The Takimag Story, a Great Miscalculation, and a Mexican Wake-Up Call

Wotta Week

Many of you have asked why I’m no longer with Takimag, and as much as I’m a compulsive anecdotalist, I’ve decided to not discuss it publicly. The details don’t favor Takimag, but I can’t overlook that Taki gave me over ten years of gainful employment doing the only thing I love to do, the only thing that gives me joy, so it just doesn’t feel right to air the laundry publicly. Suffice to say they made some demands of me, I acquiesced at first, and at second, and at third and fourth, but the fifth time I was like “okay, it’s best I move on.”

We can leave it at that. I’m forever grateful to Taki for keeping my lights on for over a decade.

With escrow closing on my house May 20th, I’ve been looking for a new place.

And I did something REALLY stupid.

I always enjoy writing about the dumb things I do because the right is brimming with personality-cult blowhards who claim inerrancy. I detest that; it purposely exploits the weak-brained compulsive followers looking for human idols to worship (odd that these types are so plentiful on the right, what with so many rightists claiming to be Christians). On a personal level, as someone lauded by the dumbest humans on earth (Holocaust deniers) dozens of times a day on X as the “child guru” whose 1992 work is itself inerrant (trust me, it’s errant…plenty errant), I’ll never play to that shit.

So behold the “child guru” being an idiot.

I got it in my head that I’d move to the woods…one of the foresty areas in the northern part of the county. I’d Airbnb a cabin. Just me, in the middle of nowhere, in complete peace and solitude.

That’s stupid thing #1.

#2? I booked all of May without seeing if I liked the place or the location. Because my idea was, I gotta make a clean break with Beverly Hills. If I’m moving, I might as well MOVE. Like, fer real, Scoob.

So I booked the place for the month. Jesus Christ why did I do that? Likely because I thought I was still the man I was in 2003 who spent a summer bumming up and down the Cali coast with naught but a backpack.

Well I learned a hard lesson indeed; that dude’s a pseudogene in an old man’s husk.

The cabin was fine, just as advertised. I’m the defective one. My first night there, I freaked out. Totally freaked out. It was TOO quiet, too remote. I’m a lifelong city dweller, and here I’d stuck myself in a place that might as well have been the Moon.

Waking up the next morning, I called my friend, “dude, get me outta here! GET ME OUTTA HERE!” I’ve never had a panic attack in my life, but I felt I was having one at that moment.

My buddy came to get me, and took me back to my house (which is still my house until June 1st). Thankfully, my one night away didn’t prompt the rats to take over. And I sez to my buddy I sez, “I need a night of pure luxury and relaxation; a night to decompress, the calm myself, to escape the madness of the Cabin in the Woods and my rat-infested home.”

So I did something I’ve never done before…I booked a one-night stay at a very expensive 4-star hotel overlooking my neighborhood. I’m exceptionally stingy; I never spend on myself but for food. But I thought, this one time, this one night, I need this to get my blood pressure regulated.

My buddy takes me to the hotel - Cameo Beverly Hills - and I check in.

The room was magnificent! A towering vista overlooking my beloved city. Here’s some pics I took from my balcony at dusk:

Straight ahead: Beverly Hills

To the left, Century City:

There was a spa! And a pool! And room service! I even met a purdy girl from Vancouver who was staying on my floor. We had a fine talk and got on very well. I was reminded that ol’ Dave (now a bloated beast) can still turn on the charm, even if he usually prefers not to.

I stayed up late drinking, watching TV, and just admiring the nighttime view, knowing that checkout time was a wonderful 12 noon (many hotels don’t give you the extra time to sleep in a bit).

See, my buddy (a lifelong friend) had made a very astute observation regarding why I felt so uneasy in the cabin. He explained that with all of my immediate loved ones dead, the only anchors I have left are my house and my neighborhood. And I can’t lose both at the same time. Losing my house is inevitable, but I can’t also lose Beverly Hills/Century City.

And he couldn’t have been more correct. I’d overreached. I didn’t understand my own psyche. The cabin idea is arguably the worst I’ve ever had, not counting my ill-conceived marriage to Taylor Dayne in 1988.

So that night at the fancy, glorious hotel, I relaxed. Seeing my city, being home, I could feel my BP getting back to normal. At around 4am I fell into a blissful slumber of happiness, knowing that I could sleep ‘til 11am, as checkout time was noon.

And then…..

6am, I’m BLASTED awake by giant drums under my balcony. Drums, amps, bullhorns, chanting, louder than you can imagine.

Turns out, a bunch of beans are in a dispute with the hotel over the cleaning staff contract, and the hotel allows them ON THE PROPERTY to protest under the balconies of guests. To repeat, this was not on a public street. This was on the property, the valet parking section, right under my fucking room. And they’re screaming “NO JUSTICE NO PEACE” and “NOBODY SLEEPS! GET OUT!”

Being blasted out of a deep sleep by a marching band gave me a hypertensive episode (as some of you know, my hypertension is so bad I joke about being “one toe-stub away from a stroke,” but in fact I genuinely am at a very high stroke risk). My blood pressure shot up, my head felt like it was about to explode, and I nearly passed out.

Six-fucking-AM.

I ran to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and did my breathing exercises so that I didn’t Kirk Douglas on the floor. About 30 minutes later I felt confident that I’d be okay, but the din, the damned noise, was just not stopping. So I decided to get an Uber and go back to my house. But before I did, at about 6:45am, I took video. This is what was under my balcony since 6am:

ONE time in my life I pamper myself with a fancy expensive hotel, and this shit happens. It had been such a great night, and just when I’d gotten myself relaxed and at peace, this insanity occurs.

Checking out, my head throbbing, the desk clerk, a black woman named Odouwa, acted like the disturbance was nothing. “Oh, those guys come every morning” she blithely stated. And I was like “Wait, you knew, and you didn’t warn your guests? Especially the ones with rooms right above the protest? And why are they allowed on hotel property?”

Odouwa brushed me off like a tsetse fly from her native land.

My guess is that the protesters are allowed on-property to keep them off the main street, lest word spread about the disturbances. Better to annoy the guests who’ve already paid than risk losing new ones.

I’m not certain the worse villains here…the beans who think the best way to resolve their contract dispute is to startle innocent guests awake at 6am, or the hotel that allows it to happen.

So I Ubered home, too worked up to sleep again. By nighttime I’d recovered the lost sleep, and once I had my strength back I emailed the hotel and its parent company, Hilton. And when I told them I had video of what goes on every morning in their parking lot, they refunded my entire stay, even the room service I ordered.

Thanks for the refund, assholes. But I’m actually way more concerned about not stroking out.

Then on Friday I got a call from the Hilton Corp. head office to apologize personally. I let them leave a message, for posterity. I got my refund; no need to chat. The apology is far less important than them not putting other guests through this torment every morning.

As I’ve written before, one of my mottos is, “always appreciate a good joke even if it’s on you.” And this was a good joke. A man with severe hypertension pays handsomely to have one night of peace, only to be woken at 6am in quite literally THE loudest and most disruptive manner possible.

A good gag…worthy of Curb Your Enthusiasm or an old Preston Sturges comedy.

It wasn’t funny at the time…

…but some jokes take a little while to land.

As always, feel free to BUY ME A BEER!