“You’re wearing that?” asked Aunt Lori, sizing up my ensemble for an afternoon tour of Melrose Avenue with Mateo. Considering Melrose was the hub of contemporary post-punk youth culture, I thought wearing my Clash tee shirt that Rafe had given me last year when we saw them at Bond’s in New York with my old standby jeans would be perfectly suitable.

“I don’t know. It depends. Is this a date? Has Mateo asked you out?”

“Technically? He just wanted to show me around the Melrose scene. But, he did say we were having dinner at Tommy Tang’s. Is that like…a date date?”

“Joey, you are truly a novice at this girl thing. Of course it’s a date date! Tommy Tang’s just opened like a month ago. It’s already the place to meet and eat for the cool kids and punk rockers. And it’s not cheap.”

“So, you think I’m under-dressed?”

“Well…never mind. I think you look fine. It’s not like you were going to wear a halter top and booty shorts anyway.”

The roar of a car engine and the squeaking of tires on the smooth concrete of the driveway signaled Mateo’s arrival at the house. A car door slammed shut and footsteps resounded up the steps to the front door.

“He’s here!” I said excitedly.

“Definitely a date,” Lori muttered. The doorbell rang. I rushed to open the door. Mateo stood there, smiling, wearing his favorite Johnny Cash tee shirt. I felt like turning to Lori and pronouncing my vindication but just stood there and returned Mateo’s big smile.

“Sorry, I’m a little late. I had to work a half day at the dealership. Dad wouldn’t give me the whole day off.”

“Come in, Mateo.”

“Hello, Ms. Garcia.” Mateo nodded in Lori’s direction as he stepped into the living room.

“You look nice, Joey. Love the Clash merch.”

“My friend Rafe gave it to me when we saw them at Bond’s last year.”

“Wow! I’d love to see them play. I couldn’t go see them at The Palladium last month. Well, actually, I couldn’t afford the tickets,” he laughed. “Plus, I didn’t have anyone to go with me…like you. You know, a real fan of the band.”

“Would you kids like something to drink? I’ve got some fresh-squeezed orange juice,” Lori said, giving me the evil eye.

“No, thanks, Ms. Garcia. We better get going. I’ve got the perfect place for lunch in mind. Joey, are you ready to go?”

We bounced down the steps and turned into the driveway where Mateo’s metallic silver Mustang GT was parked at an angle to the street. At the same time, our mailman was climbing up the steps to the house, ready to deposit mail in our wall-mounted box. Probably just bills. There’s only one person who’d actually send me a letter rather than just call.

“New car?” I whistled.

“Nah. I can’t afford something like this. I sort of borrowed it for the day. It came in for repairs two days ago. It’s all fixed now but the owner’s not coming to pick it up until tomorrow. So, meanwhile, I’m using today’s ride to test it out. See if the boys did a good job on it.”

“Your dad let you take it out of the garage?”

“Not really. The guys in the garage told me to make sure I don’t crack up the thing. Don’t worry, I’m a really good driver. Everyone says so. Anyway, what dad doesn’t know, won’t kill me.”

As we wound up and through the hills, crossing Mulholland Drive and taking a right onto Coldwater Canyon Avenue, Mateo delivered a sales pitch on the Mustang’s specs.

“Man, this thing is a beauty. Ford returned the Mustang line to its classic glory days. 5.0-liter high output V8 engine. 157 horsepower at 4,200 rpm. Single-rail overdrive 4-speed manual transmission. Does 0–60 miles per hour in 8.1 seconds. Top speed 118 miles per hour. The brakes are power-assisted front vented discs and rear drums. TRX handling suspension with metric Michelin tires. The only issue is that it’s a hatchback. Would be special if it were a convertible.”

“Sounds like you have a great future as a car salesman. I have no idea what you just said but it’s authoritative.”

“I like cars, but I don’t want to spend my life pitching to people who use them to commute to and from work. Music is my life. I thought you said the band sounded really good when you came to Grimaldi’s and the garage to hear us play. Were you just trying to be kind?”

“Well to be honest…you want me to be honest, right?”

