June 22, 2008

Digging Up Artifacts in Ancient Beverly Hills

Unearthing High Quality Threads

Happy Father’s Day! Wait, you didn’t get the memo? I was out of town last weekend so here at Chez Gates we’re celebrating Father’s Day today. Last week I went “home” —back to Los Angeles for the opening of a photo show I’m in at the Huntington Library. And, as luck would have it, I had an unscheduled chance to reconnect with my father.

My sojourns back to L.A. are always frenetic and filled with mixed emotions. Too much family history. Arranging meetups with relatives and friends while driving the severely clogged freeways is exhausting. As always I’d pay a visit to my parents’ graves (sadly, my family reunions are slowly moving from my relatives’ homes to Mt. Sinai Memorial Park). But this time I had one day all to myself so I scheduled in some culture. Starting with a small show of George Hurrell photographs at the California Heritage Museum in Santa Monica, I then made a beeline down Wilshire Boulevard to the L.A. County Museum of Art to see their new Broad Contemporary Art Museum. The eight and a half miles from start to finish took an hour. There is no “immediately there” there in LA these days. But it didn’t matter. I had no appointments to keep or so I thought.

As I drove through Beverly Hills I passed South Beverly Drive and without warning I thought of my father. South Beverly Drive: my father used to buy his suits at a men’s shop on this street. What was its name? Malibu Clothes, that was it. As a youngster my father dragged me with him on his periodic trips to buy his suits (you can imagine how exciting it was to tag along with dad to a stuffy store to buy clothes). He bought me my first sport coat at Malibu for my cousin’s bar mitzvah in the late 50s. But what was so intriguing back then was the gatekeeper at the store’s entrance. They sold wholesale decades before outlets and you had to be referred in order to get in. There was always an old man sitting at a counter waiting to get your name. It was my first brush with exclusivity. To a seven year old it was like a secret club.

Now I was trying to unearth this flashback. I continued on my drive towards the museum but the memory gnawed at me. And when I noticed a free curbside-parking slot I pulled over to google the store. Could it still be there? If something lasts twenty years in L.A. it’s ancient. Yes! According the Web page Malibu Clothes had been in existence for 65 years! I called to make sure this was it. “Is this the store where you have to be referred in order to get in?” I asked. “Yes” came the answer. “My father used to buy me suits there. Do you think you’d still have our names on file?” “Oh, we keep all records,” came the reply. I turned around.

When I entered the second floor store my vision of the place returned with total clarity. This was definitely it. There was the small counter where you gave your name and as I looked up I had confidence they would be able to find records of our familial visits. Before me stood the largest rotating card file cabinet I’d ever seen. Thousands upon thousands of 3x5 cards with clients’ names were filed away. I told them who I was but they couldn’t find any record. Perhaps it was under my father’s name. Suddenly I remembered the last time I was in there.

Don’t Stop Now! Read the Climactic Conclusion to "Digging Up Artifacts in Ancient Beverly Hills"

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May 31, 2008

Say It With Crystal

Him: Are those flowers real?
Me: When’s the last time you brought flowers to your wife?
Him: I’m not married.
Him 2: Did he say those flowers were real?
Her: They’re real. I can smell ‘em.

Subway Conversation, Thursday Afternoon

I’d been lamenting over what to get my wife for our 15th anniversary. Fifteen is crystal. But we’re not crystal types. Being the good gift giver that I am the bar is always set high. And, as good gift givers know, it’s not the money; it’s the thought that goes with it that really counts.

Now, I could go crystal but it would have to be so bad it was good. Know what I mean? So kitschy that we’d laugh and she’d place my trinket in a special place of honor. Every time we’d look at it we’d laugh and she would be reminded why she married me (or maybe she’d first remember and then laugh).

Time was getting short. I felt the pressure. So much so I was resigned to consulting female coworkers. Yes, that close. Coming up with a good gift is an art. It can’t be forced. But as I walked through the 8th Street open-air market on Thursday I spied my rock solid fallback plan. Saying it with flowers should not, cannot be underestimated.

What is it with flowers? Women succumb to their fragrant charms every time. Yet those same female coworkers have reminded me: “it’s the thought, you clueless man. It’s the thought. It shows you’re thinking of her.” And so I am. Thanks ladies.

So, when I walked through the door on Thursday with my bouquet (the day before our anniversary, I might add), her reaction was wonderfully predictable: “Oh Jeff!,” she cooed. This, gentlemen, was a very good sign.

Yesterday, as I stood in front of the Cheesecake Factory to celebrate this event with the kids (tonight we’ll celebrate with our own romantic dinner for two), my wife and the girls arrived with a small package. My youngest, the ever-eager gift-giver, couldn’t wait a second to spill the beans: “Wait until you see what Mom has for you!” I was asked to close my eyes and hold out my hand. When I opened them I was holding a real crystal, a very special one from Susie’s father’s collection (he was an avid collector of rocks and minerals).

It will occupy a special place in our home. But laughing will be the farthest thing from my mind.

Related Post: For you romantics who can’t get enough: Such a Match!.

• [ Marriage, Wedding Anniversary, Crystal ]

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May 11, 2008

Mary A, His Wife; Bonnie Jean, Their Daughter

Recently, a friend from out of town came to visit. She wanted to go to Arlington Cemetery to visit her father’s grave and she invited us to go with her. As I stood looking over the rows and rows of tombstones by her father’s grave I turned around and saw a familiar sight. Looking around I discovered it isn’t only wives who can be buried next to their military husbands, but husbands of military wives, daughters, sons, grandchildren and even stepchildren.

• [ Photography, Arlington Cemetery ]

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