July 2009, COAGULA ART JOURNAL, Issue 97



My big metro newspaper, the Los Angeles Posthumous, has a featurette every Thursday titled ‘My Favorite Weekend.’ It is a puff piece in which a celebrity can present themselves as a Regular Joe. Who knew that Chris Rock picks up his own dry cleaning next door to his favorite bagel shop in the Valley? It humanizes the glitterati in a thousand words or less, much the same as a single photograph of Gwyneth Paltrow wiping her dog’s ass on the streets of Beverly Hills. The column is a publicist’s dream. It’s easy for a hack to write and the coverage legitimizes their fee.
Over the years, the star power in the column has declined in tandem with the newspaper. Once a hard-hitting, Pulitzer prize winning paragon of journalism and democracy in action, the Los Angeles Posthumous has become a cut-and-paste yellow sheet for the entertainment, fashion and lifestyle industries. Today, it will gladly overlook blatant corruption at City Hall in favor of ’Ten New Colors for Summer.’ One will conclude that black-hearted politicians do not require as much display advertising as a department store chain.
In the past, ‘My Favorite Weekend’ featured A-list stars such as Johnny Depp, Jennifer Aniston and Will Ferrell cavorting around the city just like you and me. These days, one may read that Maureen McCormick (Brady Bunch) likes to plug her florist or her canine stylist while Tony Orlando and Dawn (Seventies pop) spends Sundays sucking oysters at Gladstones in Malibu. It’s a sad state of affairs, like a wilted corsage or a silk ascot that has frayed over time.

It could have been a slow news week or maybe the naïve enthusiasm of an intern, but last year I was selected to represent the Fine Arts with ‘My Favorite Weekend.’ It was an honor. Yes, I may be one of LA’s most respected and beloved artists, but the Posthumous rarely selects a weekend outside the world of cable and syndicated television. I graciously accepted the kudo.
Lying that ‘my publicist was skiing in Argentina’, the newspaper graciously lent me a reporter to scribe my words.
I don’t think it went as well as they had hoped.

A month after the weekend-long interview, I received a letter from the novelty editor of the Calendar section. It began:

“Dear Mr. Grundy,
Without regret and in good conscience, we will be unable to publish ‘My Favorite Weekend With Gordy Grundy’ as our feature. Given the legal troubles of our reporter Judith Longnecker during your adventure, it would be inconceivable…”

Look. Judy was cute, bright, just out of college and she had an expense account. As we all know, an expense account is far more attractive than ‘cute’. Kids today don’t have as much stamina as they used to. All I wanted to do was show her one of ‘my favorite weekends’ and I did. We both had a swell time.
Anyway, a month after Judy got out of jail, her rehab counselor sent me the rough draft of her article. Since I haven’t had time to write this Genuflect column by deadline, I would like to share Judy’s work with you.

Every weekend begins with a fine repast at Traxx, one of LA’s premiere restaurants. The service is sharp, the space comfortable and the artwork exquisite. Located at historic Union Station, I like to take an after-dinner stroll through the many wonders of the last great train station built in these United States.
The bar at Traxx offers the best people watching in the world. The crazy hustle and bustle of harried commuters brings solace and confirmation to the beauty of my unemployment. Colorfully, Traxx is the closest bar to both Twin Towers (LA County) and LA Men’s Central jail. Party with a parolee.

Don’t tell anybody. That’s why they call it a speakeasy. The linebacker in a pinstriped suit guarding the front door better be your pal or you might be hitting the curb. Once inside, five floors of fun offer a bacchanalia of sin, temptation and libation. If your gal doesn’t appreciate the spectacular rooftop view, then Goldie will find you another. Tired? Cranky? Voodoo Vanda has the potion. Feeling artistic? Grab a sketchpad and draw the silky harem girls frozen to one-minute poses in Studio One. Edgy? The pistol range in the basement is a great way to let off steam. Seek and ye shall find. Welcome to the Pleasure Dome.

It feels like family. Just tell ‘em ‘Gordy says Hi.’

4.) TUCO’S TACO TRUCK (After Ten PM Only)
There is only one way to approach Tuco. A rolled $100 bill, placed discretely behind your ear, is just the signal he is looking for. This is one taco truck with a Pandora’s Box to rival any COSTCO pharmacy.

For those difficult times when the notification of your insurance company would be a grave mistake, Chico is the man. On call 24 hours, Chico can repaint your car in under an hour. No mess is too big for this cleaning crew. Cash only.

On weekends, I like to walk my pup to one of the coolest bookstores in town. Located on the shady side of Sunset in Echo Park, Stories feels like a clubhouse.

You can’t beat the price at $30 an hour. Unfortunately, the first forty minutes are sheer terror as an illegal Thai immigrant without a PhD or even a cursory interest in orthopedics dances a Far Eastern Flamenco across your back. Never fear. The end justifies the means. Cash only.

I’m really hoping if I plug ‘em in this article, they’ll be kind enough to release the tuxedo jacket that I can’t afford to get outta there.

It’s open 24 hours, really. Looks can be intimidating. The lights are off and the entrance to La Vida Nuevo appears rather abandoned. Ring the bell and give the good doctor a few minutes. He will always be right with you. He sleeps upstairs.
The nine fingers of Doctor Palparbueno may be stained nicotine-yellow but they are as long, slim and skilled as that of any Mayo Clinic surgeon. With over sixty-five years of trauma-wound care with a specialty in gunshots, the good doctor has served his community well. Smart customers know to bring the good doctor a fifth to steady the old junkie’s nerves.
Need a fresh new look fast? Your mama and Homeland Security will never recognize ya. Need a new passport, Green Card, or a Driver’s License? Doc Palparbueno is faster than the DMV. Cash Only.

24-hour service. Easy to remember toll free number. Please mention my name, for they kick back the love. All credit cards accepted.

Like every inbred Southern Californian, I always prefer a Mexican breakfast. Tacos Delta is the only boite on Sunset Boulevard to offer al fresco dining. Sure, the parquet asphalt floor is grayed and cracked. The air may be pungent with petrol leaking from their storage truck, but I cannot think of breaking my fast anywhere else.
The cuisine is superb and they offer a liberal corkage fee: Management doesn’t object to a cold beer as long as it’s in a brown paper bag.

Located in Echo Park, the Little Joy is a quaint neighborhood bar that’s close enough to walk home from, but far enough that I’ve never tried. In E.P., there are a million back roads where the cops’ll never find you. Nestled in the hills and valleys, it’s easy to pull the ole ‘Gun It and Duck.’
At the Little Joy, friendly proprietor Joe McGraw has filled a jukebox with the coolest beats. His intellect, entrepreneurial savvy and wry demeanor has attracted only the crème of the local artistic crop. Richard, lead bartender, is swift with a smile and a laugh. For those of you who like a heavy hand, just tell Little Richee, “Super-size me!”
Want to extend your First Amendment rights? Declare yourself on the wall with a Sharpee. Everybody does. The Little Joy features a museum-worthy collection of the finest exterior street art ever assembled inside four walls.
Yes, there is an Open Mike on Sundays, but I do not recommend it. The people are rude, untalented and you better keep an eye on your wallet. You’d do the readers of the LA Posthumous a great disservice to mention the Open Mike because we really wouldn’t want any of their fucking readers to show up and ruin it. The crew has become a hallowed institution, one very dear to my heart, and one that shall live forev…

[At this point in the document, the legibility of the text has deteriorated, obscured by liquid stains and cigarette burns.]

GORDY GRUNDY is a Los Angeles based artist. His visual and literary work can be found at