You can get the hell off my lot

 



You can get the hell off my lot


     This was a sad, embarassing and unusual occurrence that took place at BC's office on the day of a big, stressful Ram football game.  His office at the time was in a large victorian house right off the corner of Figueroa and Santa Barbara (later renamed Martin Luther King blvd.) He also had space for maybe 20 cars in front of the office and 4 or 5 in the back. It was during the time when he hired me to work in the office after I had been fired from my job at UCLA (another story) and was down on my luck. Greg loved the office and visited me during slack times just to look around at the interesting stuff inside. There was a group of us who went to Ram games at the time including Jack, Greg, Paul Knowlton, Billy Hogan and others. We sat in the storied section C in temporary bleachers in the peristyle end of the coliseum. These guys would come early and hang out in the office den for an hour or so before traffic got bad while showing the utmost respect for the place and BC. However, on this Sunday the old man was on edge and frustrated about sales while spoiling for a fight. Greg unknowingly parked his car in the back and it irked "the owner of the Coliseum and Arena Ticket Service" who told him to move the car to a spot on the street to save room for paying customers. Greg was ready to do so but made the mistake of saying he hadn't seen any spots when he drove in that morning. Poor Greg did not argue but touched a nerve in the hotheaded BC who barked several admonishments and finally gave the kiss of doom to his godson, telling him "you can get the hell off my lot." Greg really respected BC and this hurt him to the quick but we would repeat the phrase to eachother just as an example of unfair edicts in life. 





 

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