I hate The Eagles.

I live in San Francisco now, but I'm not a native. Up until about two years ago I lived in Los Angeles. Right at the corner of Sunset and Vine. In Hollywood. Right on the beach. Right next door to Disneyland. If you know LA, you know the place.

I remember waking up one season-indeterminate morning a few years back thinking about breakfast. I walked outside and looked out at the Baywatch in front of me, and the Magic Kingdom to my left, and my blue-grey view of the Hollywood sign to my right, and considered my breakfast options.

I decided on The Sunset Grill, right next to the Guitar Center. "Down at the Sunset Grill"...I fucking hate that song. I fucking hate Don Henley. I fucking hate Glen Frey. I fucking hate The Eagles. Joe Walsh is OK, but I fucking hate The Eagles. I wasn't thinking about how much I fucking hate The Eagles though, I was thinking about breakfast. It was only a couple of blocks to The Sunset Grill, so I decided to walk.

I sit down at the counter and order the most important meal of the day, and my friend Pete sits down next to me. Pete's kind of an asshole, but who isn't at least kind of an asshole? I hadn't seen Pete in a while, and after breakfast we decide to go get a drink. Its about 11am.

We get into Pete's car and head for The Coach & Horses. Not open yet. The Burgundy Room. No dice. The Frolic Room, The Beauty Bar, even The Drawing Room. No luck. Hollywood is a tough place to get a drink before noon. If you want a few pops at 11:30am in Los Angeles, there's only one place to go: The Valley.

Over the hills and through Los Feliz.

Also through Glendale, to Burbank. The corner of San Fernando Road and Alameda. The Blue Room. The Blue Room understands the needs of the morning drinker.

Pete was drinking rum & Cokes, I was drinking shots of Goldschlager with a dash of Tabasco. It must have been six or seven drinks in when Pete got up.

I should have known right then.

Pete walks over to the jukebox. Its one of those internet Jukeboxes. Pete shoots me a shit-eating grin. I know something's up. Pete starts feeding money to the box. I finish my Goldschlager with a dash of Tabasco.

Then I hear it.

The opening strains of "Hotel California."

I get out of my seat and head toward Pete and the jukebox. There's a fair sized crowd of early afternoon drinkers at The Blue Room that day. It takes me until "On a dark desert highway" to get to Pete. After I give Pete a frenzied savage beating, I pick him up over my head. I throw Pete through the stale air of The Blue Room, over the heads of the stale morning drinkers, and into the internet jukebox. The jukebox explodes into Independance Day sparks as Pete comes crashing into it just before Don Henley gets a chance to mispronounce the word eucalyptus again.

I make my way back to my seat through handshakes and backslaps, and order another Goldschlager with a dash of Tabasco.

I always drink for free at The Blue Room in Burbank now.

I fucking hate The Eagles.