Rodeo Drive Quotes

I wouldn't miss this fake-homo show for all the Gucci Shoes on Rodeo Drive.

the full California workup: shopping on Rodeo Drive, a ridiculously overpriced lunch at the Ivy, an afternoon at the beach, and dinner at a quaint outdoor bistro in Santa Monica.

But the moon was so large and clear through the uncurtained window that it made me think instead of a story my mother had told me, about driving to horse shows with her mother and father in the back seat of their old Buick when she was little. “It was a lot of travelling—ten hours sometimes through hard country. Ferris wheels, rodeo rings with sawdust, everything smelled like popcorn and horse manure. One night we were in San Antonio, and I was having a bit of a melt-down—wanting my own room, you know, my dog, my own bed—and Daddy lifted me up on the fairgrounds and told me to look at the moon. ‘When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.’ So after he died, and I had to go to Aunt Bess—I mean, even now, in the city, when I see a full moon, it’s like he’s telling me not to look back or feel sad about things, that home is wherever I am.” She kissed me on the nose. “Or where you are, puppy. The center of my earth is you.

A beggar walked up to a well-dressed woman shopping on Rodeo Drive and said to her, ‘I haven’t eaten anything in four days.’ She looked at him and said, ‘God, I wish I had your willpower.

It was becoming more and more evident that Salem was a town that celebrated individuality, a real live-and-let-live kind of place. Melody felt a gut punch of regret. Her old nose would have fit in here. "Look!" She pointed at the multicolored car whizzing by. Its black door were from a Mercedes coupe, the white hood from a BMW; the silver trunk was Jaguar, the red convertible top was Lexus, the whitewall tires were Bentley, the sound system was Bose, and the music was classical. A hood ornament from each model dangled from the rear view mirror. Its license plate appropriately read MUTT. "That car looks like a moving Benton ad." "Or a pileup on Rodeo drive." Candace snapped a picture with her iPhone and e-mailed to her friends back home. They responded instantly with a shot of what they were doing. It must have involved the mall because Candace picked up her pace and began asking anyone under the age of fifty where the cool people hung out.

Our relationship quickly grew. I was living in Long Beach at the time; Chris was in San Diego. Conservatively speaking, that’s a two-hour drive. But Chris drove it often. He’d get off work, hop in his pickup, and be at my condo before dark. And not just on the weekends: he often rose before the sun to get to work in Coronado Beach. We’d go out to eat, maybe take in a movie, play miniature golf, bowl, see friends--the usual date stuff. But our most fun was just hanging out together. I pinned a picture of Chris up near my desk. (It’s the profile picture on his Facebook page, if you’re interested.) Under it, I taped a quote that went along the lines of: Life is not about the number of breaths you take; it’s the moments that take your breath away. Chris was all about those breathtaking moments--riding broncs in the rodeo, jumping out of planes. He worked hard and played hard--but was just as likely to relax completely, sitting comfortably on the couch with a beer or whatever as he took it easy. It was a paradox; I loved both sides.

I began lamenting the terrible social consequences of materialism and my view that the less-than-laudable moral condition of America in general and Santa Cruz in particular (I was grumpy from overwork and have never been particularly enamored of the moral condition of Santa Cruz in any event) could be laid at the feet of nearly three centuries of materialist ascendancy. The reigning belief that the thoughts we think and the choices we make reflect the deterministic workings of neurons and, ultimately, subatomic particles seemed to me to have subverted mankind’s sense of morality. The view that people are mere machines and that the mind is just another (not particularly special) manifestation of a clockwork physical universe had infiltrated all our thinking, whether or not someone knew a synapse from an axon. Do you know what the most addressable cause of all this moral decrepitude is?, I asked Dave. Materialism! Not the materialism of Rodeo Drive, SUVs, and second homes in Telluride, but materialism as a worldview, a view that holds that the physical is all that exists, and that transcendent human mental experiences and emotions, no matter what grandeur they seem—from within—to possess, are in reality nothing but the expressions of electrical pulses zipping along neurons. Chalmers wouldn’t be the first (or the last) to express incredulity that I was blaming the moral morass of the late twentieth century on a school of philosophy that most people had never heard of.

To my way of thinking, any American who gets up and goes to work every day is essential, whether your job is caring for the sick, driving a delivery truck, stocking a shelf, or milking a herd of cows. You matter. And your job matters because it matters to you.

You at home all by yourself and your husband is in L.A. walking down Rodeo drive holding hands with another nigga. Bitch, you’re dumber than you look.

If that's what you want, that's what you deserve.

Here sits a man, he thought, here sits a man dressed in a mossy green sportcoat purchased at one of the best shops on Rodeo Drive; here sits a man with Bass Weejuns on his feet and Calvin Klein underwear to cover his ass; here sits a man with soft contact lenses resting easily on his eyes; here sits a man remembering the dream of a boy who thought an Ivy League shirt with a fruit-loop on the back and a pair of Snap-Jack shoes was the height of fashion; here sits a grownup looking at the same old statue, and hey, Paul, Tall Paul, I’m here to say you’re the same in every way, you ain’t aged a motherfucking day.

All Brewton belonged to them. Crump wanted to stay around and cash in on that fact but Santo talked him into driving him and Mary Tate and Craig back to Birmingham. Willy, Ruben and Pi did stay. The last Craig saw of them they each had a gin and tonic in hand and were chatting to interested little groups of Brewtonites. This was at Seymour Hanes's barbecue after the rodeo, in honor of Santo-Crump. 'Stay hungry,' Santo told Willy as they were leaving. Willy was unhurt except for a bruised tail and a few glamorous abrasions on his face, but he looked like a different man. The clown had told Santo at the rodeo that Willy had wedged his hand under the rope with the left-hand glove. 'I love you,' he told Santo. 'Hang in there,' Santo said and poked at his belly. 'Peace,' said Pi. Ruben smiled. They took ten slabs of barbecue ribs in a sack and ate them in the car. When Mary Tate finished hers she leaned against Craig, tucked her legs under her and put her left hand up high on his leg. Her face was flushed and beautiful. 'I loved you today, Swamp. You had fun, didn't you?' Craig's head was already beginning to buzz. His thoughts were going soft and he wanted to sleep. She kissed him slowly and quietly and he saw a thought distract her, saw it ripple over her eyes. 'How come that boy said he loved you, baby?' she asked Santo. 'Huh? Oh. He didn't mean me exactly,' Santo said and went back to talking rodeo with Shorty Crump.

He kissed her again, pulling her up against him and running his hands up and down her back. As he deepened the kiss, he became aware of clapping, cheers and catcalls. No doubt Chase had gone into the restaurant and rounded up the whole Fool’s Gold crowd to come watch the show. Zane figured they might as well get their money’s worth. He pulled back slightly and took her hand in his as he lowered himself to one knee. He took off his hat and said, “Phoebe, will you marry me?” Her eyes widened, then filled with tears. “Yes, I will.” Contentment filled him, blending with the love already in his heart. He pulled the small box from his jacket pocket. While Maya had been busy running to the meeting, Zane had spent some time on Rodeo Drive. The Tiffany’s store had a nice collection of engagement rings. He’d chosen a perfect round diamond set on a platinum band that looked like braided rope. He slipped the ring on her finger, and she gasped. “It’s so beautiful.” “I’m glad you like it. Now keep it away from the raccoons.” “I’ll never take it off. Ever.” She stared at him. “I really love you, Zane.” He didn’t doubt her for a second and knew that he never would. He and Phoebe would be together for the rest of their lives. It was going to be a hell of a ride, and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.