I am now officially one of those crazy motherfuckers you see talking to themselves on the street.
“Fucking shit. Fuck. Motherfucker. Fuck you. I’ll fucking kill you. Fuck, fuck, fuck, goddammit, motherfucker!”
The 550 bus has a habit of not showing up. Two days in a row it did not come. Today, the third day, it shows up twenty minutes late.
The bus driver looks like a black Jabba the Hutt. He steers with his belly.
“Did the bus schedule change? Because on the internet it says this is supposed to come at 1:13.”
“I’m just late.” Said with great indifference.
Twenty minutes late. On a trafficless Saturday afternoon. Unless Han Solo was giving him shit, this is unac-fucking-ceptable. This is how people are fired. This is how lives are destroyed. This is how madmen are born.
How depressing would it be if, when we died and went to heaven or hell (assuming), God or Lucifer gave us some sort of life-receipt with the amount of time we’ve spent walking, sleeping, eating, pissing, shitting, jerking off, fucking, working, and being in transit.
How many years of our lives do we spend going to and fro?
So far I’ve worked two days at Equinox and it’s going pretty well. Coworkers are nice and I’ve seen a few celebs. I wish there was more lifting equipment, but it’s a sports club and people at sports clubs want to do everything but lift weights.
I’m still in that new, on-my-best-behavior period where I want everything to be perfect and go smoothly (people only act like this when they have new jobs or crushes, by the way). And it’s not, on my end at least, because I’ve been showing up at work covered in sweat. Like a fat chick when she gets out of bed in the morning.
As much as I want to write about other things right now -- mainly my new job -- I harbor the fear that this blog will be discovered by a coworker who may be none-too-thrilled with the shit I've posted. So no gossipy shit for now. I’m also blinded by my rage and general contempt for the MTA so, naturally, all of my thoughts are drifting back to that mess. I have to pay $62 tomorrow for a July bus pass. For buses that don’t show.
But hey, at least I have three things to celebrate: the new job (assuming I don’t get fired), finishing the latest draft of my crude and hilarious college sports comedy, and one whole month of not shitting in a domestic setting.
Maybe I should be a Navy SEAL.
(And to whoever anonymously posted a comment on my last entry, thanks. You made my day.)
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 23: Ralph’s on Pico and San Vicente
June 24: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 25: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 26: No urge
June 27: Pizza Place on Sunset
June 28: No urge
June 29: Equinox West Hollywood
June 30: Carl’s Jr on Fairfax and Olympic
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
June 26, 2007
Waiting for the bus is like standing in timeout. You don’t want to be there, but you are and there’s not shit you can do about it.
So you wait.
You try to be productive with this empty block of time and you try to think about shit that’s important to you – a script, grocery shopping, aborting the fetus – but you can’t because you’re too pissed off and frustrated. You’re just standing there, smelling the piss in the wind.
Sometimes I can really relate to Michael Douglas’s character in the movie Falling Down. Barely missing a bus that doesn’t come for another 30+ minutes will make you so mad that you do not give a shit about your life – some kind of fucked up super power for poor people.
Is this why the crime rate is higher in more impoverished areas?
A dorky-looking college couple pulls up next to me in a silver Honda Accord. The girl looks over at me and then pretends to look at something else. Then she quietly turns to her boyfriend and says something.
And I know what’s coming next.
One… two… three… four… five… the boyfriend lifts his eyes to look at me. Then he looks away. He says something to his girlfriend and she holds his hand to her face and kisses it. Then they start to make-out.
Did I, the lone whiteboy on Crenshaw, help a well-off couple gain a newfound appreciation for life? Do they appreciate their car and their AC a little more now? Does the guy not take his girlfriend’s AIDS-free pussy for granted now?
Will they try anal because of me?
Maybe I can be a motivational prop for white couples who are losing their way:
“No, honey. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fucking said so, goddammit.”
“… is that a white guy standing on Crenshaw?”
Pause.
“I love you.”
Why do old, poor black guys still think they’re the shit? They’re hanging out at a fucking bus shelter at 12:30 in the afternoon, stinking like piss and cheese, and they’re talking about trying to get pussy tonight.
“I’mma go holla at Denise’s fat ass with them thick ol’ legs of hers.”
“I heard that.”
Mmm hmm. And what does Denise think of this?
Having more aluminum cans than your friend who’s checking every empty pack of cigarettes he sees does not make you a baller.
I imagine this is what the guy would say if I asked him if he’s homeless:
“Homeless? Nigga, I’m OG.”
Old and grizzled?
(And I wish I could end on that but I can’t because Equinox called while I was writing this and gave me the front desk position so I’m obligated to put that in here as well.)
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 23: Ralph’s on Pico and San Vicente
June 24: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 25: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 26: No urge
So you wait.
You try to be productive with this empty block of time and you try to think about shit that’s important to you – a script, grocery shopping, aborting the fetus – but you can’t because you’re too pissed off and frustrated. You’re just standing there, smelling the piss in the wind.
Sometimes I can really relate to Michael Douglas’s character in the movie Falling Down. Barely missing a bus that doesn’t come for another 30+ minutes will make you so mad that you do not give a shit about your life – some kind of fucked up super power for poor people.
Is this why the crime rate is higher in more impoverished areas?
A dorky-looking college couple pulls up next to me in a silver Honda Accord. The girl looks over at me and then pretends to look at something else. Then she quietly turns to her boyfriend and says something.
And I know what’s coming next.
One… two… three… four… five… the boyfriend lifts his eyes to look at me. Then he looks away. He says something to his girlfriend and she holds his hand to her face and kisses it. Then they start to make-out.
Did I, the lone whiteboy on Crenshaw, help a well-off couple gain a newfound appreciation for life? Do they appreciate their car and their AC a little more now? Does the guy not take his girlfriend’s AIDS-free pussy for granted now?
Will they try anal because of me?
Maybe I can be a motivational prop for white couples who are losing their way:
“No, honey. We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fucking said so, goddammit.”
“… is that a white guy standing on Crenshaw?”
Pause.
“I love you.”
Why do old, poor black guys still think they’re the shit? They’re hanging out at a fucking bus shelter at 12:30 in the afternoon, stinking like piss and cheese, and they’re talking about trying to get pussy tonight.
“I’mma go holla at Denise’s fat ass with them thick ol’ legs of hers.”
“I heard that.”
Mmm hmm. And what does Denise think of this?
Having more aluminum cans than your friend who’s checking every empty pack of cigarettes he sees does not make you a baller.
I imagine this is what the guy would say if I asked him if he’s homeless:
“Homeless? Nigga, I’m OG.”
Old and grizzled?
(And I wish I could end on that but I can’t because Equinox called while I was writing this and gave me the front desk position so I’m obligated to put that in here as well.)
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 23: Ralph’s on Pico and San Vicente
June 24: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 25: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 26: No urge
Monday, June 25, 2007
June 23 and 24 and 25, 2007 (fuck, I'm lazy)
Maurice throws a party to celebrate the solstice.
I shit you not.
There’s a schmattering of New-Age/Bohemian types who, collectively, encompass every associated stereotype imaginable. And then some.
I walk through the dining room and hear this piece of conversation float out of a soft-spoken, my-parents-still-think-I’m-straight twentysomething’s mouth:
“I was worried people here wouldn’t eat meat.”
No. Just you, T.R. Knight.
But about the party. It’s fucking wild. There’s water and hommus and pesto and good karma and poetry-reading. It’s like an enema for my soul.
And then this creative chick (I can tell she’s creative because she’s wearing her creative box-framed glasses), who probably eats a lot of hairy pussy and drinks a lot of fair-trade coffee, picks up the cello and just blows us the fuck away and it’s like no amount of weed or alcohol could ever make this party any more kick-ass than it already is.
Didn’t the Pagans celebrate the solstice?
My brother says something on IM that is both accurate and hilarious. He says I’m living the life of a Salvadorian. I’m riding the bus and pretty soon (if I’m lucky) I’ll have my first job, and then I can buy my first bike, and then my first car.
I’m at the bottom. But that also means I’m on the come-up.
I go to the gym, wait at the bus stop. A surfer-ish dude in a Ford F-150 pulls up next to me blasting “To Live and Die in LA” by Tupac and I’ve never wanted to punch anybody so much in my life. Playing a song about LA… in LA… loud enough for everyone to marvel and bow to your fucking awesomeness. Dick.
I go to the Borders on Sunset and Vine and sit outside and brainstorm. I come to the realization that I really miss pussy. There’s a fat blonde who’s not ugly sitting a few tables away from me and I wonder if fat chicks in LA are like fat chicks in sororities – high on themselves. If I go up to her and lie to her and pretend to be interested in what she has to say about Lindsey Lohan and McDonald’s two-for-a-dollar apple pies, will she blow me in a bathroom?
That’d really be a throwback to college.
The bus on the way back to the apartment is like an amusement park ride that’s not amusing. The driver is chubby and black and pissed off and has gangsta hair and he reminds me of a rapper who never made it (is that racist?). He drives like the deal with his label just fell through for the ninth time.
“Nigga, I got this new joint called Ham Sandwich.”
“Is it about food or vagina?”
“Boaf!”
We stop on Wilshire and an old black man on a scooter rolls on. No problem, right? Right, because there’s never a problem on the bus. The guy insists on backing on, which takes about ten tries because he’s old and can’t steer for shit. Like an Asian trying to parallel park. The whole scene reminds me of that part in Austin Powers where he’s trying to turn around in that corridor.
We pass a Taco Bell and I weep on the inside because I know I’ll never win their El Presidente sweepstakes.
“I’m fulllllllllll!”
Sorry. Just felt like saying that.
I apologize for the lack of updates, but I’m so close to finishing the current draft of my latest pipe dream and that’s what’s been occupying my time. I haven’t forgotten about you loyal readers – all six or so. But that’s okay because if there’s just one person who reads on a regular basis then it’s worth it.
Can you tell I’m still young and idealistic?
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 23: Ralph’s on Pico and San Vicente
June 24: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 25: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
I shit you not.
There’s a schmattering of New-Age/Bohemian types who, collectively, encompass every associated stereotype imaginable. And then some.