“Sure. Go for it.”

“Roots rock…if that’s what you call it…isn’t my cup of tea. I mean, you guys are good. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just I like something more aggressive, harder—”

“Like The Clash?”

“That’s one. There’s others. Talking Heads, the B-52’s, Oingo Boingo, XTC, Gang of Four.”

“I respect that. Growing up in SoCal, there’s a real foundation of country and roots music. A lot of people migrated here from the South and Southwest, bringing their own favorite music with them. My grandparents on my mother’s side grew up on Western Swing and honky-tonk, like Bob Wills, Hank Penny, Spade Cooley, and Lefty Frizzell.”

“My dad grew up in LA in the ‘50s. He was a fan of Elvis, Eddie Cochran, Buddy Holly, and R&B groups like The Penguins and The Coasters. He told me about going to clubs on Central Avenue and running from Chief Parker’s Juvenile Curfew patrol, even when they went to clubs that didn’t serve alcohol.”

When Coldwater Canyon hit the flats in Beverly Hills, we turned left onto Sunset Boulevard and headed southeast toward West Hollywood. Driving east on Melrose Avenue, we took a sharp right onto North La Cienega Boulevard. Finally, we reached our destination: The Tail o’ The Pup.

Standing in the shadow of the recently opened monolithic Beverly Center (where Lori took mom shopping last Saturday while Erica and I frolicked at the Santa Monica Pier with Mateo and Blaise), Tail o’ The Pup is a 17-foot steel-and-plaster hot dog parked proudly on the asphalt.

In the three summers I spent in Los Angeles, The Pup had increasingly become a cool meeting place for rock music luminaries like The Go-Gos and Devo. Even famous movie stars like Sigourney Weaver had been photographed chomping on a hot dog in publicity shots. Like these celebrities, I wanted a picture of me posing in front of the Pup. Lori had been so nervous about my borrowing her camera when Blaise took me up to Griffith Observatory that I had to buy one of those cheap point and shoot jobs to carry around in my purse. Mateo did the honors just before we lined up to order our “chiens chauds.”

After a decidedly un-girly-like belch or two, we got back into Mateo’s borrowed Mustang and headed north on La Cienega until we intersected with Melrose Avenue. Since the interesting segment of Melrose Avenue was east of Fairfax Avenue, ending at LaBrea, we drove past quiet antique stores and traditional tailors until the pedestrian traffic illustrated the collision of punk rock, new wave, and rockabilly subcultures.

After parking the Mustang near Fairfax Avenue, we started our foot tour heading east. As I stepped onto the pavement, the atmosphere shifted instantly from the polished sheen of the nearby Beverly Center to spray-painted storefronts, neon signs, and teenagers blasting new wave music from their car stereos.

Our first stop was Flip of Hollywood, a massive vintage emporium, famous for importing literal bales of used clothing from Europe. I started digging through piles of authentic 1950s bowling shirts, pegged trousers, and deadstock denim, occasionally holding something up to show Mateo but he was preoccupied with a few crates of old LPs and 45 singles that had been plopped down randomly near the cash register. He called me over when he unearthed a copy of Johnny Cash’s Rockabilly Blues, recorded in Nashville and London, England and released in 1980.

Ultimately, we left the store empty-handed. After all, there was another quarter mile of shops to investigate on Melrose and neither of us had much loose change to spare on impulse buys. It was just fun to window shop though.

We walked into Poseur next. Squeezing through the doorway past twin red doors was tricky since the area was already a social mosh pit where kids hung out trading zines and flyers. Inside, shelves and racks were replete with bondage pants, spiked bracelets, and leather jackets covered in zippers.

I liked the leather biker jackets with all the safety pins, cone studs, dome studs, and pyramid spikes. They were so heavy, though, they made me slouch like a hunchback. Also, it just wasn’t my style. Mateo agreed and we beat a hasty retreat from the store.

A couple of shops downhill, we entered the mecca of contemporary West Coast/SoCal music mavens, Vinyl Fetish. The record sanctuary for the underground scene. We browsed the bins for rare treasure; records regular radio stations would never play. Punk, post-punk, and new wave records. UK imports, local deathrock pressings, and emerging New Romantic/synth-pop releases.

