Taylor’s on 8th is my respite from the Millennial Gentrification Storm.
I sit at on the old diner stool drinking Tito’s Immaculate Conceptions with my elbows resting on the oak wood bar in a suit thinking I may have had the chance to run into Frank, Dean and Sammy if it were just 30 years earlier. Of course then I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a place like this whilst wearing my Lou Reed uniform black leather jacket, black t-shirt, torn jeans, black boots and splintered stares at those so unhip they had never heard of The Fugs.
My moments of being lost in nostalgia are broken by the two 20 something guys wearing identical gray sweat shirts, messy but not too messy haircuts with the appropriate amount of product holding the various strands of hair up just enough to look like their preternaturally thinning locks are thicker then they really are and a mousy same aged brunette dressed in full winter clothing – thick sweater, blue Gortex sweater, scarf and librarian glasses for the 70 degree California night lost in a discussion about their jobs as TV writers.
Same Looking Guy 1 – So they send me out to do the interviews all the time because I know the lingo.
Same Looking Guy 2 – Like Digital Footprint?
Librarian Glasses – That is so woke.
Same Looking Guy 1 – That’s why they send me because I am woke. When I tell everybody what to watch in the writer’s room everybody watched it and they would tell me dude that was so woke.
Same Looking Guy 2 – That one show you told me to watch was so fucking woke dude.
Librarian Glasses – What show was that?
Same Looking Guy 1 – Friends.
Same Looking Guy 2 – You were right dude, so woke.
Librarian Glasses – That show made fish like Lobsters so fucking woke.
Same Looking Guy 1 – That’s why you should listen to me dudes. I am so fucking woke.
Same Looking Guy 2 – Should we eat here?
Librarian Glasses – Not for our celebratory lay off dinner.
Same Looking Guy 1 – Let’s go to the burrito truck across the street it’s so much more woke than this place.
Almost in unison they all pull a dollar out of their wallets, drop them on the bar and walk out into the wilds of the Los Angeles night.
Suddenly I am thrust into a Dirty Harry frame of mind; if a cup of coffee can be psychic then a burrito must be woke.