I walk through the dining room and hear this piece of conversation float out of a soft-spoken, my-parents-still-think-I’m-straight twentysomething’s mouth:
“I was worried people here wouldn’t eat meat.”
No. Just you, T.R. Knight.
But about the party. It’s fucking wild. There’s water and hommus and pesto and good karma and poetry-reading. It’s like an enema for my soul.
And then this creative chick (I can tell she’s creative because she’s wearing her creative box-framed glasses), who probably eats a lot of hairy pussy and drinks a lot of fair-trade coffee, picks up the cello and just blows us the fuck away and it’s like no amount of weed or alcohol could ever make this party any more kick-ass than it already is.
Didn’t the Pagans celebrate the solstice?
My brother says something on IM that is both accurate and hilarious. He says I’m living the life of a Salvadorian. I’m riding the bus and pretty soon (if I’m lucky) I’ll have my first job, and then I can buy my first bike, and then my first car.
I’m at the bottom. But that also means I’m on the come-up.
I go to the gym, wait at the bus stop. A surfer-ish dude in a Ford F-150 pulls up next to me blasting “To Live and Die in LA” by Tupac and I’ve never wanted to punch anybody so much in my life. Playing a song about LA… in LA… loud enough for everyone to marvel and bow to your fucking awesomeness. Dick.
I go to the Borders on Sunset and Vine and sit outside and brainstorm. I come to the realization that I really miss pussy. There’s a fat blonde who’s not ugly sitting a few tables away from me and I wonder if fat chicks in LA are like fat chicks in sororities – high on themselves. If I go up to her and lie to her and pretend to be interested in what she has to say about Lindsey Lohan and McDonald’s two-for-a-dollar apple pies, will she blow me in a bathroom?
That’d really be a throwback to college.
The bus on the way back to the apartment is like an amusement park ride that’s not amusing. The driver is chubby and black and pissed off and has gangsta hair and he reminds me of a rapper who never made it (is that racist?). He drives like the deal with his label just fell through for the ninth time.
“Nigga, I got this new joint called Ham Sandwich.”
“Is it about food or vagina?”
“Boaf!”
We stop on Wilshire and an old black man on a scooter rolls on. No problem, right? Right, because there’s never a problem on the bus. The guy insists on backing on, which takes about ten tries because he’s old and can’t steer for shit. Like an Asian trying to parallel park. The whole scene reminds me of that part in Austin Powers where he’s trying to turn around in that corridor.
We pass a Taco Bell and I weep on the inside because I know I’ll never win their El Presidente sweepstakes.
“I’m fulllllllllll!”
Sorry. Just felt like saying that.
I apologize for the lack of updates, but I’m so close to finishing the current draft of my latest pipe dream and that’s what’s been occupying my time. I haven’t forgotten about you loyal readers – all six or so. But that’s okay because if there’s just one person who reads on a regular basis then it’s worth it.
Can you tell I’m still young and idealistic?
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
June 23: Ralph’s on Pico and San Vicente
June 24: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 25: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
Saturday, June 23, 2007
June 21 and 22, 2007
Not shit. Seriously. Still haven't heard back from Equinox. Hopefully on Monday.
But I do have some good news for you guys: a couple of my friends are getting married. You can check out their wedding page here:
Billterius' and Quanteesha's Wedding Page
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
But I do have some good news for you guys: a couple of my friends are getting married. You can check out their wedding page here:
Billterius' and Quanteesha's Wedding Page
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 21: No urge
June 22: McDonald's on Vine and Sunset
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
June 19 and 20, 2007
Nigel from Equinox calls me and asks me to come in at one.
“We’ll have you meet the general manager and then work behind the front desk for perhaps an hour or so.”
Alright. Fucking awesome. I check the bus schedule. I can either get to West Hollywood at 12:20 or 1:05.
Fuck you, Metro.
I opt for 12:20 and then spend the morning writing. As departure time approaches, I realize I have to shave because, well, my face looks like magnet shavings.
Shower. Shave. Lunch.
I need to catch the bus at 11:59. It’s 11:50. But is my hair okay? Is my nose shining like a serial rapist’s blade?
11:52.
Shit, I have to lock the door.
11:53.
I figure I’ll be OK because the buses are usually late, but I walk-run and then sprint in five second bursts just to give myself enough time. Remember, I’m in heavy jeans with a 20 lb backpack strapped to my back.
11:57.
I wait for the light to change so I can cross the street when the FUCKING BUS GOES FLYING BY.
And then the light changes.
I feel like Sandra Bullock at the beginning of Speed, except no amount of chasing and comedic flailing is going to get the cold-hearted bastard steering that orange bullet to stop for me.
I kick the shit out of the fence outside a nice apartment complex once I cross the street and keep saying this to myself:
“Fuck. This is bad. Fuck. This is bad.”
Over and over and over. No shit it’s bad, Jeff. Are you a fucking retard?
God I hope there’s a bomb on that bus.
Time passes and so do a million cars. Each one feels like a middle finger. The nicer cars – BMWs, Range Rovers, Porsches – feel like middle fingers from people you care about and therefore sting and piss me off a little more.
So I wait. And stew. And wait. And stew some more.
The next bus comes at 12:45. Fifteen minutes to get to West Hollywood and climb my way up to Sunset Boulevard.
I call Nigel and tell him I missed my bus and will be a few minutes late and that I feel shitty about all of this. He says, “No worries” and I feel a little better because that’s what it says on the coasters at the Outback Steakhouse.
I make it to Equinox at 1:12. Sweaty, embarrassed, apologetic. Nigel says “No worries” again and then tells me to “lose the earring”. Sorry, Victor.
I have a seat at the juice bar while I wait to meet with the general manager and who do I see?
Dave Navarro. The guy who fucks Carmen Electra.
He’s in a black tank-top and wears aviators. He’s short and lean and looks exactly like he does on TV.
I meet with the GM, who suggests I get a bike. He likes that I was a laborer for a Tennis Court Construction company and brings up Purdue basketball when I mention I went to school at Western Kentucky University. Indiana’s only a state away, so cool, awesome.
He suggests I “might want to get a bike”.
It’s all over in a few minutes and then Nigel has me work an hour-long trial shift behind the front desk, which is none too bad easy enough to pick up. The system’s a lot more complicated than at the Gold’s back home, but fairly intuitive. I manage.
Neil Patrick Harris walks out. Dave Holmes, that MTV VJ guy, walks in.
The guy I’m working with tells me Jessica Alba and Jessica Biel come in a lot. He says 50 Cent comes in whenever he’s in LA. So do T.O., E from Entourage, Paris Hilton, and Jeremy Piven.
No. The Piv?
“He likes to get dressed alone in the spa. He’s afraid people are going to take pictures of him. We just think he has a small dick.”
I think about seeing the Jessicas come in. What a fucking perk, right?
I’ll find out on or close-to Friday if I get the job.
After I get off, I go to work out. My first time seeing the full club. And it’s nice. FREE towels – and not just sweat towels, but shower towels – everywhere. I thikn about stealing some but ultimately decide against. The locker room is large and elegant has lots of steam. It's like a movie locker room.
But the equipment is eh. Nigel said their stuff was top-of-the-line, but it’s really just a bunch of old Cybex shit. I mean I’m not fucking picky or anything – give me a barbell and some weights and I’ll be fine – but I expected something a little nicer.
Nothing like Terminator-arms jerking you off while you lift, though.
About halfway into my workout I see Pauly Shore of “You got GOT!” fame. He does stool-steps and grunts. He’s starting to look a little old around the eyes.
I see a lot of male models or guys who could be male models. Ditto on the ladies. I see a lot of collagen and tight faces and tight asses and impossibly flat stomachs.
And then I see my reflection in the mirror. Big, sweaty, hairy, and generally imperfect. And I’m kind of glad.
In the land of the flawless it’s the flawed who stand out.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: Mcdonald’s on Vine and Sunset
“We’ll have you meet the general manager and then work behind the front desk for perhaps an hour or so.”
Alright. Fucking awesome. I check the bus schedule. I can either get to West Hollywood at 12:20 or 1:05.
Fuck you, Metro.
I opt for 12:20 and then spend the morning writing. As departure time approaches, I realize I have to shave because, well, my face looks like magnet shavings.
Shower. Shave. Lunch.
I need to catch the bus at 11:59. It’s 11:50. But is my hair okay? Is my nose shining like a serial rapist’s blade?
11:52.
Shit, I have to lock the door.
11:53.
I figure I’ll be OK because the buses are usually late, but I walk-run and then sprint in five second bursts just to give myself enough time. Remember, I’m in heavy jeans with a 20 lb backpack strapped to my back.
11:57.
I wait for the light to change so I can cross the street when the FUCKING BUS GOES FLYING BY.
And then the light changes.
I feel like Sandra Bullock at the beginning of Speed, except no amount of chasing and comedic flailing is going to get the cold-hearted bastard steering that orange bullet to stop for me.
I kick the shit out of the fence outside a nice apartment complex once I cross the street and keep saying this to myself:
“Fuck. This is bad. Fuck. This is bad.”
Over and over and over. No shit it’s bad, Jeff. Are you a fucking retard?
God I hope there’s a bomb on that bus.
Time passes and so do a million cars. Each one feels like a middle finger. The nicer cars – BMWs, Range Rovers, Porsches – feel like middle fingers from people you care about and therefore sting and piss me off a little more.
So I wait. And stew. And wait. And stew some more.
The next bus comes at 12:45. Fifteen minutes to get to West Hollywood and climb my way up to Sunset Boulevard.
I call Nigel and tell him I missed my bus and will be a few minutes late and that I feel shitty about all of this. He says, “No worries” and I feel a little better because that’s what it says on the coasters at the Outback Steakhouse.
I make it to Equinox at 1:12. Sweaty, embarrassed, apologetic. Nigel says “No worries” again and then tells me to “lose the earring”. Sorry, Victor.
I have a seat at the juice bar while I wait to meet with the general manager and who do I see?
Dave Navarro. The guy who fucks Carmen Electra.
He’s in a black tank-top and wears aviators. He’s short and lean and looks exactly like he does on TV.
I meet with the GM, who suggests I get a bike. He likes that I was a laborer for a Tennis Court Construction company and brings up Purdue basketball when I mention I went to school at Western Kentucky University. Indiana’s only a state away, so cool, awesome.
