THE FINALE

After that phone call, giant waves of relief come for days, for weeks. Nancy is jazzed and sends me on those errands that started this story. I keep doing my pushups, stay off the sauce, return to the hood, my step returns and I revitalize Jimmy Dolan, my alias who writes the fictional Mozza Tribune.

Alas, tragedy comes to The Mozza Corner as Osteria chef Kirby Shaw goes into a coma for two months and dies. It is even difficult to type that, still hard to believe, months after he left us. Kirby was a drinker and I am tempted to lift a few in his honor, but I don’t.

Throughout Spring, the Lou Gehrig thoughts, while very seriously diminished by Dr. Wu’s uplifting call, do not vanish completely. After all, Wu was not 100%. So I stay strong, telling myself I am not going down without a fight. Ali-Frazier III, the “Thrilla in Manila” is an inspiration. The way Muhammad and Joe went at each other for 15 rounds still gives me strength.

I go to our garage and start pounding the heavy bag, like the old days. I stop drinking. Those pushup are a staple, usually hitting my goal for 500 a day. Ya know, 50 here, 40 there, 50 there and so on throughout the day.

I can’t run because my left knee is thrashed. People who see my might think “Some thing is wrong with that guy the way he moves.” But, it’s not Lou Gehrig. It’s Mickey Mantle, another Yankee all time great, whose career was plagued by knee injuries and who - along with my Dad and Muhammad Ali - was a hero of mine.

For the record, I’m getting a knee replacement in October. But even with my knee ache, I am walking over four miles a day.

***
So jazzed am I to hear that Lou is a major long shot, that it takes a while, I seriously don’t know how long, to look into this neuropathy that Dr. Wu mentioned. Yeah, I google and the Wikipedia thing is troubling to read as besides it basically being some kind of damage to the nerves, it has so any other possibilities that I don’t get to into it. Yeah, I have some minor weakness in my left hand, but I don’t have ALS.

The most bizarre symptom I have is I can’t tie my shoes very well. I mentioned it but it is getting worse. Nancy has taken to tying my shoes, which is a combination of pathetic and adorable.

Almost every time she ties my shoes she has the same line; “Ever heard of slip ons?”

I do start going to this IVIG ( Intravenous Immunoglobulin) infusion treatment as the Kaiser facility on Vermont and PCH. I take the elevator up to my assigned room and the first thing I see is a large sign that reads “CHEMOTHERAPY”. Not what I wanna see. But this IVIG, which legendary L.A. Times journalist - and friend - Henry Weinstein tells me is good treatment, is what the doctor ordered so. I sit in a chair for nearly five hours. Twice I have done the IVIG and have a few more to go. I’ll bring an Ambien next time.

I have two new doctor appointments in early June, one for my physician Dr. Moon and one for neurologist Dr. Wu. I tell them both I am doing 500 push ups a day and Dr. Wu is particularly impressed. “You can’t have ALS and do 500 push ups.”

But, he still is not certain what I do have. And I do have something. When I tell Nancy that she is mad at me. “Why didn’t you push them? You have something wrong with you and don’t you think you should know what? I don’t understand you sometimes. What do they think you have? What is your problem?.”

I email Wu and Moon through the Kaiser system, pushing rather hard for some answers. Dr. Moon says she will ask Dr. Wu. Finally Dr. Wu calls.

“Like I told you, I don’t think you have ALS but I cannot 100% rule it out. What I do think you have is MMN. That’s Multifocal Motor Neuropathy.”

I look it up after our call. Near the top it says it is a rare disease that only one out of 100,000 have. I quickly do the math and determine 39 other people in LA city have this. Maybe they could hit me up.

But I scroll down and read “What’s the difference between MMN and ALS?” Not what you wanna see. But, the main difference is ALS kills you in brutal crippling fashion within two to five years.

**

We go off to Italy. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, but I can’t tell you how grateful I am. In our little hilltop town of Panicale near this lake called Trasimeno, where - and Nancy is tired of me telling this story - the great general from Carthage, Hannibal Barca, wiped out a Roman army in 217 b.c..

Panicale is my paradise, especially when we are alone in the pool with our music playing. We bought two high end floatie cushions and laying on them with Sinatra or Coltrane or Chet Baker playing from our Bose sound system, well, it’s those opening lines from “Cheek to Cheek.”\

Nancy is cooking dinners for people who have bid a lot of money which goes to benefit “Alex’s Lemonade”, a charity to fight children’s cancer. One dinner is for 10 people, the other for eight. They pay $80,000 to $100,000.

Me, like the me in the very beginning of this three-part story, is on errand duty, driving to the bakery, the butcher, the cheese store

Now every morning here we go on a hilly five-kilometer walk. On the last two steepest hills, I walk with my left hand on Nancy’s back, helping her up those hills. I love to do that.

A week ago, out of nowhere my left inner forearm starts twitching. For two days it twitches away before I foolishly decide to Google it. The first thing that pops up, and I’m not exaggerating, is that fool AI’s take which is “ALS does cause muscle fasciculation.” AI must know I’ve been looking that up recently.

But my very first thought is not about Lou but that formally, twitch has five syllables. A twitch is a fasciculations. Who knew? I guess I just knew my boy Twitch by his street name. My second thought was I love Lou Gehrig and that ALS can go to hell.

Earlier today, I was in the the pool with Nancy on our floaty things. It was 98 degrees and the Bose system was playing as we drifted in and out of sleep. Heaven, I’m in heaven.

The song “My One and Only Love” by John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman came on. It opens with a sax solo from Coltrane. A wondrous feeling washed over me.

One of these days or nights, hopefully soon, I hope you take a few minutes and lay or sit down and put that song on. That opening saxophone solo. It might make you sad, but in a beautiful way, and I hope it will make you grateful as well. It definitely did for me.

And if anyone wants to know how I’m doing, I’ll tell you the truth. I’m healthy at the moment.

As for my boy Twitch, he been gone. My bad. I mean Mr. Fasciculation. He ain’t been around for a week or so. And he can stay away for good.

