Back in L.A.

Turns out the basement of Pink Dot is a covert hybrid dragon couch spawning center. Apparently, the idea was to breed a creature that could be summoned to the houses of Pink Dot customers who were in need of an immediate sitting apparatus, an extension of the Pink Dot brand, the ultimate in convenience. However, the project is currently in the preliminary experimental stages, and the results are still unpredictable. It so happened that Gingerbread, the first full-grown dragon couch to spawn, had a taste for computers, and when I ventured down below one crisp California even, Gingerbread caught me by surprise and ate my bookbag. Luckily, I had the nerve and wherewithal to eviscerate the scaly bastard’s body cavity and retrieve the bookbag before his caustic stomach juices ate away at all my jpegs. Anyways, I my computer has been drying on the windowsill of my studio for the last several days, thus the lack of posting.

MONDAY

After completing an internet log post, I skulked back to the studio, physically weakened from all the words I had recently excreted. I Barely managed the strength required to scale the craggy precipice that is my staircase, and dove headlong into the soft swamp of my bed. After sinking down into the murky deeps therein for a few hours, I resurfaced and awoke, refreshed and decked in bog scum. I rinsed off in the shower and proceeded to delight in some premium distilled beverages. It was about this time that Oscar phoned me and informed me of an informal soiree that would be going down at his place that evening. We made arrangements for Ralphie to come scoop me up in the coupe, and before long he had arrived. I met Edwin, Ralphie and Oscar’s mutual friend, and we headed to Oscar’s place. The drive was nice; Ralphie had just got his permit and was doing a fine if not tentative job of transporting Edwin and I. After about a twenty-minute drive, we met up with Oscar and proceeded directly to the grocery store a couple blocks away for supplies. We secured two 18-packs of Miller Light, and headed back, prepared to pound (pound being the exclusive term used to describe drinking alcohol in their circle). We arrived back to Oscar’s one-room apartment, which was sparsely furnished (only egg crates filled with blues and punk records, a stack of books, and a shelf full of DVDs, with walls spackled with classic media posters), and began pounding. Oscar DJed for the night, providing a soundtrack of hypermellow delta blues and upbeat anarchopunk for our capers. At first we just sat around and cold kicked it live, shooting the breeze and the moon intermittently. I learned quickly that Edwin’s nickname was Pac-Man, and throughout the night he was given shit for his haircut, which was dangerously close to a flattop. We pounded, played some Mike Tyson’s Punch Out and Tetris on a vintage NES system, and I taught them how to play Circle of Death, a drinking game. Around 2 a.m. me and Pac-Man fell asleep on the floor. I woke up around 4 a.m. to the sound of Ralphie and Oscar returning from buying yet more beer at the store, and discussed the nature of relationships and the general state of things with Oscar, which was nice. This brand of conversation seems pretty inevitable after a night of heavy imbibing, and even though I know the profundity isn’t as real when cultivated with alcoholic real, it is still very enjoyable to connect so deeply with someone without the fetters of reticent sobriety. I fell asleep once again, which was made difficult by the sleep thrashings of the utterly plastered Pac-Man (who Oscar dubbed “Eric Flattop,” as in Eric Clapton). Also, at one point in the night Pac-Man sneezed like, I shit you not, 30 times in a row. It was nuts, but I treasure nights like these because of the intensity of it all; the uncomfortable floor, groggy sleep-crusted mornings, friendly ribbing and drunken revelry. Also it was the first time I spent the night at somewhere other than my studio, which seems noteworthy.

TUESDAY

We woke up early, at 8 a.m., to get Pac-Man to court, which he had to go to due to a jaywalking charge he had caught a few months back. I got home around 9:30 and had to immediately make my sludgy saunter to the bus stop in order to get to the CityBeat on time. It was uneventful; I did calendar listings all the livelong day and zoomed home on the bus without incident. The remainder of the day was spent lolling and lazing on the bed, watching episodes of Kids in the Hall; I have all the seasons on my computer. I find Kids in the Hall to be excellent every time I go back through and watch the episodes; it’s timeless sketch comedy with tinges of both dramatic intensity and absurdist attunement. Kevin McDonald’s physical comedy and Scott Thompson’s dramatic chops have stood out to me recently, but the entire cast is fantastic and the humor still rings true for me today, even though it is nearly a score old. It’s original, idiosyncratic, and is to yr eyes as Salisbury steak is to yr stomach. Well, at least to my stomach.