He suggests I “might want to get a bike”.
It’s all over in a few minutes and then Nigel has me work an hour-long trial shift behind the front desk, which is none too bad easy enough to pick up. The system’s a lot more complicated than at the Gold’s back home, but fairly intuitive. I manage.
Neil Patrick Harris walks out. Dave Holmes, that MTV VJ guy, walks in.
The guy I’m working with tells me Jessica Alba and Jessica Biel come in a lot. He says 50 Cent comes in whenever he’s in LA. So do T.O., E from Entourage, Paris Hilton, and Jeremy Piven.
No. The Piv?
“He likes to get dressed alone in the spa. He’s afraid people are going to take pictures of him. We just think he has a small dick.”
I think about seeing the Jessicas come in. What a fucking perk, right?
I’ll find out on or close-to Friday if I get the job.
After I get off, I go to work out. My first time seeing the full club. And it’s nice. FREE towels – and not just sweat towels, but shower towels – everywhere. I thikn about stealing some but ultimately decide against. The locker room is large and elegant has lots of steam. It's like a movie locker room.
But the equipment is eh. Nigel said their stuff was top-of-the-line, but it’s really just a bunch of old Cybex shit. I mean I’m not fucking picky or anything – give me a barbell and some weights and I’ll be fine – but I expected something a little nicer.
Nothing like Terminator-arms jerking you off while you lift, though.
About halfway into my workout I see Pauly Shore of “You got GOT!” fame. He does stool-steps and grunts. He’s starting to look a little old around the eyes.
I see a lot of male models or guys who could be male models. Ditto on the ladies. I see a lot of collagen and tight faces and tight asses and impossibly flat stomachs.
And then I see my reflection in the mirror. Big, sweaty, hairy, and generally imperfect. And I’m kind of glad.
In the land of the flawless it’s the flawed who stand out.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: Mcdonald’s on Vine and Sunset
Monday, June 18, 2007
June 18, 2007
I get hit on at the gym today.
“What’s up, bro? I got a question. Do you usually wear two earrings or just one?”
“Uh, just one.”
“Oh. Because it looks really good, bro.”
Before I continue I’d like to say that this is an incredibly lame pick-up line. Equivalent to me telling a girl I like her purse – which I’ve probably done. I can’t remember.
The guy is young – late 20s, early 30s – in shape, and Hispanic-ish looking. He looks like a tattoo artist.
He points to his hoop earrings, one in each ear:
“I thought I was the only one who still wore hoops.”
Nervous laugh. I smile politely. You can do it, bro.
“Yeah… I’ve had these in forever. Ever since I became a street dancer.”
“Cool.”
“So have you always had one piercing?”
“No. I took the other one out. It was too low.”
“Oh, that’s cool… You should get it done again. That would look real good.”
If I liked cock, I probably would’ve blushed. I mean that’s a genuine enough compliment, isn’t it?
“I’m Victor, by the way.”
“Jeff.”
“Cool, bro.”
There’s a few more awkward pauses followed by “well” and it reminds me of myself trying to talk to a female.
Victor ends the conversation, gives me a lingering pat on my back, shoulder, and goes. Didn’t ask for my number or anything.
Would I have given it to him?
Getting a number doesn’t mean shit these days because people don’t like to say no. They’d rather give somebody a false sense of hope and then crush said hope from a distance. Not many people have the balls to do it up close and even fewer people have the balls to not provide that hope in the first place. I’d like to think I’m one of those straight-up people who doesn’t have a problem saying no, especially to a gay man asking for my phone number, but I’m not so sure I am. I think I’m more of a bitch than I like to acknowledge.
Later, Victor comes back. With renewed confidence.
“Hey, bro. Do you like football?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like college football and pro football? Because football season’s coming up and me and a couple of the guys like to get together and watch. And… I mean I live out in West Hollywood, and, you know, you could come over, you know, and like watch it with us when it starts. Sometime. If you want.”
I’m about to tell him I’m only in town for two months (honestly!) when he makes a pre-emptive getaway, probably because he senses rejection:
“But I gotta run, bro. So I’ll probably see you in here and we’ll talk. It was really good to meet you again.”
I almost ask him if he remembers my name. Instead I just shake his hand. He squeezes my arm and dips out. But not before he says this:
“Keep that earring in!”
Seriously, what is it with the fucking earring? The last time I checked, a single piercing in the left ear meant my asshole wasn’t up for grabs. But that was a long time ago. Have things changed since then? Is my left ear a homosexual want-ad?
Victor, you get props for a valiant effort.
But next time ask me about myself.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
“What’s up, bro? I got a question. Do you usually wear two earrings or just one?”
“Uh, just one.”
“Oh. Because it looks really good, bro.”
Before I continue I’d like to say that this is an incredibly lame pick-up line. Equivalent to me telling a girl I like her purse – which I’ve probably done. I can’t remember.
The guy is young – late 20s, early 30s – in shape, and Hispanic-ish looking. He looks like a tattoo artist.
He points to his hoop earrings, one in each ear:
“I thought I was the only one who still wore hoops.”
Nervous laugh. I smile politely. You can do it, bro.
“Yeah… I’ve had these in forever. Ever since I became a street dancer.”
“Cool.”
“So have you always had one piercing?”
“No. I took the other one out. It was too low.”
“Oh, that’s cool… You should get it done again. That would look real good.”
If I liked cock, I probably would’ve blushed. I mean that’s a genuine enough compliment, isn’t it?
“I’m Victor, by the way.”
“Jeff.”
“Cool, bro.”
There’s a few more awkward pauses followed by “well” and it reminds me of myself trying to talk to a female.
Victor ends the conversation, gives me a lingering pat on my back, shoulder, and goes. Didn’t ask for my number or anything.
Would I have given it to him?
Getting a number doesn’t mean shit these days because people don’t like to say no. They’d rather give somebody a false sense of hope and then crush said hope from a distance. Not many people have the balls to do it up close and even fewer people have the balls to not provide that hope in the first place. I’d like to think I’m one of those straight-up people who doesn’t have a problem saying no, especially to a gay man asking for my phone number, but I’m not so sure I am. I think I’m more of a bitch than I like to acknowledge.
Later, Victor comes back. With renewed confidence.
“Hey, bro. Do you like football?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like college football and pro football? Because football season’s coming up and me and a couple of the guys like to get together and watch. And… I mean I live out in West Hollywood, and, you know, you could come over, you know, and like watch it with us when it starts. Sometime. If you want.”
I’m about to tell him I’m only in town for two months (honestly!) when he makes a pre-emptive getaway, probably because he senses rejection:
“But I gotta run, bro. So I’ll probably see you in here and we’ll talk. It was really good to meet you again.”
I almost ask him if he remembers my name. Instead I just shake his hand. He squeezes my arm and dips out. But not before he says this:
“Keep that earring in!”
Seriously, what is it with the fucking earring? The last time I checked, a single piercing in the left ear meant my asshole wasn’t up for grabs. But that was a long time ago. Have things changed since then? Is my left ear a homosexual want-ad?
Victor, you get props for a valiant effort.
But next time ask me about myself.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
Sunday, June 17, 2007
June 15, 16, and 17, 2007
The nights are cool in Los Angeles. Sometimes, when the sun’s on its way down, I catch the scent of cigarette smoke in the breeze and it hits my nose in a way that takes me back to middle school, when I used to sneak off into the woods with my friends to take awkward puffs off of a Marlboro or a Newport or a Benson Hedges that we’d pass around like a joint. It’s one of the things I miss most in life and it’s gone for good.
A passage from Tom Perrotta’s Little Children comes to mind:
Memory has a way of distorting the past, of making certain events seem larger and more significant in retrospect than they ever could have been at the time they occurred.
The other day I mentioned the Obsession cologne and the Amy Winehouse album I’ve been listening to. I know what’s coming – the missing of things – but what you prepare yourself for mentally you can never prepare yourself for emotionally. Years from now, perhaps when I have money and structure in my life, I’ll look back on all of this and it’ll be one of the things I miss most in my life and it’ll be gone for good.
But right now it’s just an air mattress and a dream.
I’ve been chiseling away at my latest script. It’s still messy and will need another rewrite, but the shape is there, and that’s the hardest part. I find myself trying to limit the amount of times my characters say “fuck”, but then I take a step back, think about who my characters are, and realize they’re saying “fuck” when they need to and when they would and that I have the right amount of “fuck’s”. In fact, I may need more.
I get a call back today from a nice guy named Cosmos. He’s heading the production on an indie short called “The Quickie” that’s shooting up in North Hollywood. He says he’ll put me on as a PA. I tell him I’m waiting to hear back from Equinox.
“No problem.”
Like I said: nice guy. We’ll see how it all works out.
Other than that, nothing else is happening. I’m still freelancing and using the restroom in dirty but familiar places. Maurice is still odd and laconic, but friendly. Today he’s walking around in a calf skirt and Willie Nelson braids – that avant garde, Little House on the Prairie look.
Oh yeah. And I’m still amazed at the horribly unfunny shit Myspace posts on its front page. The latest video is about a girl that’s dating a hammer. It’s entitled “My boyfriend is a tool”.
Hollywood has probably already secured the rights.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
A passage from Tom Perrotta’s Little Children comes to mind:
Memory has a way of distorting the past, of making certain events seem larger and more significant in retrospect than they ever could have been at the time they occurred.
The other day I mentioned the Obsession cologne and the Amy Winehouse album I’ve been listening to. I know what’s coming – the missing of things – but what you prepare yourself for mentally you can never prepare yourself for emotionally. Years from now, perhaps when I have money and structure in my life, I’ll look back on all of this and it’ll be one of the things I miss most in my life and it’ll be gone for good.
But right now it’s just an air mattress and a dream.
I’ve been chiseling away at my latest script. It’s still messy and will need another rewrite, but the shape is there, and that’s the hardest part. I find myself trying to limit the amount of times my characters say “fuck”, but then I take a step back, think about who my characters are, and realize they’re saying “fuck” when they need to and when they would and that I have the right amount of “fuck’s”. In fact, I may need more.
I get a call back today from a nice guy named Cosmos. He’s heading the production on an indie short called “The Quickie” that’s shooting up in North Hollywood. He says he’ll put me on as a PA. I tell him I’m waiting to hear back from Equinox.
“No problem.”
Like I said: nice guy. We’ll see how it all works out.
Other than that, nothing else is happening. I’m still freelancing and using the restroom in dirty but familiar places. Maurice is still odd and laconic, but friendly. Today he’s walking around in a calf skirt and Willie Nelson braids – that avant garde, Little House on the Prairie look.
Oh yeah. And I’m still amazed at the horribly unfunny shit Myspace posts on its front page. The latest video is about a girl that’s dating a hammer. It’s entitled “My boyfriend is a tool”.
Hollywood has probably already secured the rights.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
Thursday, June 14, 2007
June 13 and 14, 2007
Hollywood is a throwback to the insecurity and superficiality of high school. As days pass, I start to wonder if I’m good-looking enough or well-dressed enough or if I have enough money to fit-in. Probably not, considering most of the kids have cars and I’m still riding the bus.
I think about things I’ve never thought about before, like does my shirt match my pants? Do my pants match my shoes? Do my shoes match my belt? Does my belt match my wallet?
Is this a step forward or a step back?
I go to a job interview today at Equinox Fitness in West Hollywood, a top-of-the-line fitness/spa/club/whatever that sells memberships starting at $130 per month. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m being interviewed on my looks. Not my appearance (i.e. am I dressed appropriately?), but my looks. Never mind that I have two college degrees and years of experience in the fitness industry. That doesn’t matter.
What matters is would somebody with money be able to stand the sight of me on a consistent basis? They’re forking over $130 a month for a fucking gym membership. The staff should at least be easy-on-the-eyes, right?
This is my best modeling face.
Do the piggish nose and black-man’s lips count me out?
The bus drops me off on Santa Monica Boulevard and I hike a half-mile to get to La Cienega. No problem, right? There’s always a fucking problem.
And that fucking problem is a giant fucking hill. I must climb it to get to my job interview. In the morning heat. While I’m wearing a heavy backpack, heavy jeans, and a long-sleeved button-up.
I start climbing. Not so bad at first, but the hill gets steeper the higher I go. I feel like the yodeling dude on that one Price Is Right game. Three-fourths of the way up I stop and lean against a telephone pole so I don’t go tumbling down.
Yes, the hill is that fucking bad.
I make it to the interview sweating like a fat chick in sixty-degree weather. I apologize, explain myself, and we begin.
The British guy interviewing me makes it a point to tell me I’m going to be dealing with “wealthy, beautiful” people.
“Actors and models. Britney Spears comes in quite often.”
Basically, in so many words, he says I have to look good and I have to put up with rich people’s shit. I tell him I’m from Fairfax County and have had to put up with rich people’s shit for most of my life. I have no problem being humble and modest and somebody’s bitch. I’m just tired of being cooped up in my fucking room. I could’ve done that at home. For free. And with air conditioning.
All in all, the interview goes well. I think. I’ll know if he thought it went well in seven to ten days.
After the interview, I check my missed calls. One. From UPS. My package – with my air mattress in it – wasn’t dropped off because nobody was around to sign for it. Understandable.
So today I’m around, waiting for it. Doesn’t come. I take a shower. Five minutes max. I leave. On my way out, I see something UPS-ish tucked in with Maurice’s mail. But it can’t be because I’ve been around all morning, right?
Either way, I have to catch the bus so I can’t check. But I check when I get back.
And yes, it’s from UPS. The motherfucker came while I was in the shower.
Fuck you, man. Seriously. I’m home all morning, waiting for you to show up and you come during the FIVE FUCKING MINUTES I’m in the goddamn shower. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking piece of shit.
It’s like that brown-suited motherfucker is stalking me, waiting until I’m not around to pounce and leave one of his little piece-of-shit notes: “Oh, so sorry to have missed you. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime between 7am and 7pm.”
I’d tell him to leave it on the porch, but this isn’t exactly Pleasantville. Last night, walking to 7-11, I saw a team of sloppy-looking Hispanic women stealing from people’s recycling bins.
Literally walking around with garbage bags transferring shit so they could get the nickel off the deposit.
Do you think a package lying on a doorstep would survive for five minutes in this neighborhood? I should send myself a bomb and leave it on the porch.
I might do that.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
I think about things I’ve never thought about before, like does my shirt match my pants? Do my pants match my shoes? Do my shoes match my belt? Does my belt match my wallet?
Is this a step forward or a step back?
I go to a job interview today at Equinox Fitness in West Hollywood, a top-of-the-line fitness/spa/club/whatever that sells memberships starting at $130 per month. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m being interviewed on my looks. Not my appearance (i.e. am I dressed appropriately?), but my looks. Never mind that I have two college degrees and years of experience in the fitness industry. That doesn’t matter.
What matters is would somebody with money be able to stand the sight of me on a consistent basis? They’re forking over $130 a month for a fucking gym membership. The staff should at least be easy-on-the-eyes, right?
This is my best modeling face.
Do the piggish nose and black-man’s lips count me out?
The bus drops me off on Santa Monica Boulevard and I hike a half-mile to get to La Cienega. No problem, right? There’s always a fucking problem.
And that fucking problem is a giant fucking hill. I must climb it to get to my job interview. In the morning heat. While I’m wearing a heavy backpack, heavy jeans, and a long-sleeved button-up.
I start climbing. Not so bad at first, but the hill gets steeper the higher I go. I feel like the yodeling dude on that one Price Is Right game. Three-fourths of the way up I stop and lean against a telephone pole so I don’t go tumbling down.
Yes, the hill is that fucking bad.
I make it to the interview sweating like a fat chick in sixty-degree weather. I apologize, explain myself, and we begin.
The British guy interviewing me makes it a point to tell me I’m going to be dealing with “wealthy, beautiful” people.
“Actors and models. Britney Spears comes in quite often.”
Basically, in so many words, he says I have to look good and I have to put up with rich people’s shit. I tell him I’m from Fairfax County and have had to put up with rich people’s shit for most of my life. I have no problem being humble and modest and somebody’s bitch. I’m just tired of being cooped up in my fucking room. I could’ve done that at home. For free. And with air conditioning.
All in all, the interview goes well. I think. I’ll know if he thought it went well in seven to ten days.
After the interview, I check my missed calls. One. From UPS. My package – with my air mattress in it – wasn’t dropped off because nobody was around to sign for it. Understandable.
So today I’m around, waiting for it. Doesn’t come. I take a shower. Five minutes max. I leave. On my way out, I see something UPS-ish tucked in with Maurice’s mail. But it can’t be because I’ve been around all morning, right?
Either way, I have to catch the bus so I can’t check. But I check when I get back.
And yes, it’s from UPS. The motherfucker came while I was in the shower.
Fuck you, man. Seriously. I’m home all morning, waiting for you to show up and you come during the FIVE FUCKING MINUTES I’m in the goddamn shower. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking piece of shit.
It’s like that brown-suited motherfucker is stalking me, waiting until I’m not around to pounce and leave one of his little piece-of-shit notes: “Oh, so sorry to have missed you. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime between 7am and 7pm.”
I’d tell him to leave it on the porch, but this isn’t exactly Pleasantville. Last night, walking to 7-11, I saw a team of sloppy-looking Hispanic women stealing from people’s recycling bins.
Literally walking around with garbage bags transferring shit so they could get the nickel off the deposit.
Do you think a package lying on a doorstep would survive for five minutes in this neighborhood? I should send myself a bomb and leave it on the porch.
I might do that.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
June 12, 2007
There’s a scuffle on the bus this mafternoon (morning and afternoon, which falls between 11am and 1pm).
Well, almost.
An old black man with long hair the color of cigarette ash gets on the bus with me at Crenshaw. The bus is more crowded than usual, but I find a seat.
He stands. With his ass in the face of a sistah.
“’Scuse me, can you getcho ass out my face?”
“My ass ain’t in your face. Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout?”
“Yo ass is in my face. It stinks like a mothalfuckal, too.”
“Nigga, fuck you.”
That’s right. The old black man called the young black woman “nigga”. From there, as you would expect, the conversation gets louder and harder to understand. I manage to make out a few phrases here and there:
“… crackhead ass…”
“… who you think you is fuckin’ wit?”
“… I wash my cotdamn ass e’ryday…”
“… get a job, mothalfuckal…”
And then, finally:
“You fuckin’ with the wrong nigga.”
This amuses me because everybody’s always fucking with the “wrong nigga”. Does anyone ever fuck with the right nigga?
“You need to wash yo ass.”
“See, you fuckin’ with the right nigga. I will go wash my ass. Thank you for that kind and gracious advice.”
I lift. Go to shower, but somebody’s torn the knob off. So now the shower at the gym is basically the shower in my apartment. There are two more showers – another with a knob torn off and one occupied by a huge black dude. So I sit and wait for my turn to wash my ass.
The huge black dude finishes, pulls the curtain aside.
“You waitin’ for the shower?”
“Yes please.”
Motherfucker gets out. Biggest dick I’ve ever seen, not counting the internet. It looks like a sad cucumber.
I don’t look again. Shower. Catch the bus. Read a couple scripts at Borders. Get a call from the British guy at Equinox, who wants me to come in for a job interview tomorrow at 10am. We’ll see how it goes.
Miss a few more buses, walk many, many miles to get to the Chipotle at the Beverly Center. I pass a homeless man and I wonder where he went wrong in life. War vet or failed creative-type? He smells really fucking bad -- like sweaty vagina covered in old ranch dressing. The stench makes me yearn for the usual piss scent I smell on most bums.
Eat dinner at Chipotle. Order a water and fill it with lemonade. Nobody sees me. Score.
I force one out in the bathroom. An annoyed-looking queer is waiting when I get out. He must be late for his job at Express for Men.
And that’s about it. I would write more and do my whole expounding and elaborating thing but I’m roasting in this motherfucking room right now.
So I’ll get at you guys tomorrow.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
Well, almost.
An old black man with long hair the color of cigarette ash gets on the bus with me at Crenshaw. The bus is more crowded than usual, but I find a seat.
He stands. With his ass in the face of a sistah.
“’Scuse me, can you getcho ass out my face?”
“My ass ain’t in your face. Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout?”