PART 1. ERRAND DAY https://www.krikorianwrites.com/blog/2026/7/30/ikateyxx65r8f05q9lye0ww8ybw2vr

PART II Of ALL THE GIN JOINTS https://www.krikorianwrites.com/blog/2026/7/31/43r1glwfj89jqc8h351ukm0qpmvv65

OF ALL THE GIN JOINTS

(EDITOR’S NOTE – At the end of the previous article, “Errand Day”, I had just heard from “my neurologist” I might have ALS, aka Lou Gehrig’s Disease.)

 So, like I said, I walk upstairs and just tell Nancy the doctor is not sure what’s ailing me and to “enjoy Italy”. No way am I gonna talk about the Iron Horse. 

 I don’t even Google ALS. That would be a death sentence. We all know that. I had a forehead twitch a few years ago and Google’d it. I had maybe a month to live.

 Another time at Kaiser for a routine check-up, I weighed in at 168 pounds. My dream weight, partly because 168 is the prime fighting weight of Terry Malloy, the ex-boxer played by Marlon Brando in “On the Waterfront” my favorite movie, along with “Casablanca”. 

 So, when I hear the ‘168”, I feel tremendous. For about four seconds. Then I think I weighed 179 just a month ago. I lost 11 pounds in a month while indulging in Mozza pizza and Rudy French butter? Something fatal must be going on with me. A disease. (The nurse re-weighed me, and I was 177. Whew.)

 So, maybe I got a touch of hypochondriac in me. Not exactly Steve McQueen or Frank Sinatra.  But this Lou Gehrig thing is another level.

 I’ve been dancing with danger in Watts, Armenia, Beirut, Artsakh, Tyre, Sidon, Compton, Gardena, Dominquez, Green Meadows, Apatzingán, Guadalajara, Tijuana, the South Bronx, North Philly, the Southside of Chicago, and East St. Louis, Illinois. I’m a gang reporter who has been surrounded by pissed-off Grape Street Crips and walked into the darkest heart of their Jordan Downs housing project over a Los Angeles Times story I wrote about them planning on shooting a LAPD officer as a payback from them killing one of theirs and I wasn’t particularly scared. I had a green light put on me (an order to shoot me) by the mother of Big Evil, America’s most notorious Blood shot caller, because she hated a L.A. Times magazine article I wrote about him.  I wasn’t much concerned.

But this Lou thing, well, there is much concern.

 I tell no one about this. Not Nancy, or my sister Jeanine or my cousins Greg and Jeffy or my boys Nate and Kirby and Big Hank and Arax. No one.

Back in Los Angeles, life goes on well. It is not until October that I go back to see Dr. Wu. He is solemn. Lou Gehrig is not even mentioned. I sure the hell wasn’t gonna bring the Iron Horse up. He tests my thumb and finger strength and says next to nothing, except he’s gonna go to Pizzeria Mozza. Let me know when, I say. 

Against my better thoughts, I soon do Google ALS and the first symptom – the very first - is “difficulty in buttoning shirts.”  Damn, damn, damn, damn. I have that symptom. Remember my green shirt that Ingrid likes? After all I’ve been through, buttoning shirts is gonna bring me down.

ALS is Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a nervous system disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. The disease leads to muscle weakness and gets worse over time. There is no cure for this fatal disease.

 I have taken to singing that song up top, “My Romance,” in a slow, sad way. That ending line gets me every time. “My romance…. doesn’t need at thing….but  you.”

 Life goes on. I’m going to Watts and Mozza, my usual routine. I am writing a screenplay, one of the few people in Los Angeles to do so.  

Anyway. In early December I get a text from my friend Nadine Redzepi, the wife of chef Rene Redzepi of the Copenhagen restaurant Noma. Nadine asks for a reservation at Osteria Mozza because it is Rene’s birthday on Dec. 16.  I get it for her. I also write, under my alias Jimmy Dolan, a fictional journalism story about Rene. He loves it.

Nancy and I are back in Umbria for Christmas. Then to Paris for New Year’s Eve and Day. What a life I have. I’m 71 and so if I do have Lou along with me, I sure the hell won’t be saying “Why me? Why me?”   I’ve had a wonderful ride.  My bad. I have a wonderful life.

 We go back to Umbria, on January 4th, just Nancy and me for a week.  The opening lines of “Cheek to Cheek” play often in my mind. Heaven, I’m in heaven.

Alas, along with the heaven, is various body malfunctions that lean me to the dreaded belief I have it. My left index finger, while weak, will occasionally curl up on its own and I must straighten it out. At night, in bed, nerves in my leg tighten up and cause pain that comes close to intense.  Tying my shoes is difficult.

We are to leave Jan 11th on different flights, however mine is delayed for a day. So around 5 am, I drive our rental and take Nancy to the airport. I bring along needle nose pliers with me. I can’t even pull the ticket out of those autostrada toll booths.

 I drop Nancy at Leonardo da Vinci Aeroporto, return our rental car and take a cab to Campo di Fiori in Rome. I get a room right next door to our favorite restaurant in Rome, Roscioli Salumeria.

And I buy wine. In “Casablanca”, when asked his nationality by the Germans at Rick’s Café Americain, Rick Blaine, replies “I’m a drunkard.” So am I.

I got back to the room and pop a bottle of red. and drink half of it. It is the first wine or any alcohol I have had in over a year.  I go next door to Roscioli. That carbonara. My favorite. A few glasses. Good conversation with the staff.

The next day, on the plane, I have a glass or three. It’s United Airlines and they always have “Casablanca” available. Of course, I watch it. “Of all the gin joints all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

Back in Los Angeles, I don’t drink.  For a week. Then get a bottle of Silver Oak cab, Alexander Valley, from the garage. It goes down good and fast.  Nancy comes home and realizes it and she is mad. It’s kinda pathetic, but I tell her my crisis.  She is downstairs and I am in our upstairs bedroom, and I yell out. “I have Lou Gehrig’s disease!”

I go downstairs. She is dumbfounded.

 “I didn’t tell you but when I had that call in Panicale. That July 30th call. The doctor told me it likely is ALS. I have Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

 Nancy is stunned that I had said nothing for many months. She stares at me. Hugs me. “No way. You do not have that. You do not have that. No way.” 

On Jan. 18, we go to Mar Vista to visit one of her oldest friends, Margie, for her birthday. Everyone, roughly 20 people, gathers in a living room, music on, wine flowing, conversation and laughter nearly constant. Me? I sit quietly in the front room, strange pains jolting my right leg, my mind realizing my days are winding down. Nancy checks on me often, urging me to join the party, but doesn’t push. She knows.  