While I looked at the store’s huge cache of British imports, the sound system was playing New Order’s new single, Temptation, which left behind the morose, sepia -toned stylings of the years after Ian Curtis’ death. Mateo, on the other hand, was concentrating on the bins containing music more to his liking. After almost a half an hour of digging, he emerged with two albums in his hands. Rank and File’s Sundown and The Gun Club's Fire of Love.

“The only thing is I’ve got the day budgeted out and these two albums would pretty much eliminate dinner at Tommy Tang’s,” Mateo sadly observed.

Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a crisp 20 and handed it to him. “Here, consider it a loan for the advancement of The Western Sons' sonic education. You can pay me back when you get your next paycheck from your dad’s dealership.”

“Are you sure? It’s not like I can’t wait to buy these.”

“Just take it. I saw your eyes light up when you found them. Go ahead,” I nodded toward the cashier.

Mateo stepped up to the crowded counter, laying the two LPs down. The cashier—a girl with a jagged, bleach-blonde asymmetric haircut, heavy black eyeliner, and a ripped Siouxsie and the Banshees tee—picked up the records. She looked at the sleeves, then glanced up at Mateo, her eyes lingering on his Johnny Cash tee.

"Rank and File," she said, her voice dropping into a slow, deliberate drawl. "Nice choice. You don't look like the usual synth-pop boys who come in here looking for the new Soft Cell import."

Mateo rubbed the back of his neck, leaning one elbow on the counter. "Yeah, well, I prefer guitars that actually plug into an amplifier."

The cashier chuckled, a sharp, knowing sound. She scanned the barcode, then paused, looking intently at his face. "Wait a minute. You’re the guitar player for The Western Sons, aren't you? I saw you guys open at the Cathay de Grande a few weeks back. You did that blistering slide solo on the closing number."

Mateo’s posture relaxed, a flash of pride lighting up his eyes. "You caught that? Yeah, that's us. We're trying to bring a little bit of roots music back to Hollywood."

"It was great," she said, leaning forward over the register, completely ignoring the small line forming behind Mateo. "Real grit. You guys playing anywhere this weekend? I'm off Saturdays."

"Actually, we're looking at a backyard party over in Silver Lake—" Mateo started, shifting his weight and smiling back, sneaking a look to the side at me. He caught himself mid-sentence. However, I had turned my face away, not wanting to appear as if I had been listening to their exchange. I really had no right to be upset by a little mutual flirting on their parts. After all, in direct opposition to what Aunt Lori thought, this was not a date.

Mateo cleared his throat quickly, the easygoing smile vanishing from his face. He took the twenty-dollar bill from his palm, laid it flat on the counter, and slid his fingers back over his records.

"Just the LPs for today," Mateo said to the cashier, his tone suddenly polite and professional as he nodded toward the door. "My friend and I have to get moving." When he reached me, I acted unaware that he had finished his business at the counter. With a sheepish grin, he took my arm and escorted me out the door, the paper bag containing the two records gripped in his free hand.

“Looks like you’ve got fans everywhere,” I smirked, trying to shrug the whole thing off.

After we looked at the kitschy Hawaiian shirts in Cowboys and Poodles, we hit the jackpot of edgy, radical fashion design -- Betsey Johnson. The boutique was an unapologetic explosion of punk irreverence and playful femininity. Naming her designs The Punk Label, Betsey's 1982 collection was the unexpected juxtaposition of tough, underground rock-and-roll materials with ultra-feminine accents.

There were form-fitting wrap dresses and miniskirts made of jaggedly cut black leather, softened by layers of delicate white or neon lace trim. At the same time, the accoutrements included hardware like heavy industrial exposed zippers, silver grommets, and snap fasteners placed across delicate cotton and jersey fabrics to add a hard edge.

Though I couldn’t imagine wearing Betsey’s designs, browsing the boutique’s racks was a fascinating visual and tactile experience.