WEDNESDAY

Another day stoking the inferno of inflection, the conflagration of consonants, the pyre of prose, the fire of free-form journalism that is the CityBeat. I did a couple more record reviews, still the little 125-word nuggets of noise interpretation, and used the rest of my time there to feverishly compile and arrange a database of book reading listings for the calendar.

THURSDAY, FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY

Working at both Doughboy’s (Noon-4) and Pink Dot (6-2). Each day, it went down a little something like this:

Awake at 10:30 a.m. Stretch and yawn for exactly 17 seconds. Whip up some instant coffee and clumsily cull all the necessary artifacts for the day (laptop, notebooks, pens and pencils, magic beans, sodas, hoodie for the cool night, a lock of David Hasselhoff’s hair). Skip furiously to the bus stop, pirouetting intermittently. Attempt to stand up straight. Give up on standing up straight. Look for some shade to stand in. Climb aboard the bus, further my training in the art of standing and walking down the center aisle without using the rails to keep balance. Nearly break my face after a jerky stop/start on the part of the busdriver. Curse under my breath and attempt to save face. Consider reading a book on the way, put it off in favor of gazing with unfocused eyes out the window at the seemingly endless thicket of concrete, plastic, neon and metal. Drag my heels to Doughboy’s. Arrive about noon. Get behind the counter, proceed to lean as often as possible, as hard as possible. Manage to feign friendliness with tips in mind. Eat a free sandwich while pondering how far I could throw an anvil. Complete all register counting and tip divvying. Smoke a square with Kenz and Tyler. Make my way to the bus stop at Wilshire & La Brea about 4:30. Catch the bus up to Sunset. Possibly encounter Ralphie, who rides the same bus to get to work. Do the Mississippi shake, and to hell with the consequences. Arrive at Pink Dot about 5:15. Shoot the shit with Oscar, who is usually working behind the counter and who usually gets off at 6, until my shift starts. Crawl into my cerulean crevice. Glare menacingly at the phone until it rings. Work extremely efficiently, not because I care, but because I want the phone call to be over. Exchange mundane stories, niceties and platitudes with my fellow operators. Discuss interesting things with Ralph or Aaron or Dulani from time to time. Grin broadly and chuckle at the antics of Pedro. Observe the hyperhomophobic comedic stylings of my coworkers. Laugh politely. Attempt to keep my head above the sea of testosterone in which pink dot is inundated. Assent to my heterosexuality from time to time. Whittle some writing or drawing or missives to help disintegrate the suffocatingly thick pile of time. Stare. Stare. Push the bags of garbage and broken-down corrugated cardboard containers out to the dumpsters. Attempt to see how far I can accurately throw a full garbage bag. Accept my shortcomings as a trash tosser. Roll gleefully on the garbage cart back down the slight incline from the dumpsters to the side door of Pink Dot. About 2:30, Bid my farewells and begin an R. Crumb-like walk down the steep hill that is the stretch of down La Cienega between Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard. Possibly engage in conversation with fellow busfolk. Attempt to stay awake on the bus so I don’t miss my stop. Curse MTA for making the windows so damned comfortable. Get off at Vermont & Santa Monica about 3:15. Allow my eyes to gloss in quiet fluorescence of witching hour Los Angeles. Climb aboard the bus for the fourth time, scope the articulated corridor out for a pair of empty seats in which to stretch my spindly legs. Yank the international schoolbus chrome-colored cord after we pass 27^th street, sleepily thank the bus driver and hop down to the stoic pavement. Lumber home. Or, alternatively, due to the sleep deprivation delirium, fall into a dance fugue a la Christopher Walken in the Weapon of Choice video. This has actually happened; the streets of L.A. at 3:45 a.m. are a surprisingly good dance floor, with minimal spectators to impede yr physical expression of self. Consider taking the laptop out of my bag to watch a show before bed. Opt for going straight to bed. Wake up 6 hours later and repeat.

For all of you keeping score at home (this means you, Eugene), that’s about 50 hours of on-the-clock work in 4 days, or about 70 in 6 if you count CityBeat. But although it is exhausting just due to the sheer time consumed (as opposed to being exhausting due to being physically taxing, which it is not), it is also kind of nice to be working so much: I’m replenishing my savings account, making the most of my time, and having some memorable and wacky life experiences along the way. Add to that the fact that it will all be over in a couple weeks, and it is plenty bearable.