On January 26th, I have another neurology appointment.   Dr Wu is not here this time. A substitute doctor is there. She walks in. Her name is Supreet K. Sahai. And though I know she is here because I likely have an uncurable disease, my first thought is this is one pretty doctor. 

After a quick test of my left thumb and index, she has me lay down on that kinda bed. She is going to electrocute me. I start trying to think of faraway places, like Panicale, or Paris, but it doesn’t work.

So, I start talking to Dr. Sahai. I start with what are known as the three most dangerous words in the English language; “Where you from?”, the basic L.A. gang challenge of what gang neighborhood are you representing? Not “Where are you from? Just “Where you from?”

 Dr. Sahai simply says “Orange County”. After a pause and a look from me, she expands to say her parents are from Punjab state of northern India. We talk a bit about that as she prepares to shock me.

 The electrocution again.  

She talks some more, with my encouragement. She lived in New York City for many years and moved out to Los Angeles to be with her boyfriend.

About 15 or so shocks in, Dr. Sahai says something that actually makes me think “What did they inject me with? What shot did they give me to make me hallucinate?” But, three, four seconds into that wonder, I realize they gave me nothing and what she is saying is reality.

 Here’s what she said, as she continues to shock me.

 “Today was a big day in Los Angeles. There is this restaurant in Copenhagen. Noma. Best in the world.  And the chef and his wife are coming to Los Angeles, to open Noma in Silver Lake for four months. Today they opened online to get a reservation. My boyfriend tried but they sold out in two minutes.”

 By now I am staring at her and wondering if she is playing a game on me. Am I on some stupid prank TV show? She continues. “It would have been like a birthday gift, Christmas gift and New Year’s gift combined if we could have got a reservation at Noma here.”

 I get that feeling, that rare, sweet feeling when your insides relish what’s about to happen because you are about to tell somebody something they will truly like.

 As Dr. Sahai turns to put away the shock stuff and goes for a mere needle, I say “I got you.”

 What?

 “I’ll take care of you.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I can get you a reservation at Noma here.”

 Dr. Sahai puts down her weapons, and stares at me. She doesn’t even ask “how?”, she just stares.

 “I know Rene Redzepi,” I tell her. “And his wife Nadine. They’re friends of mine.”

 (For the record, I am extremely aware of the situation Rene was in. For those who don’t, a newspaper article exposed his yelling and brow beating of his cooks in his Copenhagen kitchen. Something, by the way, he apologized for 10 years ago. In mid-March, he stepped away from a four-month Noma LA in Silver Lake. For the record, Noma is open back in Copenhagen.)

 Back to the neurologist. Dr. Supreet says she will get back to me via the Kaiser website regarding her findings. And she thanks me, the first time a doctor has thanked me.

 Then two hours after I get home, I get another text from Nadine asking for a reservation Friday night at Osteria because it’s her mom’s birthday.  I get it for her.

 That Friday night, I tell Nadine I have a stunning neurologist story. Later, I tell her, and she says she will get Dr. Supreet in. She does.

Three days later, I get a message from Kaiser about my visit and Dr. Supreet’s findings. With dread, I open it. And read the longest report about my health, most of it I don’t even understand. But, with the dread, I do read those horrible three letters, A and L and S.

 The Iron Horse feels closer to me than ever. And I think about all the countless folks that do have Lou Gehrig’s disease and my heart goes out to them.

 Via a Kaiser message, I get notified Dr. Wu will call me February 11th.  It is then, I dread, he will tell me officially I have Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

 I open a bottle and put on “Casablanca” and watch and drink. I open another bottle and put on “On the Waterfront”. I figure I’ll see them one more time before I get the news.

Nancy comes home. But, unlike many times before where she got yelling mad, she’s quiet.

 Dr. Wu calls.

 To the chase. “It’s quite unlikely you have ALS.” Relief floods me like never before. He cannot 100% rule it out, but most likely it is a type of neuropathy. Nancy is thrilled. 

That was a four months ago, the day before that Errand Day.

God, I love that day. And all the days that follow. The next time a loved one asks you to go to the market or the cleaners or the luggage repair shop, savor that day, that wonderful, fortunate day.

END OF PART II

 Part III, the finale, will show up in a couple days.

ERRAND DAY

“Wide awake, I can make my most fantastic dream come true, my romance doesn’t need a thing….but you” -  Maxine Weldon singing “My Romance” written by Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers in 1935.

A Wednesday in April, 2026, more than 90 years after that song was written, nearly 40 years after my cousin Greg saw Maxine sing “My Romance” at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel’s Cinegrill and raved about it to me, was one off the greatest days of my life. Maybe the greatest.  

That day, I woke up about 6:45 am, felt the thigh of the woman who for nearly the last quarter century has been “my most fantastic dream come true”, and then blissfully nodded off for another 30, 40 minutes.

Usually, she beats me out of bed, and I must fix it. That’s our rule; whoever gets up last, fixes the bed.  But today I got out first, went downstairs, decoded the alarm, went outside, and got the delivered Los Angeles Times.  

We had some coffee, and she gave me a list of errands I needed to do for her. I knew this was coming. The night before, a Tuesday, she had told me Wednesday would be Errand Day.

So, I took off from our home on Van Ness Avenue near 2nd Street.  My first stop was Pavilion’s on Melrose and Vine Street.  I got our twice-a -week housekeeper Martha some Lysol, Tide, and Clorox.  I got my girlfriend some Motrin for her foot that she hurt.

 Then I cruise over to Four Season’s Cleaners on Santa Monica Boulevard at Crescent Heights and drop off two of her shirts.  From there it was off to Mariana’s, a tailor she likes over on Melrose near Orlando to pick up a dress. Mariana gives me a hug which gets me wondering if she knows what I’ve been going through lately. 

Then back east on Santa Monica Blvd., past Fairfax to Langer’s. No, not to Langer’s Deli for the legendary pastrami sandwich, but to Langer’s Luggage owned by an Armenian guy named Rafi, who is to luggage repair what the MacArthur Park place is to pastrami.  I pick up a Tumi luggage Raffi has “tuned up” and, of course, he gives me the Armenian discount.

 hen I go to this place Faces on 3rd Street near La Jolla Avenue to get some fancy face cream for her from Shula, the pleasant owner, who has some neck cream samples she set aside for me. Thoughtful.   

