Thanks to my bestie during my Hollywood nightlife years, Jill, I never had to pay for parking. She gave me the Gift of the Buddha.
The only time I willingly paid for parking was when Hole played the Viper Room acoustic. I coughed up a twenty dollar bill so I would not miss a single moment. By the time I got the kids to bed, and the babysitter took over night duty, I was always flying out the door running late. It was worth it - I sat across the room from Tom Hanks, and we both blubbered like babies, Courtney was in such rare form that night.
I was paid such shit as a Los Angeles Times nightclub writer that I could not afford to pay for parking, so I had the town pretty much wired. I knew every loading zone strategically located near nightclubs. I knew every alley that hadn’t yet banned night parking, and I was always willing to walk a mile in platforms rather than pay Sunset Strip extortion rates, although if someone else was paying I could lead them to a secret $5 lot.
Toward the end of my 15-year tenure, I had acquired a modest valet fan club and never had to pay when parking on the Strip. It was quite simple how it all went down. I started requesting favors for having frequent flyer status, and then the valet guys and I began engaging in conversations about family, life, hopes, dreams, etc. I seem to recall billows of sweet smelling smoke wafting into the night sky, but it’s a bit hazy.
I knew I’d hit peak celebutante when a mohawked punk was assigned to sit in a parking spot until I arrived to review an Instigator/Diffs show at a South Bay nightclub. (Sigh - sweet memories of music promoter Daryl Potter, RIP, who had assigned the human orange cone.)
Anyone who was a part of the Hollywood nightclub scene in the ‘90s will tell you that Mondays were the hot night, mostly because there was no cover, and it was easy to park. But on the occasions when I had to hit clubs on a Saturday night, I could be found circling blocks until someone pulled out of a spot, in search of their next destination.
It was on one of those nights that my friend Jill gave me the Gift of the Buddha.
“Just say Buddha three times and a parking space will magically appear,” she said.
So I said, “Buddha Buddha Buddha,” and a parking space on Holloway right off the Strip, magically appeared. A phat one.
It was the greatest gift an underpaid nightlife writer could ever be granted.
I have used the Gift of the Buddha for nearly two decades, and it works unfailingly. I use it sparingly, and only when I have exhausted all other possibilities. I have regifted her gift many times, and have discovered it only works for those who believe.
Today, as I was entering the Huntington Library to go to my ‘office,’ - the 1919 Café - I saw a sign that said ‘Parking Lot Full.’ I pulled in anyway, and asked the parking attendant if I could try my luck. He nodded me in without rolling his eyes, and told me when I return where I could find street parking.
As if.
I made the first left toward the entrance, centered my mind, and said ‘Buddha Buddha Buddha’ and voila! A phat space near the entrance in the Ginko lane magically appeared.
And now I am releasing this Gift to you. But you gotta believe.
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Bette Dangerous is a reader-funded publication. Thank you to all subscribers, and thank you to those who generously donate coffee tips. A special thank you to paid monthly, annual, and founding members. Looking forward to the next Bette Dangerous ‘Speakeasy’ for paid members on January 29, where we will feature another surprise guest. My latest book, the erotic novella, Fox Undercover, was just published in my Ko-Fi shop! Subscribers can use coupon code: UNDERCOVER to receive 25% off in the shop. Paid members have access to a 50% discount here.🤍
Fortunately or really unfortunately I have a disabled placard. And I don't drive.