MONDAY

But it becomes less bearable when you have no days off; I spent the hours between 1 and 4 putting the finishing touches on some correspondence, and then was prepared to spend the rest of the day splattered on equal parts couch and carpet, allowing my eyes to bask in the VHS-rip glory of Kids in the Hall. But, no sooner had I begun to get buck naked and settle in for the day did Bora call and ask if I wanted to pick the 6 to 2 shift for the night. Perpetually unable to turn down extra work, what with the prospect of overtime and general dearth of funds, I acquiesced, and slithered out to the bus stop for some bonus Pink Dottery. The night ground by like so many noses against millstones, and without incident, per usual. I went home and directly to sleep, soul slightly cramped from living in a cubicle, but pleased just the same at the prospect of extra dough.

TUESDAY

I managed to lug myself to Citybeat during ante meridian time, and spent the entirety of my workday continuing my databaserry, this time compiling comedy and cabaret calendar listings for Josh Sindell, the copy editor and reigning calendar guru what with Alfred absent. I had to dip out early, around 3:45, to venture off to Doughboy’s, at which I was scheduled to work 4 to midnight. Doughboy’s usually is only open from 7 to 4, but since it is directly adjacent, and actually connected, to the El Rey Theatre, Doughboy’s is open on nights when concerts are being held, with a small menu, consisting mostly of deep fried goods and simple sandwiches. For this shift it was me all by my lonesome as far as Front-of-House staff goes, with one cook and one dishwasher. We were pretty dead for the first half of the night, and got a little rush around 8. The work was easy enough, and I ended up making $20 in tips in addition to my regular minimum wage. I met an interesting person, a girl who works at the original Doughboy’s location on Highland, whose name, unfortunately, escapes me. I joined her outside for a Natural American Spirit Light, cigarettes ever being the conversational conduit, and we exchanged basic life information (school situation, plans in life, etc.). I learned that she is a sculptor who works a lot with film and actor media; she did a particularly interest-piquing project on the dichotomy between the Front-of-House and Back-of-House staff at the Doughboy’s where she works: She took pictures of all the employees and had them write down their wages and life dream/aspiration in their native language. She said the contrast was striking; most of the FoH staff were white people with aspirations of creating art, whereas the BoH staff where primarily of color and she noted that one of them cited their greatest dream in life to be getting their papers; becoming a legal U.S. citizen. Definitely some thought-provoking stuff; I feel like I meet someone new and interesting all the time around these parts.

WEDNESDAY

Since I was obligated only to work the monkeysuit shift at Citybeat, Wednesday was my closest thing to a day off for the past/coming week. Having sipped copiously from the big dipper the night before, I found myself chipper and energized with the power of starjuice in the morning and prepared to take the bull of the day by the testes, which is far more effective than all that horns nonsense, I feel. I started out the day by assisting Rebecca in completing the 7 Days section of the CityBeat, a calendar magnification where we pick one event occurring during each of the seven reading days of the publication and write about 100 words describing it. I did the last two days and also wrote the deks for all seven days, which are like little mini-headlines. After completing this Rebecca invited me outside for a Marlboro Medium, and we jawed for a spell. Rebecca complimented me on my writing ability, which I appreciated. She then reiterated the point, stressing that she was not just paying me lip service. This meant the world to me; as a person my only creative outlet is the twisting of words, primarily in a written manner. To receive a sincere compliment from an individual seasoned in the art is about the highest praise I can hope to receive, and it really does wonders for the morale and general mindset to receive encouragement of that nature. Rebecca then gave me some useful constructive criticism, saying that although I am a fine writer, I lack the self-starting requisite for successful journalism. I agreed, and explained as best I could, and trying not to sound like I was making excuses, my work situation and commute situation and how the lack of free/down time has made me relatively unmotivated/unable to actually get out and do the reportage required. We pondered this for awhile, and then Rebecca came up with what I think is a stupendous idea: a story called “A Week on the Bus.” It should be a breeze to write, and I feel like I can make it a pretty compelling human interest story. The reality in this story is just as good, and probably better, than any fiction I could conjure up, so I’m really excited about crafting it. I’ll make a post when it runs. I spent the rest of the day at CityBeat writing a 250-word review of Eef Barzelay’s latest album, which I found to be great. I returned to the house pretty burnt out, and, after eating some tunafish out of the can with a spoon, proceeded to fall asleep from 5-9. I awoke in a daze, and spent some time tidying the apartment. I fell asleep with the comforting Canadian cooing of the Kids in the Hall.