“Yo ass is in my face. It stinks like a mothalfuckal, too.”
“Nigga, fuck you.”
That’s right. The old black man called the young black woman “nigga”. From there, as you would expect, the conversation gets louder and harder to understand. I manage to make out a few phrases here and there:
“… crackhead ass…”
“… who you think you is fuckin’ wit?”
“… I wash my cotdamn ass e’ryday…”
“… get a job, mothalfuckal…”
And then, finally:
“You fuckin’ with the wrong nigga.”
This amuses me because everybody’s always fucking with the “wrong nigga”. Does anyone ever fuck with the right nigga?
“You need to wash yo ass.”
“See, you fuckin’ with the right nigga. I will go wash my ass. Thank you for that kind and gracious advice.”
I lift. Go to shower, but somebody’s torn the knob off. So now the shower at the gym is basically the shower in my apartment. There are two more showers – another with a knob torn off and one occupied by a huge black dude. So I sit and wait for my turn to wash my ass.
The huge black dude finishes, pulls the curtain aside.
“You waitin’ for the shower?”
“Yes please.”
Motherfucker gets out. Biggest dick I’ve ever seen, not counting the internet. It looks like a sad cucumber.
I don’t look again. Shower. Catch the bus. Read a couple scripts at Borders. Get a call from the British guy at Equinox, who wants me to come in for a job interview tomorrow at 10am. We’ll see how it goes.
Miss a few more buses, walk many, many miles to get to the Chipotle at the Beverly Center. I pass a homeless man and I wonder where he went wrong in life. War vet or failed creative-type? He smells really fucking bad -- like sweaty vagina covered in old ranch dressing. The stench makes me yearn for the usual piss scent I smell on most bums.
Eat dinner at Chipotle. Order a water and fill it with lemonade. Nobody sees me. Score.
I force one out in the bathroom. An annoyed-looking queer is waiting when I get out. He must be late for his job at Express for Men.
And that’s about it. I would write more and do my whole expounding and elaborating thing but I’m roasting in this motherfucking room right now.
So I’ll get at you guys tomorrow.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
Monday, June 11, 2007
June 11, 2007
I spend most of the morning writing.
Catch the bus(es) to the gym. A loud black woman who is dressed like Carmen Miranda sits down next to me and starts to tell a woman how easy it is to get a handicapped pass, which means free Metro.
I work out. I don’t want to make another gay comment about the gym, but I have to: it truly is a gay club with weights. Right down to the blaring bubblegum techno.
In the locker room, a young black guy with a generic-underwear model’s body stares at himself in the mirror and makes disgusted faces. A built, balding dude in his forties comes in and gives him a hug and a kiss and says, “It’s been a while. How are you?” The generic-underwear model says, “I’m fat.”
I leave.
Read scripts at the Borders on the corner of Sunset and Vine, which is where I snapped some pictures the other day before my camera died. So here they are:
I eat dinner at McDonalds. A woman who might be a crack fiend is short on change for her two-dollar meal. She asks me for a quarter even though the total is only $2.17. I give her a quarter and she doesn’t give me back the eight cents. I’m too hungry to say anything.
Before I catch the bus back to my neck of the woods, I see Adam Levine, the Maroon 5 guy, speed by in a black Mercedes SUV. He has a shitload of gel in his hair. I think of how he’ll never have to stand on Crenshaw during rush hour and wait for the 305 bus, which may or may not come.
And since it only comes once an hour, I decide I’ve probably already missed it and start to make the mile-trek home.
Only to have it pass me three minutes later.
Fuck.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
Catch the bus(es) to the gym. A loud black woman who is dressed like Carmen Miranda sits down next to me and starts to tell a woman how easy it is to get a handicapped pass, which means free Metro.
I work out. I don’t want to make another gay comment about the gym, but I have to: it truly is a gay club with weights. Right down to the blaring bubblegum techno.
In the locker room, a young black guy with a generic-underwear model’s body stares at himself in the mirror and makes disgusted faces. A built, balding dude in his forties comes in and gives him a hug and a kiss and says, “It’s been a while. How are you?” The generic-underwear model says, “I’m fat.”
I leave.
Read scripts at the Borders on the corner of Sunset and Vine, which is where I snapped some pictures the other day before my camera died. So here they are:
I eat dinner at McDonalds. A woman who might be a crack fiend is short on change for her two-dollar meal. She asks me for a quarter even though the total is only $2.17. I give her a quarter and she doesn’t give me back the eight cents. I’m too hungry to say anything.
Before I catch the bus back to my neck of the woods, I see Adam Levine, the Maroon 5 guy, speed by in a black Mercedes SUV. He has a shitload of gel in his hair. I think of how he’ll never have to stand on Crenshaw during rush hour and wait for the 305 bus, which may or may not come.
And since it only comes once an hour, I decide I’ve probably already missed it and start to make the mile-trek home.
Only to have it pass me three minutes later.
Fuck.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
Sunday, June 10, 2007
June 10, 2007
I sit in the room most of the day and write. Make some good progress. I do laundry. My clothes take two hours to dry because the dryer is old. It makes a screeching noise that sounds like an old woman trying anal for the first time.
Alex gets back from visiting the Scrubs hospital/set in North Hollywood and we go to Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles for dinner.
Alex gets back from visiting the Scrubs hospital/set in North Hollywood and we go to Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles for dinner.
For those of you in the South, it’s basically a black Waffle House. There are neon-red light strips fixed to the ceiling that make me feel like I’m in a skating rink or the Kenny Roger’s Roasters episode of Seinfeld. A bottle of hot sauce on every table. Enough decibels to ruin a thousand movies.
But I like it.
Alex, on the other hand, hates the fucking place. There’s this disgusted look on his face like he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He says it’s the food – which is delicious, by the way – but I think it’s more. And he confirms that later when we leave:
“You’ve made me hit a new low.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I figure I’ll try to use the bathroom to have a complete and unfettered Roscoe’s experience, but it’s just too fucking dirty. Gang scrawling everywhere, toilet paper piled up in the commode. I’m surprised there’s not a bum curled up beneath the sink.
I can’t do it.
We get the check, which is a lot higher than I expect, but I guess that’s what happens when you eat at an LA staple. Oh well. Now I can say I ate at Roscoe’s.
And I can write about it, too. Right, Alex?
Alex comes at me with some bullshit when we’re walking back to the apartment and I tell him the bathroom was too dirty. In a snarky, condescending tone:
“But it would’ve been good for the blog.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why you do a lot of things, right? Because they’re good for the blog.”
I think there might be three reasons why Alex says this:
1. I haven’t given him sufficient masturbation time.
2. He overpaid for chicken and grits.
3. He doesn’t like that I’ve received a lot of positive feedback on this blog.
Granted the blog does make me a little more bold and eager to try new things, I would hardly consider going to Roscoe’s crossing any sort of moral or ethical line. Maybe to him it does, but to me it’s just another part of LA to see and experience. You can’t go to a Roscoe’s in DC or Nashville.
So for that, I say fuck you, Alex. My wanderlust is genuine and not a product of my desire to entertain and inform. And even if it were, would that be so bad? Is recording the daily minutiae of my first LA journey so objectionable and repre-fucking-hensible that you feel the need to be a dick about it?
I’m sorry, I forgot. You have an internship at Sony and held the door for Chris Tucker. You’re a god. You met the president of Screen Gems in the break room. Ooh. Please let me rim you.
Seriously, though. You’re doing a lot of cool shit. Don’t begrudge me my blog. We have to live together for two months and it’s too early to start getting all Real World.
Okay, back to the rest of the day.
Alex walks behind me most of the way back to the apartment. Two cholos speed by and honk and call out, “Hey, white boys!” I’m glad they’re friendly assholes instead of asshole assholes.
I pass the apartment and go up to 7-11. Finally, a bathroom.
Wrong.
My diminutive friend from Bombay says the bathroom is off limits because somebody fucked it up yesterday. “Wet everywhere,” he says.
Goddammit. I still buy a Slurpee.
I go into the corner liquor mart or whatever next door. The old Korean man greets me with a smile, calls me “young man”. I ask him if he has a bathroom and the smile disappears like I just dishonored his entire bloodline.
“No bathroom.”
“You don’t have a bathroom in here?”
“No. We don’t have bathroom.”
Fucking liar. I almost whip out a picture of Kimberly to show him I’m on his side, but leave instead.
I walk back to the apartment two-days pregnant.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 9, 2007
So I’m listening to this fucking Amy Winehouse album every day. And I’m smelling Obsession every day because, in case you forgot, it leaked everywhere. Why does this matter?
Because what’s going to happen is after this trip, for years down the road, whenever I smell Obsession or hear this album I’m going to immediately think of sweating my ass off in this small Los Angeles room. And that’s awesome. That’s a fucking memory.
I come to life this morning and, in a half-slumbering stupor, almost turn over to spoon Alex because I’m out of it and think he’s Kimi. Before I can make a gay situation even gayer, I realize what I’m doing and back as far against the wall as I can.
Alex wants to rent a car for July, which will cost about $900. Like me, he’s getting fed up with all the planning it takes for a simple trip. Unlike me, he has money to spend.
We wait for the bus to come at the corner.
Because what’s going to happen is after this trip, for years down the road, whenever I smell Obsession or hear this album I’m going to immediately think of sweating my ass off in this small Los Angeles room. And that’s awesome. That’s a fucking memory.
I come to life this morning and, in a half-slumbering stupor, almost turn over to spoon Alex because I’m out of it and think he’s Kimi. Before I can make a gay situation even gayer, I realize what I’m doing and back as far against the wall as I can.
Alex wants to rent a car for July, which will cost about $900. Like me, he’s getting fed up with all the planning it takes for a simple trip. Unlike me, he has money to spend.
We wait for the bus to come at the corner.
I should go see if they have an affordable matress, but the bus shows up and we head to the shoe shop on the corner of Fairfax and Rosewood. It’s called Flight Club, or FLC, and there are two stores – one in LA and one in New York.
I see the most expensive pair of sneakers I will probably ever see in my life.
$4,500. Plain white Adidas sneakers. They look nice, but overall unimpressive, right? So why do they cost so much?
Because ten fucking pairs were made.
