole song is played on the bells. It’s always a welcome sound.

There are also the planes, evening firework shows in the summer, men playing Rugby in the park, the shouts of a man one block away who yells at the televised football games, dogs barking, cars honking at random protesters on the corner where the bridge comes out of the park and meets 6th Avenue, ambulances making their runs from downtown to the local hospital, and the mysterious bagpipe player who pops up a few times a year to play outside our building…All of these sounds can be heard from the comfort of my apartment at the Imperial Tower. I live in my own urban symphony. While some sound are nice, and some obtrusive, I wouldn’t give it up for the quite of the suburbs. That would surly be the death of me.

Why I Don’t Go To Clubs-Reason #243

2010-01-12T21:27:00.000-08:00

Many people over the years have judged me for hanging at the dark and dated Imperial House lounge. I’ve been told that I’m missing out on meeting young, wealthy, movers & shakers my age by not spending my time in the downtown clubs. First let me say, I’m not impressed by anyone who will pay $400 for bottle service on Vodka I can get down the street for $20. Second, I don’t own a pair of Lucite heels, and third, while the downtown scene has great moments I’m sure, but I prefer to drink and socialize without the deafening “thud, thud, thud” of a blown-out bass in my ear.
That being said, it might not be pretty or glamorous at the Impy, but if I was downtown when I met Serge I can pretty much guarantee we would not be friends today. We would have maybe exchanged small talk before I blew him and his button down Banana Republic dress shirt off for someone with tattoos and cynicism. I would have put him into a very small box along with all the other downtown yuppies (if that is a term still being used) and moved on not knowing what a good friend I could have found.

Serge doesn’t live in the building, but he lives a block away and he frequents the Impy. He has been around for years, and because of that he gets honorary Imperial Tower status. I can’t remember the exact moment or year we met, but he is a regular and even more importantly a friend.

Serge is special in that he is my sparring partner. Let me preface by saying he is one of the smartest men I know. I don’t just spar with anybody. East coast transplant, businessman, published author, foodie, and political junkie, we are well matched for debate. And while we fall on different sides of the political lines, nothing is more fun than having a good row with him.

I refuse to debate with the uninformed. There is no fun in that. No challenge and no respect. But my dear Serge worked both sides of the political lines before coming to the beliefs he holds today. And while I disagree with most of his beliefs, I respect them immensely. Debate for us is a weird form of nerd foreplay. Now don’t get me wrong, we are not involved. We do however both get a weird satisfaction out of debating each other. (I can only speak for myself, of course.) Election years are of particular fun to us, much to the dismay of those who happen to be within earshot of us. The bartender on many occasions has interrupted our conversations and told us we have to change the subject. Serge and I would take a break from our banter to plead with him and try to convince him that we were only having fun and that there was no need for concern. A mutual respect keeps things in check. Unfortunately the bartender doesn’t follow politics at all and thinks that any political discussion will end in a bar fight. Regardless, much fun has been had in and out-of earshot of our dear bar manager.

Sadly, Serge is planning a move back to the east coast. After many years of debating together, drinking together, even a weird incident where I had to help him out with some thugs who wanted to fight, Serge may be leaving. I wish him the best! A house on the east coast to be closer to his family, settling down and maybe even starting a family of his own, Serge will be leaving before the year ends. I hope that in the coming years we will be able to keep in touch. Who knows…I try to get to New York at least once a year. Maybe we can catch up and continue our tradition over drinks in the village, or at his new home with wife, kids and dog by his side. All I know is it won’t be at some club. And quite frankly, I’m okay with that.

The Legend of Rick Lyon Begins!

2010-01-12T18:27:00.001-08:00

It all started one night when a friend and I were enjoying a drink at the bar. Rick had the crowd going and as we sipped our cocktails, a small group came and stood by us. One of the men started telling his friends about Rick and how he came to play here at the Imperial House. I eavesdropped on the tall tale, which was full of exaggerations and creative license, but wildly entertaining just the same. My friend and I discussed this tale we had just heard and laughed at how many wild legends must be floating around out there about Rick. We thought what a great idea it would be to try and round up these legends as a gift to Rick.

I ran the idea by Rick and he loved it! He thought it would be fun to hear what people thought they knew about him and we decided to ask for submissions of what his fans knew or thought they knew about his life story. How did he come to play music? Was he always here at the Impy? How does a legend like Rick come to be? We also realized that some people also might just have great memories to share. So we decided to ask for stories in two different categories.

Category #1-The Legend of Rick Lyon: Write a story about Rick. Who is this man? Is he the love child of Janis Joplin? A secret CIA operative? Or just a guy with great talent? Write what you think his story really is or just get creative and perpetuate his myth. Rick is curious to see who gets the closet to the truth, and I am curious to see how wild some of the legends are.

Category #2-Memories of Rick: Share with us one of your favorite Rick moments. Was there one night in particular that stands out? Or is there something that you experience with him at each visit that you want to share?