THURSDAY

Thursday was partial Day Off Part Deux: Eclectic Boogaloo, on account of I did not have to work at Doughboy’s for the late lunch shift. I took advantage of this insofar as I got copious sleep, but at the same time I obtained the valuable Zs at the neglect of my laundry, which desperately needs doing. I took a bath for the first time in years, which was pretty enjoyable, and which, kept in mind as the ocean-chilled breeze washed over me on the sidewalks, made me want even more to go to the beach. I left the house early in search of a Wachovia in which to deposit my Pink Dot check so I could take care of some outstanding bills, outstanding in the sense that they are really top-shelf, A-number-one, primo bills. Probably some of the best. Anyways, that was an utter failure, and after some half hour of urban layman peripateticism, I decided to cut my losses in favor of getting to work on time, which I did. I called the Wachovia number and found out that there is a branch not to far from CityBeat, so I suppose I’ll be making my way to that merry bunch of moneymasters in the near future. Even though the bank search was a flop, I had a novel moment during the time therein: In the process of exploring the unfamiliar streets down Wilshire past La Brea during the early afternoon hours (during which I am rarely out and about these days), I was struck with the feeling of refreshed immersion in the wild city; I was back in L.A. I guess there’s something about spending all of one’s time engaged in work indoors that can serve as a means of disconnecting one from their environs; it seems intuitive because you aren’t so much living in the city, per se, as you are living in a few units of business and transportation therein.

shameless self-indulgence

Here are some links to stories I have written that have made it to print in the CityBeat:

7 Days (last three entries are written by me, even though the last is attributed incorrectly to RG; some editing by Ron Garmon).

Blacklist Union album review (it may seem harsh, but if you listen to the album you will feel like I went too easy on them).

Gravy Train!!!!/Bridez show preview. (The most fun I've ever had writing a "news" story.)

-DS

I like to look at doors.

Quartacular Post Extraordinaire

THURSDAY

Today was my first day of work at Doughboy’s, which is to a breakfast nook as a standard diner is to a kitchen table.

Although I applied for the server position, I was trained as a cashier by Tyler, a bespectacled man in his mid-twenties with a mildly cynical sense of humor and an impressive ability to quell said sense and cultivate an approachable, friendly veneer when interacting with the clientele, which he explained to me subtly as a method to increase tips.

This seems perfectly intuitive to me and reminds me of a moment I had on the phone at Pink Dot: a customer called to check on the status of her order; I informed her it had left approximately half an hour ago and would be arriving in 10-15 minutes; she inquired about the status further, making clear her dissatisfaction with the wait she was martyrly (adverb form of martyr?) enduring and asking me to call the driver and ensure her order arrived expeditiously; I, being somewhat exhausted and prone to irritability, curtly reiterated the point that it should be there in 10-15 minutes, then, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to append the reiteration with the statement “honestly, it won’t make any difference” (I refrained from calling her ‘lady,’ thankfully), and she responded “well! Aren’t you the fine PR man. It makes a difference in temperament,” and hung up. Despite my desire to feel content with my assertion of pragmatism, I could not help but concede the point to her. It’s an issue of psychology, I think: something will desirable will be brought to you in fifteen minutes; if you are in a state of distracted happiness the time will pass quickly and enjoyably, but if you are perturbed it will likely be a more strenuous and unenjoyable wait.

I just had the chilling realization that this entire digression was a verbose attempt to rationalize the cliché “time flies when yr having fun.” [shudder]

Anyways, I quickly acclimated myself to the vocation, learning the side work to be done, proper order taking and checkout protocol, closing operations and the general flow of the operation. The tips of the waiter and cashier are split up, and they kindly divided the tips three ways instead of two (in my experience in food service, the new staff usually gets free food but no tips), so I was able to subject my left asscheek to the curmudgeony ravings of Andrew Jackson for a day or so.

Also, I meant to mention the crew other than Tyler: there was Jeff, the server, who is a big sports fan and a journalist like myself, who actually worked for FSN’s The Best Damn Sports Show, Period putting together highlight “reels,” although it is all digital now so that is kind of a misnomer. He explained to me how he enjoyed sports but wanted to do something more creative than mere highlight editing with his talents. I asked him if he like Friday Night Lights and the NFL Films series; he said he did, and we agreed the soundtrack, voiceovers, and camera filters/super slo-mo worked in concert to manifest an epic piece of cinematography that was immensely enjoyable to consume.

