June 3, 2007

So Alex and I have shared a futon mattress two nights in a row. I’m starting to get used to his smell. I have no doubt that it will soon grow to replace the endearing scent of my girlfriend’s drool on a pillow, thereby unofficially terminating our relationship.

Maurice also probably thinks we’re gay, but as long as we’re alive I’m okay with that.
It’s been three days since I last jerked off and I’m starting to feel like Elaine, not George. Creativity is running low. Can’t think. Must. Blow. My. Load.

Alex and I catch a bus on Cochran and head west towards Culver City. And...

Yes, finally! But how was it? Not bad. The fries looked and tasted like those fake fries that come with play food, but the burgers definitely elicited Samuel L. Jackson’s “Mmm! That is a tasty burger!” response. In my head. The line was long though. Women’s restroom long. All in all it was more like In…………… N Out Burger.

Next, Culver City.

We hit up Sony Pictures. I notice that all security guards are black in Los Angeles. If you’re tall, fat, and black you’re probably a bodyguard. I ask a guard how he got his job.

“My friend.”

The world in a nutshell.

This was taken by the curb outside of Sony Pictures. Insert obvious fired screenwriter/executive joke here.

There’s a middle-aged leather-skinned woman crying on the bus to Venice Beach. I don’t know if it’s because she’s just found out she has melanoma or if she’s going to have to finance a hood memorial for her recently slain son. I look at a skater couple instead. The guy is straight out of the movie Wassup Rockers and the girl looks like she gives head for facial piercings. I wonder if she can kick flip.

And then we’re at Venice Beach. An older black guy – one of the loud, cool ones that everyone always laughs at because he’s loud and cool – calls me out on my Gold’s Gym t-shirt.
“You need to stop lifting weights man. You huge. I’d rather slide down a razorblade into a pool of alcohol than fight you.”

Would that alcohol happen to be Schlitz?

The boardwalk is a carnival of hippies and Rob Zombie look-alikes. If you do drugs, were in a war, or can make a funny shape with your tongue, then you’re down here trying to get paid. Lots of tattoo and piercing parlors and airbrush artists, which means you can get Hepatitis and then buy a t-shirt with a hot pink dolphin on it.


I see a fat woman with tits that look like they start on her belly. I see punk rockers with edgy haircuts that shock old people. I see Amber alerts waiting to happen. Seriously. If you want to nab a kid, go to Venice Beach, although I don’t know how much a small Hispanic child will fetch you in ransom. Maybe a pair of Dickies and a few coupons to Pollo Campero.

We walk the entire boardwalk. And then some. Eventually we find Gold’s Venice, the Mecca of bodybuilding.

This sign is a perfect example of the meathead mentality. You could be homeless, diseased, and have a gaping wound in your chest, but as long as that wound doesn’t make your pecs look small then you’re fucking set.

I use my travel pass to go in and dick around.


This is probably the messiest gym I have ever been to. At the Gold’s back home, most of my work consists of indulging the owner’s OCD (not you, Greg. And Doug, you fucking rule) and making sure every piece of equipment has an equal amount of weight plates, which have to face the inside. This place is like a fucking freshmen dorm.

I see a giant, sixty-something bodybuilder who will soon be frittering away his social security on juice and more barbed wire-looking tattoos. He has bulging roid-eyes and zero percent bodyfat. I think the ‘92 Camry I saw in the parking lot is his.

But it’s the size of the arm that counts.

Alex stands with his arms folded and looks uncomfortable while I grab a few light sets. He’s never lifted weights before and he’s the only person in the gym wearing a backwards fitted-cap that matches his Pacific Sun skater outfit.

We head back to Culver City and stop at the only American strip mall I’ve seen thus far. It reminds us of home.

We roll up in a Best Buy so I can shit. There is no lock on the bathroom door, but it’s clean.

There’s more scrawling on the toilet. Hector rules or something. I feel a sense of accomplishment when I go to wipe and nothing’s there. Ghost wipe, for the win.

Alex and I hit up Panda Express for dinner and it makes me miss the Asian I’m not eating: Kimberly.

We ride the bus home.

PS -- For fun (and a possible germ record), I’m going to be “keeping score” of where I shit.

Here’s the list so far:

June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City