So here you have this regular, plain-ass pair of sneakers that nobody would give two fucks about, except they’re “limited”. Nevermind that if you were to buy these shoes and wear them, nobody could tell from a $60 pair of all-white Superstars. No.
Does anybody think Adidas only made ten pairs of these shoes because they mainly just suck? So, in essence, shit has been elevated to a rock star price. It’s like paying extra for a namebrand wheelchair that only has one wheel. Only ten were made, so they must be good, right?
Fuck supply and demand.
Alex ends up dropping $180 on a pair of Limited Edition Halloween Nikes. They’re half black, half orange, and have a fucking Mummy face or something near the heel. He says they’ll match his San Francisco Giants hat and the black Lacoste with an orange alligator that he plans to buy.
Meanwhile I’m wearing a two-year-old pair of Adidas with holes in them. I pass a guy on the street who stares at them. I can’t tell if he thinks they’re pieces of shit or if he wants to know how many thousands of dollars he’s going to have to spend to get a pair just like them.
We pass a gated up storefront with a Yes, We're Open sign. I find this ironic and amusing, so I get my photog on:
Alex and I hit up the Beverly Center next. I count at least four packs of faux-hawked Persian dickheads in two-toned J. Lo sunglasses cool-walking like antagonists in a shitty teen comedy: “You losers are too poor to get the girl! We rule the school!”
Some shit like that.
There are lots of hot, vapid-looking chicks, which should come as no surprise. I guess that’s every mall, but they somehow manage to be more vapid-looking in Los Angeles.
Alex and I catch Knocked Up at the Grove. Pretty good movie. Gets kind of fucking sappy at the end. But pretty good.
Afterwards, we wait for a bus. Gray-haired, Jerry Garcia hippies are posted at the corner holding up “Honk if…” anti-war signs. Everybody honks. What does holding up liberal signs in a liberal city in a liberal state accomplish? You know, hold up some fucking dead baby pictures or something. “Honk if women have no right to choose.” “Honk if you support the war!” That way you earn your honks.
On the bus back to the apartment there are three angry-looking rich white chicks in those expensive pull-over shirts that make girls look pregnant. I think they have DUIs. God forbid they ride with the hoi polloi. I want to punch the one with the nosejob and the ice-blue contacts. Is this what Cho Seung felt like?
Stop at 7-11, get a big Big Bite. No urge to… you know.
We get back to the apartment and – fuckmeintheasswithagiantblackcock – the goddamn door to our room is locked. No key. Not even a fucking keyhole. How the hell did this happen? We’re not even sure if Maurice, wherever the fuck he is – probably sacrificing virgins and buying cashew butter – can unlock the door when he returns.
We sit. Wait.
Alex scales the drain pipe on the side of the house but can’t reach the open window. He could make it if he jumps, but he could also miss it.
Alex climbs down from the drain pipe.
We sit. Wait.
Fuck it. I take out an old, Visa gift card and jam it in the door frame, trying to replicate what I’ve seen in so many movies and TV shows. I’m having trouble getting the card in deep, so I pretend the door frame is a vagina and jam and push harder.
And it works. Holy shit.
Maybe I am fit to stand on Crenshaw. I think I’ll buy a pair of shoes to celebrate.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
Friday, June 8, 2007
June 8, 2007
I hit up my boy Hot Carl who lives in Clarksville, Tennessee and tell him about Los Angeles. He’s enthusiastic and asks a lot of questions, which makes me feel like a baller. But not as much of a baller as he is. Fist pound, Carl. Keen Hall for life.
Get to Crenshaw with no problem and call up Crunch Fitness in West Hollywood to follow up on my job application.
“Can you hold?”
“Sure.”
One minute goes by. Two. No music or anything. Just dead silence, except for all the fucking noise on the street. I’m waiting for the Rapid 710 bus that will take me North to Santa Monica Boulevard, but since the bus isn’t so rapid I decide to play a boring game – will the 710 show up before somebody answers or will somebody answer first?
Five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… ele-
“Crunch Fitness. Who are you holding for?”
The 710 loses, but not by much. It shows up a minute after the woman tells me she’ll call me next week to set up an interview, which is probably bullshit.
It’s hard to get a low-level job in a nice part of town. I figure that, if you’re white, places want you to be tan and perfect-looking. Glossy. A fucking Ken doll. Surf’s up, brosephs. If you’re Hispanic, you’re on the cleaning staff. If you’re black, kempt, and not a complete thug then congratulations, the job is probably yours. Not that there’s anything wrong with diversity. Just don’t forget about crackers like me who don’t have cars and walk everywhere and have sore fucking necks, backs, shoulders from lugging around a 25 lb backpacks.
We need low-level jobs, too.
As the 710 pulls up, I see a little dog running around in the middle of street barking at the traffic. People honk, but that only makes it bark louder. Is this a metaphor?
Get to the gym. Lift. Am weak as hell. The sun is draining me, I think. I’m the opposite of Superman, which I’ve always suspected to be true.
Also, why do gay guys lift in jeans? What the fuck is that all about? Is it homage to the construction guy in the Village People? Is it code? I know in some richer areas of Northern Virginia, if you have white rocks in front of your house it means you’re a swinger. Are jeans the gay white rocks? If you wear jeans in the gym are you single and/or a versatile bottom?
Get on a bus that stops infrequently and take it too far. Walk down Western street or avenue or whatever looking for a drug store or somewhere I can buy batteries since I can’t take pictures. And there is not shit around but furniture stores. I count almost twenty. Furniture stores are to Western whatever as liquor stores are to everywhere else in the city
.
I finally find a bodega, but the dude wants $5 for one Ray-O-Vac battery. $5. One battery. Fuck you. I’ll make my own battery.
I walk some more, and come upon a “warehouse” store called Smart and Final, which is basically a ghetto Costco in case you couldn’t tell. I think it’s hilarious that the name of the store straight up tells you that you can’t return shit.
“’Scue me, sir? I bought a milk a jaysterday and it no good. Mal.”
“Fuck you.”
I get some batteries at Radio Shack, and, of course, I get raped on the price, but it’s not nearly as bad as $5-a-battery, so it’s more like date rape than homeless-man-gutter-rape.
I can live with date rape.
Speaking of homeless men, I see one at the bus stop. Here’s a picture of his foot.
Get to Crenshaw with no problem and call up Crunch Fitness in West Hollywood to follow up on my job application.
“Can you hold?”
“Sure.”
One minute goes by. Two. No music or anything. Just dead silence, except for all the fucking noise on the street. I’m waiting for the Rapid 710 bus that will take me North to Santa Monica Boulevard, but since the bus isn’t so rapid I decide to play a boring game – will the 710 show up before somebody answers or will somebody answer first?
Five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… ele-
“Crunch Fitness. Who are you holding for?”
The 710 loses, but not by much. It shows up a minute after the woman tells me she’ll call me next week to set up an interview, which is probably bullshit.
It’s hard to get a low-level job in a nice part of town. I figure that, if you’re white, places want you to be tan and perfect-looking. Glossy. A fucking Ken doll. Surf’s up, brosephs. If you’re Hispanic, you’re on the cleaning staff. If you’re black, kempt, and not a complete thug then congratulations, the job is probably yours. Not that there’s anything wrong with diversity. Just don’t forget about crackers like me who don’t have cars and walk everywhere and have sore fucking necks, backs, shoulders from lugging around a 25 lb backpacks.
We need low-level jobs, too.
As the 710 pulls up, I see a little dog running around in the middle of street barking at the traffic. People honk, but that only makes it bark louder. Is this a metaphor?
Get to the gym. Lift. Am weak as hell. The sun is draining me, I think. I’m the opposite of Superman, which I’ve always suspected to be true.
Also, why do gay guys lift in jeans? What the fuck is that all about? Is it homage to the construction guy in the Village People? Is it code? I know in some richer areas of Northern Virginia, if you have white rocks in front of your house it means you’re a swinger. Are jeans the gay white rocks? If you wear jeans in the gym are you single and/or a versatile bottom?
Get on a bus that stops infrequently and take it too far. Walk down Western street or avenue or whatever looking for a drug store or somewhere I can buy batteries since I can’t take pictures. And there is not shit around but furniture stores. I count almost twenty. Furniture stores are to Western whatever as liquor stores are to everywhere else in the city
.
I finally find a bodega, but the dude wants $5 for one Ray-O-Vac battery. $5. One battery. Fuck you. I’ll make my own battery.
I walk some more, and come upon a “warehouse” store called Smart and Final, which is basically a ghetto Costco in case you couldn’t tell. I think it’s hilarious that the name of the store straight up tells you that you can’t return shit.
“’Scue me, sir? I bought a milk a jaysterday and it no good. Mal.”
“Fuck you.”
I get some batteries at Radio Shack, and, of course, I get raped on the price, but it’s not nearly as bad as $5-a-battery, so it’s more like date rape than homeless-man-gutter-rape.
I can live with date rape.
Speaking of homeless men, I see one at the bus stop. Here’s a picture of his foot.
I feel bad for the guy because he’s OCD and I think that has something to do with his lack of having a home. He has a bent-up, bundled-up coat hanger that he keeps passing around his back like a basketball. He does it three times. Then he passes it around his hand like he’s reeling in a fish. Three times. Repeat.
A cocky Hispanic teen with Gotti-boy hair walks by with a couple of his lackeys. He tags a dumpster.
I think it says Nick Sbius. He’s probably practiced this a lot in school.
I get on the bus and take it to Fairfax because I think the Beverly Center is on Fairfax, but it’s not. It’s on La Cienega. So again I fucked up, but it’s cool because I get some nice pictures on the way.
And now, Carl, Jeremy and whoever else is into hip-hop or sneakers or urban fashions or whatever, prepare yourselves for fucking this. I know Alex can’t wait to blow some of his money on this shit.
This is a sneaker store near the corner of Fairfax and Rosewood. As far as I can tell, it has every color of every “cool” shoe ever made. I don’t see what the big deal is since a lot of the shoes look like a fucking first-grader dumped his paint set on them, but whatever. I know other people are into this shit.