There was Willie, the head line cook, who Kenz, the manager, explained to me was an extremely proficient cook, to the point of virtuosity. My lasting impression of Willie was his uncanny ability to catch flies in the air, then slam them on the ground and kill them (an impressively effective way of fly extermination that doesn’t involve all the muss of fly guts on one’s hands).

Kenz, whose name I thought was ‘Candace,’ until she wrote down her contact information for me, is a 30-something woman with a very compelling personality; she is personable, amiable, sincere, confident, but not condescending or pretentious. As if it were mundane conversation fare, she explained to me how the mother of her relative’s dying wish was to see her daughter married, so the entire family got together to organize an entire wedding in only two days (the pictures of which she showed me on her iphone). The whole event went off without incident, and she, without being sentimental or malingering or dramatic, explained how the all in attendance of the wedding broke into tears (she made a point of mentioning that all the men were included) when the mother, who the doctors said had four days or less to live, arrived in her wheelchair to the ceremony. It was touching, and what was really mind-blowing was how she told the story without being overbearing or fishing for sympathy or compliments. More on her below.

After doughing it up I scoped out a nearby thrift store for cool-kid clothes or ebay-able records, of which I found neither. I’ve engaged in this activity a number of times, and one trend I find to be very prevalent is the thrift store glut of Barbara Streisand records, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass records, showtunes records, and Christmas albums. Correct me if I am wrong, but I am pretty sure Herb Alpert is the best-selling instrumental artist of all time.

I caught the bus using a hand-tied professor wet fly lure and ten-ton test line, and simmered it in a honey-butter-walnut sauce and topped it with lemon zest and a dash of cinnamon. It tasted exquisite.

Pink Dot was as expected: I answered phones and did my best to keep in mind the fact that the clients are not my personal enemies attempting to enrage me with vapid questions and painfully slow drawls of orders, taking secret delight in my frustration. The exercise was satisfactorily successful.

Thursday was the last night I was subjected to the excruciating conversation of Kenny on the ride home, the reason for which I will explain below.

FRIDAY

Friday I went to the mailing center in the university shopping center to ship a pair of adidas track shoes which I had found in a dumpster, taken pictures of, and sold on ebay for $1+$5 shipping. Much to my chagrin, it ended up costing $14 to ship the sprint-prone soles, so I actually lost $8 on the whole affair.

Or so I thought. As I exited the mailing center, I happened upon a pair of Grey Air Jordans, size 13 (my size) on the sidewalk.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (this has to be one of the most confounding idioms I am aware of), I chucked them in my bike basket and pedaled home gleefully, rationalizing my ebay debacle in combination with the free shoes as simply having spent $8 on a pair of Air Jordans, which, incidentally, I find to be dope as fuck, and guilt-free as far as the materialistic woes of hipsterdom, since I found them free.

Relatedly, I have been living as a pious freegan of late. I’d say 85% of the meals I have eaten in the last fortnight have been either free Doughboy’s or free Pink Dot deli returns, some of which I save for later meals.

I did my Pink Dot shift from 4 p.m. to 3 a.m., then floated aimlessly around the PD premises, like so many abandoned tub rubber duckies, until all the drivers had completed their deliveries, so I could get a ride home from Little Freddy, who was on manager duty that night. After he locked up, Freddy, along with the drivers Marco, Enrique and Geronimo, as well as the other operator Ron, and me, headed out to the alley to indulge in some Coronas. Ron and I discussed the annoyances of CRV pricing (which is a sticker price that includes the deduction of the money would receive if you were to turn in the product’s containers to a recycling center), the absurdity of the domestic system of measure, and other things that an Israeli-American wrestling fanatic and a North-Carolinian-American writing fanatic discuss. At various times I translated to Ron what the other Hispanic men were discussing, and they noticed and took some delight at my slightly rudimentary explanations.

Freddylove took me home, and our spines vibrated to the dizzying basslines of his G-Funk as interpreted by his two 12-inch Sony X-plod subwoofers in the cool air of Sunset Boulevard during the witching hour. Home, eat, sleep.

