LUCK OF THE VALLEYITES

Finding a bar in the San Fernando Valley isn’t difficult. Finding a cool bar, however, can be quite the challenge, particularly on the fly. The night was still young last Friday, after a dinner of decent Mexican food, margaritas, and Negra Modela. We were in Burbank, but the consensus was to move the celebration deeper into the Valley. Fine with me, as the closer I get to my Valley Glen ghetto home, the better.

For reasons not quite clear to me, The Fox and Hounds in Studio City was rejected by the group. I like the place simply for the fact that Bob Cowsill and his acoustic guitar are there every week. I overlook the fact that the English pub vibe has been obliterated by sports-bar overtones. It’s not just a zillion screens of Premier League football (is that what it’s called? It’s all soccer to me). I see NASCAR and golf and other boring frat boy shit. Small price, I suppose, for a pint of Stella.

Anyway, Fox and Hounds was out. We agreed to hit the Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, on Moorpark and Woodman. A fine place, I’ve always thought. Not pretentious, and a normal sort of clientele. When we got there, there was a line of the frigging door. Life’s too short to wait in line to get into a bar when it’s 45 degrees, it’s late, and we’re not even on Ventura Boulevard.

Someone suggested a bar called Ireland’s 32. I’d passed it a million times zooming down Woodman past Burbank, but never had the inclination to step inside. We reconvened there and it was what I’d imagine to be a quintessential Valley scene (I’m probably enough of a snob to try and avoid these types of places). I was hanging with my TV-making friends, so of course we got the long looks walking into the place. We were the zombies from Mars invading the planet Earth.

It was beautiful inside: A blues band composed of sweaty old guys who probably did construction during the week. The singer was perfect: balding mullet, fu Manchu, bit of a paunch. Sang like he meant it. I projected that he’d been a crystal meth addict, about fifteen months sober. The old, thick broads with the too-snug acid washed jeans, tattoos and frizzy perms danced as if Canned Heat were playing a biker rally.

My friends looked on amused and bemused, saying that Ireland’s 32 could be a bar from Anywhere U.S.A. To me, though, this was the heart of the Valley, the regular folks who fly under the radar. Because I live in a different world, I tend to forget the concept of the bar as hangout: you work hard all week, and Friday night you’re gonna have a great time, you’re gonna get ripped, and, if you play you’re cards right, you might even get laid. All that, and you can get the “32” burger – with fries – for only $3.50.

HIT ME BABY AGAIN AND AGAIN

The production staff of NBC's late, lamented 2005 summer replacement series Hit Me Baby One More Time like nothing more than to get together, get hammered, and reminisce about the best seven weeks of our professional lives. The excuse this past Sunday was the presense of Englsh television genius Stewart Morris, the man behind immortal British small screen hits like Being Victoria Beckham. Stewart is a total mensch, and it was lovely to see him Saturday night at Cobras and Matadors (though Taylor's would've been prefered; nice work, Lenzi), and again at the bar in the ground floor of the Sofitel Hotel on Sunday. It can be weird, though. Whenever the Hit Me Baby crew hooks up en masse, it can be a bit like high school. The people who didn't give you the time of day when you were working still pretend like they don't know you. To those people I say this: get that stick out your ass. It's just TV. But when you see the people you loved, you love them that much more. Strange for such a transitory business.

GRIFFITH OBSERVATORY OBSERVED

Took the family to the Observatory Sunday. We met up with the Ginsbergs -- kids Lauren and Benjamin are schoolmates of Olivia and Emmett, while dad Harold is knee-deep in this family business. It was a strangely organized and orderly trip. With all the grand re-opening hype, cars aren't allowed to park at the top of the hill so we took a shuttle from the zoo. Not much has changed in the main area, but at least when you push all the buttons, everything lights up and moves like it's supposed to. I must note that the docent kiddies are somewhat asshole-ish rather than helpful. After we bought tix for the Planetarium show, Emmett had to make a last-minute visit to the loo. We didn't get back until after the show started and they wouldn't let us back in. Some short dweeb with a stupid tie informed us smugly that the doors were locked from the inside or some such thing and we were out of luck. It would have been nice to have seen visible signs posted so we'd have known the consequenses of nature's call at ill-opportune moments.

Having said that, the new exhibits were fresh and cool and smartly interactive and the cafeteria was decent, but pricey, to justify the Wolfgang Puck brand name (now how again did Wolfgang Puck put his imprint on my Greek salad?). Of course, the views of the city are always amazing (though it was a bit hazy on Sunday) and the memories always come flying forward. I'm always reminded of stoned trips to Laserium, late-night makeout sessions with a parade of different women, and a memorable Observatory rooftop interview I conducted with Beck in 1996.

Of course, the disembodied head of James Dean still lords over the proceedings. All in all, a nice balancing act between classic Observatory and the future, a place I'd be happy to take the kids for years to come. But I'll wait until the hoopla dies down and the docent dweebs learn a little public relations before going back.