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.
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)