Then I drive to Pico near Cochran to Alex’s Reweaving to drop off her moth-damaged sweater to Ingrid there. Ingrid complimented me that the green shirt I was wearing brought out my green eyes.

The errands are done so I decide to treat myself to a carne asada quesadilla at Sonoratown on San Vincente and Hauser, which I eat while driving home and relishing the sky on this cloudless sunny afternoon. The “Hollywood” sign is showing off big time today.     

Now that day – going to the supermarket, the cleaners, the luggage repair, the face cream shop, the reweaving place, and a burrito joint - likely does not sound like a thrilling day to anyone reading this. Certainly not a contender for your “greatest day”, but to me it was.  It was because of the day before. But to appreciate “the day before,” I gotta go back.

 ###

Nearly 16 months ago, April 7, 2025, to be precise, I went to see my physician, Dr. Jin Moon at Kaiser on Romaine Street for my annual physical. Less than three minutes after my blood pressure was checked, she walked in and asked how I was feeling.

When I was about 13, I saw the movie “Guys and Dolls.” There’s a line that Marlon Brando, playing Damon Runyon’s legendary gambler Sky Masterson, says that I have never forgot and almost always say when someone asks me how I’m doing. “I’m healthy at the moment.” 

 I told Dr. Moon, “I’m healthy at the moment.”

After a 15, 20-minute examination, Dr. Moon agreed.  She said I was in good shape. Of course, she got on me for the same thing I’ve been hearing for the last 20 or so years; Cut down on French butter and Mozza pizza.  I could lose of few, but I was in good condition, and I was still strong, often doing 500 push-ups a day. 

Anyway, as Dr. Mon was gathering her things to leave the room, she asked “Anything else?”

“Well,” I said, rather dismissively, “My left thumb and left index finger are a little weak. Can’t squeeze very well.”   

Those 15 tossed out words have caused me a level of anxiety unknown in my entire life. Man.   Dr. Moon checks out my thumb and forefinger.  Squeeze this. Push out against my hand. Pull this.

The result? She makes me an appointment at a neurologist. A neurologist? Are you serious? A neurologist. That’s a serious brain and nerve doctor. My thumb is down to maybe 80% from normal. I can live with that.

 On April 22, 2025, I go see a Dr. Abel Wu at Kaiser neurologist office on Edgemont Blvd. at Sunset Boulevard.  He’s nice and has me push my thumb against his hand and my forefinger against his hand. Press up and press. Down. For comparison, he does the same with my right hand which I can tell does better.

Then he sends in his muscle, a rather unfriendly female nurse who has me take off some clothes and lay on a bed like thing. Then she goes to work on me.

 Electrocution.

 I can take a punch. Even a serious beating. I’ve been beat to a pulp by six guys with pipe wrenches a block from the Forum before a Laker playoff game after I knocked down a drug dealer to impress a woman named Omega. I refused to go to the hospital. My cousin Chris later dragged me to Daniel Freeman where they wired shut my broken jaw and gave me 22 stiches on that pipe wrench-damaged forehead. And yes, for the record, Omega was impressed.

 But me and electricity? No.

 She starts in with a small shock. Then a big one. Then another big one. She is testing my nerves in a couple ways. This goes on for, and I am low balling it, 40 shocks.  Then, needles. They sting, but nothing compared to the shocks. She doesn’t say anything during this five-minute other than a couple “lift your arms.”

And then she walks out. Still, not a word. I am free to go. At the doctor’s office window, the lady says Dr. Wu’s people will call or email if I need to come in for another appointment.  I hope not.

A few days later, on my Kaiser login I get a message about a phone appointment with Dr. Wu but not until July 30th, more than three months away. Whew. That’s a relief. It can’t be anything serious.   By then I will be in Italy, in Umbria, in a hilltop town called Panicale where my girlfriend has a home. We will get there June 27 and leave August 13, the day after my birthday.  I’ve been going there every summer since 2003.

So, we arrive in Rome at Leonardo da Vinci Aeroporto, rent a car, and drive two and half hours to Panicale. Another world. The first week we are alone. It’s the opening lines of “Cheek to Cheek”.

 My girlfriend is the Los Angeles chef Nancy Silverton and that 2025 summer she hosted four charity events at the home for Alex’s Lemonade, a children’s cancer research clinic, and she brings Mozza workers to help at each dinner.  I help by being the errand boy. Clearly errands and me and Nancy go together. Running errands in Umbria, Italy. Not a bad gig.

Anyway, we go on our hilly three-mile walk almost every day. I do my pushups. My goal is those 500 a day and I’m usually hitting it.

My thumb and forefinger are still kinda weak. No pain, just not strong. Even tying my shoes is a chore, that last move when you bring the two laces through that last loop.  And, oddly, buttoning my shirts is not so simple. It requires intense concentration and effort. One night, that green shirt Ingrid likes is particularly troublesome to button, and I give up and put on a pullover. But I’m in Panicale with Nancy Silverton. In case you don’t know, the opening lines of Cheek to Cheek are “Heaven, I’m I heaven….”.

July 30 rolls around and it’s time for my call from Dr. Wu.  I am downstairs in my small office where I go to escape and write.  I get the call.

 Hi, Doctor Wu. 

 Hello, he says and gets right to it. “Michael, it could be a few things.” Pause.  “Including ALS.”

 “Lou Gehrig,” I say.

 “Yes,” he says. “Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

 My mind does that thing where it goes so fast that several thoughts pop into it within two, three seconds. In those seconds, my brain flashes to the following. My reverence as a 10-year-old for Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. Of 2,130 straight games that Gehrig played in, earning him his nickname, The Iron Horse. To Lou dying of his disease that now I might have. Lou speaking at Yankee Stadium saying “I’m the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.  Of Gary Cooper playing him in “Pride of the Yankees” and winning an Oscar.

 Of Lou Gehrig’s disease which, famously, there is no cure.

Lou Gehrig giving the luckiest man sppech at yankee stadium

Of the countless people not in the Hall of Fame who have died from it and who are suffering from it right now.

Of me dying.

