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

No comments: