Meow Wolf!
I’m sure the decision was made long ago to make LA the next location for the world-renowned unique so-much-fun art experience that is Meow Wolf, but it was announced all over the front of the Los Angeles Times Calendar section Monday morning, and I am thrilled to pieces. The Santa Fe art collective that created it began in 2008, and opened their first permanent installation/experience there in 2014, with a boost of $2.7m from longtime Santa Fe resident George RR Martin, author of the novels that became the insanely popular Game of Thrones.
The first thing I did after seeing the headlines was let out a yelp of delight. The second thing I did was send a text to Mayor Phil Brock to tell him the news, knowing that he has advocated for years, long before his election to City Council, for Santa Monica to brand itself as a city of the arts. That has been my clarion call for years, too.
On a trip to New Mexico all my friends there said, you’ve got to go to Meow Wolf. I have yet to hear or read of anyone who spent time inside that alternative reality who didn’t like it. A. Lot.
I bent Brock’s text ear with what I knew and my first hand experience. I suggested he contact the MW decision makers immediately and do a selling job for locating in Santa Monica. He noted what I did in the article, that they already had a couple of Westside locations in negotiation, but I said, you never know what happens tomorrow. Brock agreed and said he would try to reach them.
There are a passel of reasons why this would be a bonanza for Santa Monica, but I won’t go into them now, nor will I say any more about Meow Wolf. You can look it up but it is hard to put into words or even pictures.
I’m sure if the miracle happened that they did decide on Santa Monica, and found an appropriate building, that some voices would call out that it could have been "affordable housing." That’s the world we’re in now.
"Have I got a story for you"
Remember last week when I teased you with that, and gave you the most salacious high-/low lights, and then didn’t deliver? Now my credibility is suspect. Did I really run out of space, or only throw that in to get you to read the rest of the column? Now I have to tell the story. Some of these things may have happened to you, big airport, big delays, bad hotel, but I doubt there is anyone who got this particular whole enchilada.
If there is any moral to be derived, I guess it is that we everyday people are always at the mercy of corporations and their bottom line. In this case, the airlines, specifically American Airlines, whose group profit for 2023 was $882m. Hire a few more customer people, will you, while you bounce us between two gates (in different counties, I think – maybe different countries) and three planes and god-knows how many crew changes, during a grueling late night seven hour delay, until 1am. It’s just a little annoying to approach a group of uniformed employees, in front of computer screens with all the information, and be told you have to hike to their central "customer service" desk, to stand in line for an hour and 20 minutes, only to get no useful information.
Here’s that enticing paragraph again
A true story. A scary story. It happened to me, not long ago. It involves going to the Ron DeMented state of Florida (scared yet?), a German Shepherd the size of a small horse, an ill-tempered desk clerk the size of a small house, a lawyer named Pickles, an airline which has perfected the terrible art of torture, an Uber ride the cost of the rental car we had reserved but could not get, and finally, apparent victory celebrated with a fine dinner and good Scotch (The Macallan, at half the price you would pay in LA, so of course I had to have two).
This involves my good friend Joey (not his real name) and a property in Florida. Joey and I have been great friends since our grown kids were in diapers. He has been successful in real estate since he was 19, nearly half a century. While hardly a saint in some areas, he is also one of the most honest and moral people I have ever known. His word, at least to me, is gold. I asked him years ago to keep an eye out for a deal I could be involved in, for little or no up front investment, and little or no risk. Finally he found something, in Florida. No investment, all I would have to do is sign some papers and occasionally get them notarized, and if it sold, I would get a small percentage.
Years went by and I gave up on it. Then it looked like there would be a foreclosure. Oh well. But then things got weird and it looked like Joey could recover the property, but he needed my participation. Even while I was on vacation. Very annoying, disruptive to my life, for more than a year. But then it got much worse: I would have to fly with him to Florida to give a deposition. But it meant hundreds of thousands for Joey. I couldn’t say no.
8½ hrs in Dallas — Ft. Worth airport
In those oh-so-comfortable chairs. Where we spent little time, because we were trying to get the earliest flight out, but… American Airlines gave us nothing but grief. You can get on the stand-by list for the earlier flight, but you will have to give up your reservation on the other flight. That doesn’t make sense.
But here’s what you need to know about DFW airport. It is beyond huge. So huge they have a train that circles the top of the airport. But that train stopped working, while we were on it, dumping us miles from our gate. The next six hours were exhausting. Miles of shuffling, to try to get out of there, with no help from American Airlines, only roadblocks and indifference. Pete Buttigieg, good job but there is more to be done.
Even the search for a decent meal took hours. McDonald’s? 7-11? Chick-fil-A? Please. Finally, in a far corner of DFW, we found a good BBQ joint. The Brit at the next table recounted a similar search over miles to find something decent. Dinner, finally, at 11pm.
Our original flight, 6pm, took off at 1am, getting us into Jacksonville at 5am, too early to claim our rental car. So we took an Uber, the same cost for one trip as our rental car for a day, to our reserved hotel. Joey hopped out to get things squared away, but came back with this report: they gave away our room but are trying to find another one. I have to warn you — the lobby is full of some pretty rough characters. This was a decent hotel chain but it looked like they were hosting a crackhead convention. One guy didn’t have a nose, just a black cavity. Eww.
I didn’t notice them at first
Because I was cautiously making my way around the huge black and brown German Shepherd stretched out in front of the entrance. I’ve seen smaller horses. The desk clerk might have outweighed Shaq, and had the demeanor of a pissed-off Putin. Joey surmised that she could beat up every dirtbag in the lobby, and that’s why they were behaving. When she finally gave us our card-key, we went upstairs to find it didn’t work. We also found a hallway with peeling paint and a carpet that had not been cleaned for at least 50 years. Joey left me there to go get a key that worked, and I expected him to say, if I’m not back in 10 minutes, run for your life.
It was a long 20 minutes, leaving me to imagine what might run out of the room when we did get the door open. But we never tried the new card key. Joey said, let’s get out of here, I think we might be in danger. Go where, though, at 6am, in a spread out industrial area? But I guess a merciful God decided he had put us through enough, and right across the street was a Hampton Inn (part of Hilton), with a sparkling clean room with two huge beds, a sumptuous breakfast buffet, and not a single person who looked like they would kill us for pocket change.
Joey and our lawyer said I did great. Keep your answers short, and truthful. Although it went longer than anyone expected, more than three hours, there were really only two important questions. Mr. Andrews, have you ever seen the gentleman sitting across the table from you? — who claimed he bought our company from me for $5,000 cash, sealed with my (forged) signature. And, Mr. Andrews, have you ever in your life been to Tallahassee? — where said gentleman claimed he met me to file the transaction. No, and no.
I was born in Florida, Ft. Lauderdale, left when I was one (I was very smart from an early age), and if I never go there again it will be too soon.
Charles Andrews has lived in Santa Monica for 38 years and wouldn’t live anywhere else.