And in that same thought is me countlessly telling my sister Jeanine and Nancy this; “If I die tomorrow don’t be too sad. Know that I had a wonderful life and lived out my dreams. Feel love and happiness that I lived so well. Think about all the young dead people I’ve written about dying violently.”

And in that same thought is all the people in the world, particularly in Gaza, and in Sudan going through hell. And here I am with Nancy Silverton in Panicale listening to Maxine Weldon sing “My Romance”. 

That two, three seconds later, I am back talking to Dr. Wu. He says little other than he will make an appointment for me when I get back. And he says, “Enjoy Italy.”

I go upstairs and Nancy asks “Well? What did the doctor say?”

“He doesn’t know what it is. If anything at all. Gonna do some more tests. Probably just some nerve stuff. Said to enjoy Italy.”

END OF PART 1

‘THE WATTS ARMENIAN’ MY CROWNING MOMENT AS A JOURNALIST

Something happened one week ago, Friday, May 1, 2026, that was the single most gratifying moment of my up and down career as a journalist.

If this had occurred anywhere it would have been a treasure, but it just so happened at the very place where I became a journalist and started working for the L.A. Times 34 years ago; the Los Angeles City Council chambers at City Hall.

On that Friday, the city was officially honoring the Watts Gang Truce of 1992. Why it took 34 years to do this is not to my understanding, but they did. They surely have done this before. This treaty, primarily between the Grape Street Crips from Jordan Downs housing project, the Bounty Hunter Bloods from Nickerson Gardens housing project, and the PJ Crips from Imperial Courts housing project, was historic. It was a nearly mythical peace truce between gangs that had been killing each other for two decades and who had national - even international - badass reputations.

I got word of this honoring a few days before when George Thomas, aka Bogard of Imperial Courts - Tony’s brother, if you know - called to give me a heads up about the City Hall event. That Friday rolls around and I was about to go home after having coffee in the distant land of Larchmont Village when I remembered Bogard’s call. ShouId I go? I thought to myself. Hmmm. I might as well. Man, am I glad I did. For if I hadn’t, that “crowning moment” in the headline of this story would have never happened.

I walk into the City Hall and the City Council chambers and flash back to my days covering the Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday meetings as a stringer for the Times. ( Thanks to my cousin Greg, a staff writer who got me the gig.) For the record, I wrote a terse recap of the meetings and got paid $60 a week. Not a misprint. Sixty. But, and this is key, I got to write that recap in the vivacious heart of the newsroom. Cutting to the chase, that led me to eventually covering Watts. My pod mate back in the mid-1990s was Matea Gold and she covered East L.A. and Boyle Heights. I called her the East L.A. Bureau Chief and she called me the Watts Bureau Chief.

Anyway, last Friday, after 30, 40 minutes of City Council stuff they get to the guys from Watts who are honored.

Daude Sherrills is one of the speakers. Him and his brother Aqeela, representing Grape Street Crips from Jordan Downs, were two of prime architects of the Truce. They went so far as to study a treaty between Egypt and Israel back in 1948-49.

Big Hank and Big Donnie from the Nickersons were there, too, as well as Sista Soulja aka Big Mama from Imperial Courts.

After that ceremony, they moved to a room next to the chambers and all gathered for the City Council photographer.

About 10 seconds after this photograph above was taken is when my shining moment flared.

Several of the guys, Daude and Aqeela, Big Hank and Big Donnie, Sista Soulja and others shouted out to me to join the group getting photographed.

“Yo Mike, get on up here.”

“Mother fuck, Mike. What you doing? You need to get on up here.”

“Negro, you the Watts Armenian. Get in this photo.”

“Hey, Black Armenian. Why you not up here?”

A wonderful feeling swept through me. No, it didn’t “sweep through.” The feeling came in me and stayed. A week later it’s still in my soul as i type this. And suspect it always will be.

Watts and I go way way back.

On August 12, 1965 I was in the small backyard of my family’s home on St. Andrews Place in Gardena playing my version of the World Series. Koufax was pitching to Mantle. Sandy was my left hand tossing up an nut or acorn or something from our Italian cypress tree and Mickey was me swinging, right handed, with a red plastic bat.

My mom comes out of the back door and yells “Michael! Telephone. It’s coach Charlie.”

I dash inside to hear Charlie, my little league baseball coach, tell me about an emergency meeting at Recreation Park on Normandie in Gardena, where our team, the Pirates, had recently won the park’s title and were moving on to the city wide baseball champions.

Charlie told me a lie, I’m sure. He said to come to the park for a meeting. I played along. Okay, coach. I’ll be there.”

But I knew the real reason for this “emergency meeting”. It was because that day was August 12, 1965 was my 11th birthday. And I “knew” the meeting was to be a surprise birthday gathering for me. After all, I was the first baseman and relief pitcher and had been named to the All Star team. All those games I played alone in the backyard. All those playing catch with my dad Tony had paid off.

So I went to the park and we all gathered. I was so proud .

And then Charlie said it.  I hear it as I type this like I did 61 years ago.

“The city championships have been canceled. Riots broke out last night in Watts.”

Watts?  I like to think I looked northeast about three miles and saw smoke rising. But, I really don’t remember my thought other than being stunned. I could quite possibly have said “Watts? What the hell is Watts?”

About three years later, my cousins and I jumped on the caboose a slow moving freight train in East Gardena. A train worker came out and said “I don’t care if you’re on this train, but I gotta tell you this train is going to Watts.” We jumped off.

About six years later, I was a driver at a print shop on 166th and Western. One of the printers was having a birthday party. He invited me, but added “You need to know the party is in Watts.” I went, had a blast and been coming back every since.

Yeah, a couple decades of covering Watts, of being there in dark times, of writing to prison inmates from there, of going there when nothing was happening, of going to funerals and parties, they all came together in this glorious moment of being asked, of being told, to get in this photo.

Though he wasn’t there, DeWayne Holmes, aka “Snipe” from the PJs, who was instrumental in the peace talks, called me Monday to say the photograph was beautiful. “Mike, you was always there for us,” he said. “Some came and went but you was always there. And tell Loaf I said ‘Watts up’ when you see him in the Nickersons for that Tuesday food giveaway.”

Yeah, I’m still going to Watts.