Rick’s favorite stories will be published here, and we are working on a special treat for one big winner. Stories can be emailed to peanut5f@hotmail.com . Please put “Legend of Rick” in the subject line so you don’t end up in the junk mail box. Let us know which category you are submitting for as well. You are also welcome to post any brief comments below. Thanks and good luck everybody! We look forward to hearing from you!

P.S. A special thanks to Lovers of Lyon: The Rick Lyon Club. Thanks for posting about this endeavor! And thanks for starting the club. It means the world to Rick!

The Scent of a Woman

2010-01-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

One hot summer day, the electric company had some problems, which resulted in problems for our whole neighborhood. Not quite a blackout, a brownout occurred. If you haven’t been through one of these, it is much less fun than a blackout. Appliances buzz and hum with the strangest of noises. Noises that you know are not good. And while there is a slight current of electricity, it is not enough to make things work. If anything it just messes everything up.

This particular day the brownout lasted for what seemed like hours. With the ridiculous heat in our apartment, Phil and I decided to take the nine flights of stairs down to cool off in the shade of the big tree in front of our building. We ran into our friend and building manager who was busy on his cell phone fielding calls from upset neighbors who didn’t understand that this was out of his control. Just when I thought his day as tough, our oldest tenant got out of a cab with bags of groceries. She had no idea of what had happened, and at 94 she had a decision to make…take the stairs and get her precious cargo into her slightly working fridge on the fourth floor, or rest her bones under the tree with the rest of us until the elevator eventually got full power again. She was a bit distressed about her groceries. But climbing the stairs with heavy bags was not an option.

Phil offered to take her keys and groceries, and bring them upstairs on his own. She was having none of that. Ultimately we talked her into letting him carry the groceries while she and I slowly ascended the stairs behind him. My job of course was to steady her and hold her hand on the way up. In the heat we started our journey. She took the stairs one at a time, resting on each platform. I tried to distract her with conversation on the way. She always smelled strongly of a distinct perfume. I had noticed from encounters in the past that her uniquely strong scent could be detected long after she had left a room. I commented how pretty it was and she happily told me that her signature sent was Clinique Aromatic Elixer. Four flights of stairs and lots of small talk later, we got her settled in to her apartment.

The next day when I came home from some errands, I noticed a small gift wrapped box on my doorstep. She had bought me a fresh bottle of her signature scent. It is not a scent that I would choose for myself, but I was touched by her present. I tucked it away, and smiled.

This past December, we met in the laundry room. There she was (now at 98 years young) doing her laundry on her own, and smelling of her beloved Elixer. We chatted a bit and I was pleasantly shocked to hear she remembered me. We caught up as we folded clothes. She was very inquisitive and asked about my job, my ex-husband, holiday plans, how life was in general. Her Irish eyes sparkled when she started talking about her life here in the building. She has cherished living her for well over 30 years now and was very proud of the fact that at 98 she still can manage quite well.

Just last night I ran down to the bar to drop off some sunglasses I had found. As I exited the elevator I was met by her smell. I looked around and couldn’t find her. I delivered my goods to the bar, and returned to the lobby to catch the elevator backup to the apartment. Just as the elevator doors slid open, she came toddling off the street into the lobby. I opened the big glass security door for her and welcomed her home. She asked if I could hold the elevator while she checked her mail and I of course obliged. Up we went. Again she was full of conversation. At one point she said “I guess I’m not doing so bad for 99.” “Oh!” I gasped. “Did you have a birthday recently?” “No, no dear! It is in February. I will be 99 and I’m quite looking forward to it.” I reassured her that she was indeed, doing amazingly well. She exited the elevator before me, scent still lingering.

I guess the best way to end this story is to share another gift she gave to me…perspective. Today I got home from yet another bad day at the office. I fed the cats, took out the trash, and sorted mail. All of which were done while obsessing over the injustices I perceived myself of having gone through of late. Exhausted, I soaked in a long hot shower. I put on my plushest of winter pajamas, and then dug around under my bathroom sink for that special small box. (Yes, I have kept it all these years.) I spritzed on a bit of the Elixer she gave me. I'm pretty sure the cats immediately started sneezing, but there was something about that scent I couldn't resist on a night like tonight. While overbearing at times, it somehow just made me feel better. Much better! Perhaps that scent is the secret to her longevity.

Miriam

2009-12-30T20:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Imperial House Bar-By Firefly Films

2009-12-29T17:58:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-29T16:33:00.000-08:00

"The Legend of Rick Lyon" contest details will be up after the new year. Stay tuned!

Flight Plan

2009-12-29T16:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Second Floor Sex-capades

2009-12-22T21:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Thanks to the Impy brethren

2009-12-22T18:42:00.000-08:00

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!

Catching up with an old friend

2009-12-21T23:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Gettng hit by reality in an elevator

2009-12-21T22:54:00.000-08:00

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."

An Introduction

2009-12-21T22:29:00.000-08:00

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.

And so it begins...

2009-12-21T21:41:00.000-08:00

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!