“Why don’t you try it on?” suggested Mateo, suppressing a yawn. He pointed to the dressing room. I was already shaking my head as I saw the area filled with chatty, effusive girls. Some of them were so blasé about being nearly nude that I blanched at the sight. There were reasons beyond modesty that prevented me from going in there.

“I wouldn’t wear this myself. I think of this boutique as a museum and these dresses as like paintings in a gallery.”

Trying to appear solicitous of his lack of interest, I suggested we leave and get some snacks.

“I know a place for ice cream,” Mateo replied brightly.

“I’d go for a cone,” I quickly interjected.

“We’ll have to walk back toward Fairfax.”

“Who needs air conditioning anyway.”

It was a Ben & Jerry’s Scoop Shop. We walked back toward La Brea at the other end of the Melrose shopping strip, licking our waffle cones as we went. I had the strawberry cone with rainbow sprinkles while Mateo had the Chunky Monkey with the chocolate-dipped rim.

Melrose Avenue was a bumper-to-bumper crawl of vehicular posturing. A lowered primer-gray Chevy Nova rumbled past, its windows rolled down as the aggressive, staccato beat of The Clash’s "Rock the Casbah" blasted from aftermarket speakers, vibrating the air. Right behind it, a pristine European sports car snaked toward West Hollywood, its driver sporting dark aviators.

On the sidewalk, the traditional fabric of the neighborhood was visibly fraying. Elderly local residents carrying paper grocery bags navigated past teenagers with sky-high, aqua net-sprayed hair and bleach-spotted denim jackets. The rhythmic, plastic thwack of urethane wheels hitting the pavement as kids on skateboards weaved expertly between the foot traffic, ducking under the striped canvas awnings of the old antique shops that were rapidly being priced out.

As the newer shops bringing the youth culture onto the Avenue came into view, building facades and storefronts completely transformed from boring beige into shocking pinks, stark blacks, and electric blues. We stepped right into the flow—walking amidst the rockabilly kids in pegged trousers and the new-wave girls browsing the lace-up corsets, completely immersed in the raw, anti-establishment energy of L.A.'s most explosive cultural strip.

By the time we reached the final stop on our tour of Melrose, The Soap Plant, our waffle cones were a pleasant memory. The Soap Plant was kept minimally cooler than the outside furnace-like heat of a July afternoon by deploying a WWII era electric fan in the corner of the establishment. It mainly served to circulate the head-spinning scents of the massive selection of colorful, handcrafted, and imported bath products, arranged like fine cheeses. Hence, the name The Soap Plant.

But the most popular feature of the store nowadays was its inventory of kitsch novelties & bizarre imports. Japanese wind-up tin robots, plastic chattering teeth, Mexican Lucha Libre wrestling masks, and glowing plastic skulls. Intricate day-of-the-dead calaveras, papier-mâché folk art, and cheap, colorful plastic jewelry also imported from Japan lined its cramped shelves.

Near the counter, a low table held reading material you couldn't find at a regular B. Dalton bookstore. Self-published punk-rock zines photocopied on cheap paper, underground comix, and oversized coffee table books detailing art history, tattoo culture, and radical architecture were displayed haphazardly. You got the impression many of the store’s patrons came in to do some light reading but not necessarily to buy.

I debated buying a rubber novelty chicken. When Mateo asked why, I told him so I could practice choking the chicken. I swear Mateo actually blushed. He wouldn’t touch the thing when I playfully handed it to him. One of the store drones stopped in front of us. “Are you planning to buy that? If not, please return it to the shelf where you found it.”

Tommy Tang’s Siamese Café was the new, hip restaurant on Melrose Avenue. The dishes served were the first fusion of Thai and European cuisine to gain real prominence. Tang had transformed a struggling Thai restaurant in LA called Chan Dara into a hot spot of the city’s nightlife in just a few years. He parlayed his celebrity status into his own chain of restaurants, the first of which opened on Melrose Avenue in 1982.