All of the shoes are shrink-wrapped and over $100. Easily. The first shoe I pick up, a Jordan, is marked at $250. In LA, that’s probably per shoe. I pick up another shoe, which looks kind of like a Penny Hardaway from when I was in middle school. That’s $150. I leave and see that the store doesn’t even have a name, which is probably best considering people will call it whatever the hell they want to.
Head down a few more store fronts and see a hat store. Fitted-caps.
Rare hats, I guess. I really can’t believe people will pay out the ass for a fucking hat that has an extra stripe on it or some shit like that, but I guess that’s the world we live in.
I make a right on Beverly and pass restaurants and boutiques and spas. And an alley that’s reminiscent of the “suck my dick” scene in Training Day, even though that alley probably wasn’t near Beverly Hills.
The homeless guys look like they’re enjoying their cat nap. That might be me some day.
I finally get to the Beverly Center and have dinner at Chipotle.
Walk around the Beverly Center. Three stories and upscale as a motherfucker. Lacoste, Gucci, LV, etc.
I walk into Lacoste with my backpack on and the guy at the door looks like he doesn’t want to let me in. He watches me the whole time. I touch a lot of shirts and look over my shoulder a lot to keep him on his toes. Fuck him.
I really want a smoothie or a milkshake or something, but I don’t want to spend over $5 dollars, which means I don’t want a smoothie or a milkshake bad enough.
There’s a deck on the third floor of the Beverly Center with a nice view of the city. Fade out on another semi-productive day.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
Thursday, June 7, 2007
June 7, 2007
Alex has an internship meeting with some music licensing guy who works out of his house, so we leave for the bus around 9:55. We pass a fat Hispanic guy pissing on somebody’s hedge. He looks like one of El Guapo’s henchmen from the Three Amigos. The urine trickles down the sidewalk and Alex steps into the street to go around it. I’m content just stepping over it, but I step into the street, too. Why? I don’t know.
We wait twenty-five minutes for the bus to come.
A Mayan-looking woman sits across from me on the bus with her two children. There’s a thrift store “Thank You” bag on her lap full of used diapers. Her son, who is five, has Power Rangers sneakers. I wonder if they come in a size thirteen.
The bus stops at a red light and a middle-aged Hispanic guy knocks on the door to be let on. But since this isn’t an official stop – two streets down is – our bus driver ignores him and drives off, which is a dick move and does little to further Afro/Hispanic relations.
Quick off-topic moment: I’ve just started this blog and already written “Hispanic” three times. From now on, I’m just going to write HG for “Hispanic guy” and HW for “Hispanic woman”. Not homework. So don’t get confused.
And we’re back.
Alex and I get off the bus and trek uphill for a few blocks to the guy’s house. It’s quaint and he has a friendly dog named Jason. Most dogs with people names seem to be friendly. If Jason were a person he probably would offer me something to eat and the remote control, even though I don’t watch much TV.
I sit on the couch and eavesdrop while Alex is interviewed in the other room. He handles tough questions with grace and answers with little to no hesitation – the exact opposite of how I interview.
We go to In-N-Out for lunch. Yes, fucking again. I save a dollar and don’t get the fries. Alex does it first, though.
Catch a couple buses to Melrose and the Slamdance offices. John, the Slamdance guy, gives me a few short scripts to read for five bucks a piece and we’re on our way.
Disclaimer: please skip to the end right now if you’re bored because the day doesn’t get much more exciting. Just more walking in West Hollywood. In fact, fuck that. I won’t even write. Here’s just a list of the more “exciting” things:
- We see the fat kid with glasses from Accepted, 40-Year-Old Virgin, Grandma’s Boy, and this summer’s Superbad! chilling at the Coffee Bean in West Hollywood. I think his name is Jonah Hill. I met his doppelganger at Sundance/Slamdance this past January; the guy from the Wendy’s “fpoon” commercial.
- We eat affordable New York style pizza.
- I take a picture of an ’06 Aston Martin on sale for the affordable price of 139something.
- My camera dies as soon as we get to Beverly Hills, so we turn around and catch a bus home.
So yeah. Not too exciting.
We go out to the 7-11 up the street around 7:20 and I drop one in the Employees Only bathroom. I worry because the toilet doesn’t have super-suction and the short Indian guy whose name is probably Gurpreet didn’t have to let me use the bathroom. Once the anonymity is removed from a public-restroom-deucing and a connection, no matter how small, is developed, it’s like using the bathroom in a relative or friend’s house: you still feel responsible for clogging the toilet even though it’s not yours and technically not your problem.
But the placement is perfect and I stick the landing.
Tomorrow I’ll get batteries and post today’s pictures.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
We wait twenty-five minutes for the bus to come.
A Mayan-looking woman sits across from me on the bus with her two children. There’s a thrift store “Thank You” bag on her lap full of used diapers. Her son, who is five, has Power Rangers sneakers. I wonder if they come in a size thirteen.
The bus stops at a red light and a middle-aged Hispanic guy knocks on the door to be let on. But since this isn’t an official stop – two streets down is – our bus driver ignores him and drives off, which is a dick move and does little to further Afro/Hispanic relations.
Quick off-topic moment: I’ve just started this blog and already written “Hispanic” three times. From now on, I’m just going to write HG for “Hispanic guy” and HW for “Hispanic woman”. Not homework. So don’t get confused.
And we’re back.
Alex and I get off the bus and trek uphill for a few blocks to the guy’s house. It’s quaint and he has a friendly dog named Jason. Most dogs with people names seem to be friendly. If Jason were a person he probably would offer me something to eat and the remote control, even though I don’t watch much TV.
I sit on the couch and eavesdrop while Alex is interviewed in the other room. He handles tough questions with grace and answers with little to no hesitation – the exact opposite of how I interview.
We go to In-N-Out for lunch. Yes, fucking again. I save a dollar and don’t get the fries. Alex does it first, though.
Catch a couple buses to Melrose and the Slamdance offices. John, the Slamdance guy, gives me a few short scripts to read for five bucks a piece and we’re on our way.
Disclaimer: please skip to the end right now if you’re bored because the day doesn’t get much more exciting. Just more walking in West Hollywood. In fact, fuck that. I won’t even write. Here’s just a list of the more “exciting” things:
- We see the fat kid with glasses from Accepted, 40-Year-Old Virgin, Grandma’s Boy, and this summer’s Superbad! chilling at the Coffee Bean in West Hollywood. I think his name is Jonah Hill. I met his doppelganger at Sundance/Slamdance this past January; the guy from the Wendy’s “fpoon” commercial.
- We eat affordable New York style pizza.
- I take a picture of an ’06 Aston Martin on sale for the affordable price of 139something.
- My camera dies as soon as we get to Beverly Hills, so we turn around and catch a bus home.
So yeah. Not too exciting.
We go out to the 7-11 up the street around 7:20 and I drop one in the Employees Only bathroom. I worry because the toilet doesn’t have super-suction and the short Indian guy whose name is probably Gurpreet didn’t have to let me use the bathroom. Once the anonymity is removed from a public-restroom-deucing and a connection, no matter how small, is developed, it’s like using the bathroom in a relative or friend’s house: you still feel responsible for clogging the toilet even though it’s not yours and technically not your problem.
But the placement is perfect and I stick the landing.
Tomorrow I’ll get batteries and post today’s pictures.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
June 6, 2007
I wake up 24-years-old. Biggie was the man at 24. I’m just another face. Kind of depressing. But at least I don’t have the whole west coast against me. And I’m alive. For now.
Achilles is feeling a lot better. Still a little tender, but the pain is gone for the most part. I finish the rest of my Golden Crisps for breakfast and wish they were Smacks.
Head up to the bus stop the same time I did on Monday. Same amount of traffic. And the motherfucker doesn’t show up. Ten minutes later, a different one does. I ask an old black lady who’s dressed like she’s going to church if this bus goes to Pico and Crenshaw. She says it does, but then changes her mind once I’m on the bus.
“No. Venice and Crenshaw.”
A couple blocks deeper down Crenshaw. I’m not ready for that. I hop off at the next stop and wait another twenty minutes for a different bus. Then ten minutes for another bus that takes me to where I need to be.
Three tranny-looking hoodrats get on and make a lot of noise. Ice Cube’s girlfriend in Friday – the one who keeps calling the house – immediately springs to mind. The youngest hoodrat is thin and has a blond Lil’ Kim weave that reminds me of the daughter’s hair on the Jetsons. Her jeans are down just low enough to show the first inch of ass crack, which is darker tan Flava Flav when he’s not smiling. The oldest hood rat, who looks like a black Popeye, can’t find her phone and demands to be let off the bus. She will not shut the fuck up. The driver lets her off.
In all, it takes an hour to get to a gym that’s less than four miles away.
I have a good workout. Notice a couple of veteran homosexuals with salt-and-pepper hair checking me out. I look away and walk in the opposite direction like most girls do with me.
I decide to take a walk down Melrose and pop-in at Slamdance to say what’s up. Except I don’t see the door with the teeny-tiny Slamdance logo on it and walk about ten blocks too far. Shit. At least I get to see Paramount on the way. Twice.
Most shit in LA is barred up or gated. Both studios I’ve seen so far have tried to minimize the iron by replacing it with shrubbery. But shrubbery still leaves me feeling like a song lyric – lonely and on the outside. At least it makes for a better picture.
I get lucky and grab a bus that takes me to an In……… N-Out by Hollywood High. Notice the Wassup Rockers out front.
For anyone who thinks skating is old, passé, whatever – come to LA. Also, has anybody ever seen that picture of a rooster-haired Nicole Richie runway-modeling goofy punk rocker clothes? Well girls actually wear that shit out here. The douchey “scene” look.
Another bus takes me to the beginning of West Hollywood, which is gayer than Richard Simmons doing cartwheels on a rainbow.
Yes, you will find cock here.
I fill out an application at Crunch Fitness in this plaza.
There’s a young black gay guy with lots of attitude talking to older, model-looking gay guys a few tables over (I’m outside). They all wear tank-tops. The YBGG is complaining about his trip to a Chinese restaurant:
“She sai’, ‘Only one pair chopsticks.’ I sai’, ‘The other pair for my friend.’ She sai’, ‘I don’t see friend. One chopstick.’ I left my muh’fuckin’ food right there on the counter and left. I don’t need that shit, ‘specially with all the MSG they be puttin’ in they food. One chopsticks musta been a MSG from God, knawhatimsayin?”