In 2023, PBS set out to do a documentary about Watts. When they started, they had a big problem. The shot callers would not let them into the projects with their cameras. PBS came to me. “Can you get us in?” I did. Check out “10 Days in Watts”, Episode 3. Here. https://www.pbs.org/video/watts-pride-ivqjow/. If you in a hurry to see the Watts Armenian.. and Kartoon.. fast forward to about 5 minutes, 50 seconds in.

NOT PRETTI GOOD, MARCHERS GET “NOT PRETTI GOOD” SIGNS

NOT PRETTI GOOD

 It would be pretty good and actually pretty damn easy to lower the tensions, the cuss word outrage emanating from Minnesota after the shooting death of Alex Pretti.

If that person in the White House simply called out the scaredy cat gutless coward Border Patrol agents who shot Pretti on a Minneapolis street last Saturday morning, that alone would help the country. In fact, if the President just immediately fired these people, it would be the greatest act of his presidency. Even more than acquiring Greenland. Just call the border agents cowards and it would help this nation. As in, “Well at least they called these guys what they are and fired them.”

I’m an old school gang reporter in Los Angeles, the gang capital of America. If Raymond Washington, the founder of the Crips, had seen what these punk ass border agents had done, he woulda called them cowards plus and beat the shit out of them.

When I saw the video, Pretti protecting the woman and then within two seconds, the five or six or seven agents against him and saw him get shot, it was maddening. But when I heard Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse at the Veteran’s Administration hospital my anger my outrage redlined.  I can’t remember when I felt like this about a single shooting. And I’ve been around my share of shootings.

If Alex Pretti worked at candy store or a gas station it would be horrible too, of course. But that VA thing seems to turbo charge the madness of all of this. The VA! He took care of our soldiers who were ill. My father and uncles were at the VA many, many times. My dad, a World War 2 Army Air Corps pilot, died at the VA in Westwood. And here is a ICU nurse from the VA getting shot by United States agents.

Bruce Springsteen – the only star I have heard speak out against this ICE stuff, telling them to “get the fuck outta Minnesota”  – came out with a song Wednesday called “Streets of Minneapolis.” Thank you, Bruce.

Shiftin gears, less than an hour after first seeing the video last Saturday afternoon, I had to get ready to meet my girlfriend at a benefit for the fire victims. I put on a shirt that didn’t work then tried on a maroon pullover that worked. I thought to myself “that looks pretty good.”

 Immediately it hit me. Pretti Good. Renee Good had been the woman shot to death by ICE agent 17 days before Pretti. And now Pretti had been killed. Pretti. Good. Not pretty good.

Not Pretti Good. I kept thinking that. And I thought, I don’t know, frustrated that I couldn’t really do anything, I figured about the only thing I could do was write this and hope maybe people would start protesting with signs that read Not Pretti Good. Not Pretti Good.

I went to our garage, found a cardboard box and spray painted it. Clearly, I’m rusty. But i envisioned hundreds, thousands of cardboard or wooded signs that read that. Billboards. A movement. Not Pretti Good. I see an aerial shot of demonstrations with a sea of Not Pretti Good.

Everyone should be against this one. Even the Border Guards should speak out themselves against this. At the Veteran’s Administration in Minneapolis, maybe someday they might name something after Alex Pretti. And no, that won’t be pretty good.

FAREWELL TO GREGORY "BATMAN" DAVIS, AN OG BEFORE THERE WERE OGs

“It was never about the destination. It was always about the journey.” - Bogard, aka George Thomas talking about Gregory “Batman” Davis

On the streets of Greater Los Angeles – and most of the United States now -  “OG” means Original Gangster. But those initials - and those words - are thrown about without the proper respect the term really  implies and deserves. There are 19-year-olds who are labeled OGs who, tough as they may, are not OGs.

There are even what is known as Triple OGs. Many of them are old friends. These are gang members who have been around 20, 30, even 40 years.

 However, truth be told, the truly Original Gangsters from Watts, South Central, Compton, Gardena and Inglewood were around long before the term OG was even invented.

 I say all this to get to Gregory “Batman” Davis. There would have to be a new term invented to properly classify him.

 No one disputes that the Crips were founded by Raymond Washington, a 16-year-old who grew up on 76th street and Wadsworth Avenue, which is a block west of Central Avenue,  around 1969. Check this 2005 LA Weekly article https://www.laweekly.com/tookies-mistaken-identity/. 

 One of the founding members with Raymond of the gang that was originally titled Baby Cribs, (too long a story to explain here, but read that above article I wrote) was Gregory Davis. Make that Gregory “Batman” Davis.

Davis passed away a month ago at age 69 and this Saturday, May 3, is his funeral. However, the cemetery he is to be buried in, Corona Sunnyslope, needs more money than the family currently has to dig the dirt and put it back, his sister told me

 “We have the plot, but it’s more money than we have to do the actually digging and putting his casket in the ground,” said Deborah Davis-Sampson.   “Anyone who can help out will be truly appreciated.”

Anything will help, she said.

Briefly on Batman, who was born in 1955 and got his name from his love of the television show “Batman” which was on ABC Channel 7 from 1966 to 1968 and starred Adam West as Batman, aka Bruce Wayne.  Gregory loved that show.

 And when Raymond formed the Crips, Gregory was an original member and, after a brief run with another nickname, became Batman. He envisioned himself like the fictional Batman, someone coming to the rescue.

Batman fought and shot for his hood. He did time for his crimes. But Gregory Batman Davis was one of those classic cases who turned his life around and became devoted to, classically, not wanting the younger ones to go through what he and Raymond and everyone in the “Crips” and “Bloods” went through.

“Batman dispised the gang culture of today and things done in the past glorifying death,” said Melvin Farmer, aka Skull, an original Westside Crip and co-founder of Gangster Crips. “He didn’t want today’s youth going through what we went through.”

 He fervently taught kids that education was the way to go.

 So much so that he was honored in 2000 by President Bill Clinton for his work in trying to keep kids out of gangs. Along with Chiquita Tolton, Gregory was honored at “Let’s Save the Babies” as Man of the Year. “With your additive involvement, you have brought hope and help to many families in need.”

 OG?  Yeah, Gregory “Batman” Davis was an OG, but way before there were OGs.  

 To help, call Yvonne Vargas at the Corona Cemetery at (951) 736-0460.