We walked into a space that had no resemblance to the traditional, hackneyed décor of Chinese and Asian restaurants. The dining room was an airy, high-ceilinged room drenched in soft pink, gray, and pastel neon lighting. The walls were crisp white, acting as a gallery space to showcase rotating modern art, abstract paintings, and pop-art murals. The center of the room featured simple, black-lacquered tables paired with matching, modernist black chairs. White tablecloths provided a sharp contrast, set with sleek black chopsticks.
Running along the walls were plush, comfortable banquette seating strips wrapped in modern fabrics rather than traditional deep leather booths. Sitting at the banquettes gave diners a perfect view of the entire room.

Upbeat ‘80s new wave music permeated the room, punctuating the din of conversation among music industry executives, Hollywood actors, and rock star legends, cheek by jowl with young would-be rockers, trendy yuppies, and the hoi-polloi of the youth subculture. While we looked over our menus, one eye figuratively was trained on spotting any celebrities in the room. At least, ones we knew.

“I can’t decide between the Chicken Satay and the Bangkok Jambalaya,” Mateo said.

“At these Asian restaurants, the waiter always recommends certain dishes. At least they always do in movies. I’d go with whatever they recommend,” I figured.

“I’ll let you order first. Then I’ll just have the same.” Mateo closed his menu, satisfied with his decision. “Say, isn’t that John Doe and Exene from X?”

“Where? Oh, I guess so. But how can you be sure?”

“I’ll go over and ask,” Mateo said, getting up from our table.

“What about ordering?”

“You order for both of us, right?” He walked toward the banquette where the alleged John Doe and Exene were seated, engrossed in their dinner.

“I’m coming with you,” I said, quickly getting up to follow.

“Holy shit! It is you. Hey, John. Exene," Mateo said, nodding. "Sorry to interrupt the food. Just wanted to say your set at the Whisky last month was incredible."

John Doe looked up, his sharp eyes taking Mateo in for a brief second before a relaxed, easy smile broke across his face. "Thanks, man. Appreciate you coming out."

"Yeah," Mateo says, clearing his throat. "My band actually just opened for The Blasters over at Grimaldi's on the Strip the other Friday. Phil and Dave were tearing it up."

Exene paused, her chopsticks hovering in mid-air. She glanced at Mateo, her dark eyes sharp beneath a messy fringe of hair, then looked over at me, standing completely frozen, starstruck and terrified to even blink. A faint, knowing smirk hit Exene's lips.

"Grimaldi's," Exene said, her voice a dry, flat drawl. "Did they finally clean the bathrooms over there, or does it still smell like a flooded basement?"

Mateo laughed, a bit too quickly. "Worse, actually. I think the pipes gave out completely during soundcheck."

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Sounds about right. Dave Alvin's guitar probably shook the foundation loose anyway. What's your band called?"

"The Western Sons," Mateo said proudly.

"Good name," John said, nodding slowly. "Keep at it. Tell Phil we said hi next time you see him."

"Will do. Enjoy the dinner," Mateo replied. He turned and walked back to our table, completely energized, leading me with his hand on my back.

"Oh my god," I breathed, finally letting out my breath. "I thought I was going to pass out. Exene looked right at me."

"Told you," Mateo said, grinning widely as he slid back into his seat. "That's Melrose. You never know who’s sitting next to you."

Our waiter was standing at our table, a slightly annoyed look on his face. “Now, may I have your orders, please?”

“What do you recommend?” I quickly asked, as the waiter picked up our menus from the table.

“The Chicken Satay is our most popular dish. But I think the Crispy Thai Duck is the best thing we serve. The undisputed heavy hitter of our dinner menu. Long Island ducklings marinated in a secret blend of Asian spices that our master chef and owner Mr. Tang created, flash-fried to achieve a perfectly crackling, crispy skin while keeping the meat tender, and drizzled with a decadent honey-ginger reduction glaze.”

“That sounds delicious. We’ll have two orders of the Duck then,” I declared. Mateo nodded to the waiter.

We sat in Mateo’s borrowed Mustang outside the house, its motor idling, talking about the day we’d just had.

“Quite a day, huh?” Mateo said, smiling. “But you didn’t buy anything. Wasn’t there anything you liked? A dress, a record, a tee shirt?”

