“You came dressed as Jack Kerouac?” I say, hugging Rascal in the foyer of the House of Pies in Silverlake. He is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. He’s holding his black jacket in his hand. It’s almost cold enough.

“What?” He says. His face is tanned. The beard is gone and his hair is cut a bit shorter – the curls are still there, thankfully. Rascal really wouldn’t be Rascal without that mop of curly, dark hair. Obviously the ‘drive’ he spoke of was to somewhere that boasted a lot of sun…and a barber.

“Halloween? Costumes? The world just keeps turning, turning, turning?” I say, gesturing to the hostess that we’ll be two tonight. She grabs two menus and we follow her through the restaurant. A restaurant that looks exactly like you’d think a place called House of Pies would look. A lot of vinyl. A lot of “regulars”. And yes…a lot of pies.”