ERIC NAZARIAN'S "DIE LIKE A MAN" RESTORES MY FAITH IN GOING TO THE MOVIES

This Wednesday night I was at Chi Spacca restaurant on the Mozza Korner when a diner, going from the bathroom back to his table, bumped into me and quickly apologized with a “I’m so sorry. I am really sorry.”

My first thought was it wasn’t that much of a bump to warrant being that sorry.  A few seconds later, the wine guy Daniel Kfoury asked me “Do you know who bumped into you?” No, I told him. “That was Dev Patel. Ya know, Slumdog Millionaire.”

That immediately brought a very pleasant memory. It was in November, 2008 when Nancy and I went to the Arclight Cinemas in Hollywood and saw a movie we had never even heard of called Slumdog Millionaire. We zero idea what it was about and I can’t remember why we chose it. But to this day, the mention of Slumdog Millionaire brings us the joy of going to the movies.

A minute or so after that sweet remembrance, I felt, kinda strangely, there was a reason Dev Patel bumped into me. About six hours earlier I had walked into the Million Dollar Theater on Broadway near 3rd Street in downtown L.A., paid my twenty, and watched a movie called “Die Like a Man”.

As I watched this riveting, powerful, magnificently acted film, I was trying to determine, to enunciate to myself what was it about this movie that struck me so. I couldn’t quite understand why I was so enthralled until Dev Patel bumped into me. I suddenly realized I had not been in a movie theater and been so moved, so impressed, so concerned about the characters in Die Like a Man since i watched Slumdog Millionaire almost 17 years ago.

Yeah. Die Like a Man, henceforth known her as DLAM, was that good. And as a disclaimer, the way Jonathan Gold would rave about a Nancy restaurant then admit she was a family fiend, I’ll say I’ll say the writer and director of DLAM, Eric Nazarian, is a good friend.

I, clearly, am no movie critic. The only other movie I ever wrote about was “Midnight Cowboy” - another rave - for my Gardena High School newspaper way back when. Still, I gotta at least mention these actors in DLAM. Miguel Angel Garcia is the star, playing 17-year-old Freddy. His love Luna is played by Mariel Molino. His moms is Bernice Valle. His gang/father figure is Cory Hardrict. Cesar Garcia is Boxer. And Frankie Loyal, who plays Freddy’s mom’s boyfriend was so good the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences should create a new Academy Award called “Best Performance in Two Scenes.”

I had been in a movie going slump, but Die Like a Man brought the magic of going to the movies back for me. It’s not playing much longer at the theaters, but it is coming out I think this weekend on streaming on Apple TV+ and some others.

JESSE KATZ'S "THE RENT COLLECTORS" BECOMES FIRST BOOK EVER TO BE AWARDED A MICHELIN STAR

Recently, at the bar of famed The French Laundry in Yountville, California, three solo diners were all reading a book while relishing the three Michelin star cuisine of Thomas Keller. It is not unusual to see solo diners reading at this nearly mythical restaurant. What was striking that early Spring evening was that the three were all reading the same book, Jesse Katz’s “The Rent Collector.”

Perhaps those three diners slash readers felt the book and the restaurant had something in common. Turns out they do; Michelin stars

Monday, The Rent Collectors became the first book in the 99-year history of the Michelin Guide ever to be awarded a star Yes, you read that right. A book has been awarded a Michelin Star.

A little history is in order. The Michelin Tire company, to promote automobile travel - and hence tire useage - first began publishing a restaurant guide in France that gave out stars in 1926. By 1931 their Michelin Guide had expanded to giving out up to three stars.

With the 100th anniversary of the stars approaching. Michelin felt it was time to branch out beyond fine dining. After over three years of internal discussions - which sources say often became very heated - the Michelin board decided to promote something that goes with dining alone, reading.

Katz’s book The Rent Collectors was not the obvious choice for Michelin. It deals with the inner workings of a notorious Los Angeles street gang, the Columbia Li’l Cycos of 18th Street and everything that goes with them; killing, brutality, desperation but, ultimately, also some redemption.

As is customary for Michelin, Katz has not been notified of the honor and might even find out when he reads this story. If he is not busy reporting on another book.

HEAVEN'S MAITRE 'D ST. PETER THREATENS TO RESIGN AFTER ENCOUNTER WITH “VISITOR” MICHAEL SINGER

EDITOR’S NOTE - The first 65, 70% of this story was written one year ago when Michael Singer was down and out and the referee had counted “eight……. nine…” and was just about to reach a knockout. A year later, we are, what’s the word, grateful, I guess, that Paul Newman jumped the gun. Read on and maybe that will make some sense.

*************************

For over 1,900 years, Simon Peter, aka St. Peter, one of the 12 Apostles of Jesus Christ, has been in charge of the entrance to Heaven which is beloved as The Pearly Gates.

Since 576 AD, Peter, a Syrian national, has also been the Maitre ‘De Hotel of “The First Supper”, the finest restaurant in all of heaven, hell and Earth. Peter has sat history’s most renowned people including Alexander the Great and Frank Sinatra, who both have their own booths.

The chef de cuisine is Auguste Escoffier. The garde manger is Antoine Carame. Fernand Point is the sous and line cooks include Joel Robuchon, my grandmothers, Anthony Bourdain, Masataka Kobayashi, Charlie Trotter, Jean and Pierre Troisgros.

The bartender is Winston Churchill. who is often toasted.

Muhammad Ali is the bouncer.

And yes, St. Peter runs the front of the house.

But, this week, St. Peter was frazzled to the point that he threatened to resign after a maddening encounter with a supposedly new resident of Heaven. one Michael Singer of St. Louis, USA, Earth. Peter was so frustrated in the encounter with Singer that he sent a long text to his bosses, Jesus Christ and his father, God.

The Mozza Tribune, though sources that requested full anonymity, found part of the message Peter sent to his superiors. “I’ve had it. I can’t do this anymore. Can I just go back to the Pearly Gates and welcome folks to Heaven? This restaurant stuff is not for me. This guy Michael Singer. Ay yi yi.“

The First Supper’s security footage obtained by the Mozza Tribune reveals much of the encounter between St. Peter and the guest, this Michael Singer, an investigative news producer based in Earth. Some audio accompanies.

The footage begins with St. Peter leading Mother Teresa and a group of beggars and lepers to a table, pour them some 1921 Dom Perignon and then returning to the host stand and greeting Mr. Singer.