“I really wanted that rubber chicken,” I replied, cackling at the thought of Mateo blushing.

“I’d like to get together next week sometime, Joey.” Mateo caressed my cheek with two fingers of his right hand. “I owe you like thirty dollars—”

“Twenty, you mean. I lent you twenty for those two LPs.”

“Well, we split the dinner tab. That wasn’t right. I had the money. I budgeted for it.”

“Mateo, I thought we agreed to go Dutch. It’s not fair for you to pay for me every time.”

“It’s a man’s responsibility to—”

“Ever heard of feminism? Look, why don’t you come in. I can make you a cup of coffee or tea. Would you like that?”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yes,” I actually cooed. Was this me?

“Let’s go. They say idling your car for more than 30 seconds is bad. We’ve been sitting here for a lot more than 30 seconds.”

We stepped into the house to find Aunt Lori sitting at the kitchen table with Blaise, drinking coffee and eating slices of apple pie.

“Joey, you’re home already. Look who’s here, waiting to speak to you. He seemed hungry, so I gave him some pie to eat…”

“Joey, I didn’t know you were out…with Mateo no less. I dropped by to pass on a message from my grandmother. I thought about just calling you but…”

“Would you two like some pie?” Lori asked innocently. “I bought it fresh from Ralph’s today.”

“It’s really good, Lori,” beamed Blaise, as he dug his fork into the pie.

“Uh…maybe I should just say goodnight. Thanks for the offer, Ms. Garcia. Blaise, nice seeing you again.” I walked him to the door where he kissed me on the cheek before leaving.

“Well, what’s the message, Blaise?” I asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“My grandmother has 4 tickets to Tuesday night’s performance of Bob Fosse’s Dancin’ at the Ahmanson Theatre. Since my grandfather has some business meetings all day Tuesday, he can’t go, leaving one open seat. Before I could even mention your name, grandmother told me to invite you. We’ll have dinner at Ma Maison before the theater so wear something appropriate. I’m sure you will—”

“Oh, wow, that’s opening on Broadway in September! I’ve never seen a preview of a Broadway show.”

“I’ll take a couple of your sundresses to the cleaners on Monday, sweetie,” Lori said, as she poured a cup of coffee for me and placed a plate with a slice of pie in front of me.

“So, you’ll come?” asked Blaise eagerly.

“Of course. I couldn’t turn down such a thoughtful and generous offer from your grandmother, of all people, now could I? Does your grandfather really have meetings all day so that he can’t go to the show? Sounds a little fishy to me.”

“No, he’d have to come otherwise. He doesn’t like musicals too much, but whatever grandmother wants…you know what I mean. He’s the major backer on this shopping mall they’re building in Redondo Beach. It’s called the South Bay Galleria. Anyway, next week a bunch of building and design firms are bidding on the project. Grandfather is going to select the winning bid by Monday next. Funny thing with grandfather, it’s not a matter of money. He wants to feel that he can trust the winning firm to deliver on time and on budget, regardless of how much a lower bid might save him a few dollars.”

“Hmmm. An ethical capitalist? A rather uncommon concept.”

“Anyway, grandfather also suggested inviting you in his place. Unprompted by me. I swear.” Blaise got up from the table. “I’ll speak to you before Tuesday. Good night, Lori.” I walked Blaise to the door.

Blaise caressed my cheek with two fingers before leaning down to lightly plant a kiss on my lips.

“I won’t ask you about Mateo,” Blaise said, his head bowed. “It’s not my place, I know.”

“Before you head off to your room, Joey, there’s a letter for you on the coffee table. It came just as you left this morning.” Lori was loading the dishwasher.

I tore open the envelope, which didn’t have a return address, and read the brief typewritten note folded inside. It was from Rafe.

“Who’s it from, Joey?”

“Rafe Metheny. He says his family’s going to be in LA all-next week. Says his dad has some business meetings. Oh, and like I need more drama in my life, he says he’ll try to sneak away from his mother and sister to see me.”

“I don’t know how you can keep all your suitors straight, Joey. I’m somewhat terrified about what could happen.”

“What could happen? Really.”