Sunday, June 10, 2007

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.

Hispanic yard sale
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.

Not fucking worth it in any way
El mismo
$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:

'You open?'
I think this is a really good picture
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

1 comment:

Lauren said...

something about you jamming a card into a door...gets me kinda hot. Be careful out there, Dimples.