“Mama T drink?” asks Singer.

“Excuse me?” says St. Peter. “Oh, you mean Mother Teresa, the Saint of the Kolkata Gutters. She indulges a touch. Can I help you?”.

“Oh, no,” says Singer. “It’s Calcutta not this Kolkata shit. Same for this Mumbai crap. It’s Bombay. Bombay and Calcutta.”

“Sir, can I be of some assistance regarding you being her at The First Supper?”

“Yeah, Pete, I gotta a res for two. Me and my boy Howard Weiztman.”

“Hmmmmm..” says Peter as he looks through the reservation book. “Don’t see it.”

“I made it while back.”

Saint Peter looks and looks. Going back some time. Until.., “Oh, here it is. But you are late. Quite late. You were suppose to be here 10 years ago. We hold the table for 8,760 hours, that’s the equivilent of one of your Earth years. But then we have to cancel.”

Singer pounds the reservation/ host stand. “That’s some bullshit!”

“Watch your language. You are in Heaven, may I remind you.”

“Oh, you can only cuss in Hell? Gimme a Goddamn break.”

“Mister Singer.”

“Don’t Mister Singer me. Look , Pete, maybe i did have a reservation 10 years ago. Maybe I was supposed to kick off in 2014 or whatever. But I couldn’t leave my wife. I could not leave my Ruthie. I love her. She loves me. We are a team. You feel me? And I sure couldn’t skadaddle on my son Nick. I tell you about him? The filmmaker. Moving to Harlem. Believe that shit. Ruth and my boy moving to Harlem.”

Just then a beautiful saxaphone solo begins at the restaurant. Singer’s ears perk.

“Wait. Is that John Coltrane?”

“Mister Coltrane plays here every Sunday.”

‘Well, I’ll be.”

At this point Rembrandt arrives with Caravaggio and Leonardo da Vinci. St. Peter excuses himself and seats them. He returns to the stand and Singer,

“Oh,” says Singer. “I see how it works. I’ll go get my goddamn paint brush and maybe I’ll get a table. Jeez. The three of them are drawers. They draw! I exposed injustice. Let me repeat that. They drew. Glorified crayon guys. I woke the world’s eyes to oppression. Who wins? A guy who paints a chubster lady who barely smiles. Another motherfucker who paints a bunch of guards on the night shift? Some stabber boy who knows the difference between light and dark? Or the journalist who exposes the rich betraying the downtrodden?”

“Sir,” says a quickly getting upset St. Peter, “Those three gentleman who walked in are arguably the greatest painters of the history of your very own planet. Leonardo da Vinci,…

“The Last Supper and Mona Lisa,” grunts Singer as his fingers drum the host stand.

“Rembrandt,” says St. Peter

“The Night Watch guy,” mumbles Singer, his eyes rolling,

“And Caravaggio.”

“Yeah, Caravaggio,” says Singer. “Remind me what did he paint?”

St. Peter shakes his head and says “The Calling of Saint Matthew.”

“I’m about to be calling St. Matthew if I don’t get a goddamn table pretty devil damn soon.”

“Here, I will say it slower,” says Saint Peter. “You. Do. NOT. Have. A. Reservation.” Hey look, Mike,,,,”

“Don’t Mike me,” Singer snarls back.

“Ever see Heaven Can Wait. Or here comes Mister Jordan?,” asks St. Peter. “Maybe someone fucked up and brought you here too early.”

“Jesus,” Singer says.

“I’ll call him.”

“I’m too early? A minute ago I was too late. You people need to get your act together.”

“Hold on, Mike. Sorry, I mean Michael.”

At that, St. Peter confers with several angels, and several other rather important people who asked the Tribune for anonymity.

Here’s what happened, according to those sources. Michael Singer was in a bad way a year ago. Real bad. His wife Ruth’s heart was near ruins. An angel, yeah, trying hard to get his wings, made arrangements to have Singer moved from Earth to Heaven. However. the angel, one Paul Newman, in his memo to get the deed done, spelled the word “arrangements” as “arraignments”, as in a court situation. Some think Newman, an actor on Earth who once wonderfully played Frank Galvin, a drunkard attorney on a redemption mission in “The Verdict”, had a flashback to that movie And while Singer was transferred to Heaven, but with faulty paperwork. (A little known fact about heaven is the place is way anal about paperwork.)

A decision was made to have Singer sent back to Earth.

At that point, St. Peter motions over to his bouncer and Muhammad Ali comes over to the host stand.

“Your the Greatest, Muhammad,” said St. Pete. “So I need you to do this one right. Punch this Singer guy so hard he goes back to Earth and lives with this Ruth woman he keeps talking about. I do not want him up here. Maybe one of these days, but not now.”

Ali walks over to Michael Singer and says “I hear you’re like me, a troublemaker.

“Well, I’m not good a taking shit,” Singer says..

“Here’s a poem I wrote about Sonny Liston. I might apply it to you. This is back when they called me Cassius Clay.”

Singer mumbles, “Yeah before you went Shiite.”

“What you say?”

“Nothing Champ.”

Ali takes the stage from Coltrane and unleashes his poem.

Now Clay swings with a right,
What a beautiful swing,
And the punch raises the bear,
Clear out of the ring.

Liston is still rising
And the ref wears a frown,
For he can't start counting,
Till Sonny comes down.

Now Liston disappears from view.
The crowd is getting frantic,
But our radar stations have picked him up.
He's somewhere over the Atlantic.

Who would have thought
When they came to the fight
That they'd witness the launching
of a human satellite!

Yes, the crowd did not dream
When they laid down their money
That they would see
A total eclipse of the Sonny!
I am the greatest!

With that Muhammada Ali punches Michael Singer and he goes sailing out the restaurant out the heavens and all the way back to Earth and lands. with a thud. on the kitchen floor of the home he lives with with Ruth Reichl.

Ruth is startled no little and rushes into the kitchen. She is flabbergasted, stunned. and thrilled beyond to see her husband back on Earth.

“I feel again. But this one was a special fall.

Ruth helps him get up, kisses and hugs him and says “Come back to bed and tell me about it. I gotta a feeling it’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Doozy doesn’t begin to describe this one,” says Singer who takes Ruth’s hand and the two walk to off to the bedroom

.