He forgets to snap his fingers.
I take a couple pictures of the houses in the hills, which are no longer far away.
After this I go to the bathroom.
I’ve never seen a lock like this in a public restroom. It’s like latching a picket fence and then defecating on somebody’s lawn while you stare at the latch.
There’s somebody in the stall next to me with brown moccasins. He’s either dead or reading a very good book. I don’t want him to hear me snapping a picture because he’ll think I’m admiring my “work”. So I synchronize my toilet-flush with my picture-snap.
I’m so clever.
I head deeper into West Hollywood, or WeHo. Add an S to that and it’s a female-sung hook in a rap song. “We hos. We hos.”
The more I see the more I want to dub this the “Entourage area”. Fancy, ritzy, upscale, and all the other synonyms. Every other car I see is a Range Rover. Literally.
Even the sidewalks are nicer. Compare:
I pass a restaurant called Ketchup and wonder if they have mustard.
I stop at Equinox fitness, which is probably the nicest health club I have ever seen. And that’s just the lobby. The desk people have perfect hair and blue eyes. They wear black t-shirts that say “Greet” in small white letters. Does that mean they’re expected to greet or be greeted?
Either way, I say hi first.
I fill out an application, leave. I have a nice view of Los Angeles so I take some pictures.
It feels weird looking down on the city, but I guess that’s what people do when they have money.
Oh yeah. And Alex held the door for Chris Tucker at Sony today.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
Achilles is feeling a lot better. Still a little tender, but the pain is gone for the most part. I finish the rest of my Golden Crisps for breakfast and wish they were Smacks.
Head up to the bus stop the same time I did on Monday. Same amount of traffic. And the motherfucker doesn’t show up. Ten minutes later, a different one does. I ask an old black lady who’s dressed like she’s going to church if this bus goes to Pico and Crenshaw. She says it does, but then changes her mind once I’m on the bus.
“No. Venice and Crenshaw.”
A couple blocks deeper down Crenshaw. I’m not ready for that. I hop off at the next stop and wait another twenty minutes for a different bus. Then ten minutes for another bus that takes me to where I need to be.
Three tranny-looking hoodrats get on and make a lot of noise. Ice Cube’s girlfriend in Friday – the one who keeps calling the house – immediately springs to mind. The youngest hoodrat is thin and has a blond Lil’ Kim weave that reminds me of the daughter’s hair on the Jetsons. Her jeans are down just low enough to show the first inch of ass crack, which is darker tan Flava Flav when he’s not smiling. The oldest hood rat, who looks like a black Popeye, can’t find her phone and demands to be let off the bus. She will not shut the fuck up. The driver lets her off.
In all, it takes an hour to get to a gym that’s less than four miles away.
I have a good workout. Notice a couple of veteran homosexuals with salt-and-pepper hair checking me out. I look away and walk in the opposite direction like most girls do with me.
I decide to take a walk down Melrose and pop-in at Slamdance to say what’s up. Except I don’t see the door with the teeny-tiny Slamdance logo on it and walk about ten blocks too far. Shit. At least I get to see Paramount on the way. Twice.
Most shit in LA is barred up or gated. Both studios I’ve seen so far have tried to minimize the iron by replacing it with shrubbery. But shrubbery still leaves me feeling like a song lyric – lonely and on the outside. At least it makes for a better picture.
I get lucky and grab a bus that takes me to an In……… N-Out by Hollywood High. Notice the Wassup Rockers out front.
For anyone who thinks skating is old, passé, whatever – come to LA. Also, has anybody ever seen that picture of a rooster-haired Nicole Richie runway-modeling goofy punk rocker clothes? Well girls actually wear that shit out here. The douchey “scene” look.
Another bus takes me to the beginning of West Hollywood, which is gayer than Richard Simmons doing cartwheels on a rainbow.
Yes, you will find cock here.I fill out an application at Crunch Fitness in this plaza.
There’s a young black gay guy with lots of attitude talking to older, model-looking gay guys a few tables over (I’m outside). They all wear tank-tops. The YBGG is complaining about his trip to a Chinese restaurant:
“She sai’, ‘Only one pair chopsticks.’ I sai’, ‘The other pair for my friend.’ She sai’, ‘I don’t see friend. One chopstick.’ I left my muh’fuckin’ food right there on the counter and left. I don’t need that shit, ‘specially with all the MSG they be puttin’ in they food. One chopsticks musta been a MSG from God, knawhatimsayin?”
He forgets to snap his fingers.
I take a couple pictures of the houses in the hills, which are no longer far away.
After this I go to the bathroom.
I’ve never seen a lock like this in a public restroom. It’s like latching a picket fence and then defecating on somebody’s lawn while you stare at the latch.
There’s somebody in the stall next to me with brown moccasins. He’s either dead or reading a very good book. I don’t want him to hear me snapping a picture because he’ll think I’m admiring my “work”. So I synchronize my toilet-flush with my picture-snap.
I’m so clever.
I head deeper into West Hollywood, or WeHo. Add an S to that and it’s a female-sung hook in a rap song. “We hos. We hos.”
The more I see the more I want to dub this the “Entourage area”. Fancy, ritzy, upscale, and all the other synonyms. Every other car I see is a Range Rover. Literally.
Even the sidewalks are nicer. Compare:
I pass a restaurant called Ketchup and wonder if they have mustard.
I stop at Equinox fitness, which is probably the nicest health club I have ever seen. And that’s just the lobby. The desk people have perfect hair and blue eyes. They wear black t-shirts that say “Greet” in small white letters. Does that mean they’re expected to greet or be greeted?
Either way, I say hi first.
I fill out an application, leave. I have a nice view of Los Angeles so I take some pictures.
It feels weird looking down on the city, but I guess that’s what people do when they have money.
Oh yeah. And Alex held the door for Chris Tucker at Sony today.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
June 5, 2007
So I think my Achilles might be real fucked up. Of course this happens when I’m in a strange area, know almost no one, and have to WALK FUCKING EVERYWHERE. When I rub it and stretch it it feels like Dennis the Menace is pulling back a slingshot. It feels like that sound Henry Rowengartner’s arm makes in Rookie of the Year.
The sound of a heroin addict’s rubber vein-band.
I spend most of the day in the room surfing the internet and trying to write. I shower and make a mental note to buy a loofah. Being loofahless is a good way to blow through your body wash.
Since my tendon feels a little better, Alex and I head out for my birthday dinner, courtesy of his lovely, beautiful, awesome personality-having mother. You rule, Mrs. Wolff. With an iron fist. You despot, you.
Maybe we’ll see them up close some day.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
The sound of a heroin addict’s rubber vein-band.
I spend most of the day in the room surfing the internet and trying to write. I shower and make a mental note to buy a loofah. Being loofahless is a good way to blow through your body wash.
Since my tendon feels a little better, Alex and I head out for my birthday dinner, courtesy of his lovely, beautiful, awesome personality-having mother. You rule, Mrs. Wolff. With an iron fist. You despot, you.
We hop on a bus that runs up Fairfax. Our (female) bus driver is lithe and the color of a chocolate Snack Pack. She steers with one hand and talks on her cell phone with the other. She has hair like Usher. A white Ford F-950 cuts in front of us at a red light and she just goes off.
“The fuck is you doing? The fuck you think you is? Muthalfuckal.”
The Ls are somewhat silent in “muthalfuckal”. Just a trace of L. Then she flips the guy off and says this into her cell phone:
“… flick this guy off…”
Now if you know me, you know I’m anti-“flick off”. It’s “flip off”, goddammit. Like you’re flipping the bird. The only things you flick are boogers and retarded children. By the way, I saw my first Indian retard last year. Talk about strange. She looked like a regular retard that had been playing in mud AND drinking chocolate milk at the same time. Dark, dark lip area.
We pass Wilshire and Fairfax. Where Biggie was shot. I try to figure out which corner it all went down at. Alex tells me to just savor them all.
I do.
The bus lets us off at the Grove.
The Grove is basically an outlet mall without outlets. Withoutlets. A pro-LA tourism commercial is being filmed with an obscenely attractive light-skinned black couple – the kind of black people you only see in R&B videos. I ask some lady with a walkie-talkie what’s going on and she says, “Not any celebrities.” Oh, well don’t I just look like the star-fellating type.
We pass an Abercrombie and Fitch and there’s a shirtless model standing in the front of the store next to his big, shirtless picture. A girl walks out and he’s on the bag. It looks like you could fry an egg on his head and he’d just ask for a plate.
Alex and I have dinner at a place called the Wood Ranch, which is what Alex says is like an upscale Logan’s. And it is. Our waiter is wearing those black, box-framed, “I swear I’m creative” glasses that are somehow still in. He’s laconic and efficient – an assassin if ever there was one.
I have a brain fart when I’m looking at the menu and say this:
“Are the mannish in Spanish?”
A “what?” look from Alex. Our steak comes and my dick moves. Perfectly cooked, seasoned. Not the Outback shit I’m used to. And I think this is a chain restaurant, too. Not bad at all.
I don’t really have to use the bathroom, but this place is clean and I figure it can only get worse from here. So let’s go.
This is the best public bathroom I have ever had the pleasure of shitting in. Unlocked, no graffiti. Large. So large. It’s like shitting in a celebrity’s walk-in closet. And look at that toilet paper. Two-ply. I think those are shamrocks, too. Fucking shamrocks. This deuce trip could only have been better if it happened on Saint Patrick’s Day.
We finish dinner and dip.
Barely miss the bus we need to catch. Alex gives me friendly shit for being a gimp. We hop on something that looks like a hotel shuttle. There are two other people on it. The bus driver is a nice lady and points to the Rolls Royce in front of us when we stop at a light.
“Wish someone would drive me around for a change,” she says.
Alex says he’d be glad to. All of us stare at the Rolls and make half-hearted jokes to cope with the fact that we’ll probably never ride in one of them.
Alex and I get off near the Beverly Center and walk down a block to catch the next bus. There’s a middle-aged, decent-looking Hispanic lady with a very banging body who waits with us. She has cleavage like an ass.
I snap a picture of the hills in the distance.
Maybe we’ll see them up close some day.
Shit List:
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
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