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.”
“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.
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.
“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.
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