SATURDAY

Today was the most interesting day I have had in a while, and possibly the most interesting day I have experienced so far in Los Angeles. At 11 a.m. I began my day with a tall can of Vitamin Water Energy which I deftly thefted from CityBeat. Actually, there was case upon case of free samples in the offices, so it was just free, and I figured I could use it to proffer some layman political analysis. Occasionally I fancy myself a bandit pundit. The purpose of this bubbly elixir was to offset the exhaustion earned during the previous night’s abbreviated sleep session. I fumbled, bleary-eyed, toward the bus stop and sprinted awkwardly—truck-turgid satchel jangling wildly, hat prone to windborne escapism, flyly untied Air Jordans not conducive to running—to catch the rapid. I arrived to work still lightly sleep-dusted: eyes gunk-caked, muscles whining, head filled with cottony pressure, digestion moratorium still in effect due to the coronas imbibed with the Inglewood Vatos the night before, neck stiff and rubbery. Some of said vatos are pictured here (Freddylove sitting, Steve-o is the white man, and Oscar is on the right, Ralphie jumped out of the way right as I took the photo):

Much to my delight, Doughboy’s was a ghosttown (at least between noon and 4 p.m., which was my shift), which meant no tips and quality conversation with Kenz, the manager; this was a tradeoff I was glad to make. The olivine Kenz was joined by her husband, Matthew, for lunch on the sidewalk under the awning (I want to call it a ‘patio’ but I feel that might be inaccurate, it is just a sidewalkfront dining area), and Kenz invited me to join them. Matthew rides dirtbikes competitively and is involved with film production; I loved encountering a person with such a unique combination of interests.

As they ate, Matthew recounted a story he had encountered concerning “Sun-Eaters” (which I commented would make for an excellent band name). These people, who, from what I could tell from Matthew’s explanation, are in no way religiously oriented, consume only liquids (milk, cocoa, broth, water, juice), and claim to derive the necessary energy for living from The Sun’s rays. A study conducted by a team of Japanese scientists reported that these individuals were in fine health, aside from some extreme stomach shrinkage. After Matthew left, Kenz and I remained outside and discussed how she considers herself a “weirdo-magnet.” This was meant to describe how the homeless man Carlos, an alcoholic Hispanic gentleman who lives at the bus stop directly adjacent to Doughboy’s; Matthew, a phenomenally kind-hearted (he once asked for change for a dollar to do his laundry, and when Kenz said she was out of quarters, he returned half an hour later with thirty dollars worth of quarters, which he had gotten from three local businesses) man with a slightly childlike mindset who had recently become homeless; and a laundry list of other caricature-like inhabitants of Hollyweird who have attempted to befriend Kenz or engage her in some other mode of human interaction. This makes sense once you encounter Kenz; as described above, she is essentially a no-nonsense woman with a strong character and an uncanny sense of empathy. She’s not at all elitist, pretentious, nor condescending, despite (or perhaps because of) her extensive education and experience in positions of power (she used to work as a design consultant for an architecture firm before her job at Doughboy’s).

During this very conversation, a woman walked up to us from the sidewalk, and commented that it was too hot to be smoking (which Kenz was, and which it probably was). The manner in which she so calmly and immediately engaged Kenz in conversation made me think that they possibly knew each other, so I politely smiled as the woman began her meandering tirade. She first talked about how she once did some beat/slam poetry on second hand smoke (which consisted of fairly elementary masculine end rhymes [smoke/choke/joke, etc]), then digressed into her jewelry, hugging men with space issues, her vocational experience, and more. She left after 10 or 15 minutes to catch the bus.

I asked Kenz if she knew the woman, and she said no, and indicated that this woman was simply a case in point of her weirdo magneticism. After that I mentioned to Kenz how, although it was a little awkward and uncomfortable, I thought it was kind of beautiful how instead of simply keeping to herself while waiting for the bus, this woman (who was about 60-70) chose to come up to some complete strangers and engage them in conversation while she waited. It makes me think about older movies and some conception I have in my mind that in the past, people were more prone to acknowledge strangers with at least a polite ‘how do you do’ when they passed them on the street, instead of just scowling or looking down or away, as I feel is the trend in the present.

Kenz concurred, and made a quote that I quickly etched on the inside of my skull’s dome: “Most of us are, at best, two paychecks away from being homeless, myself included.” She went on to explain how she always does her best to keep in mind that the homeless are people just like anyone else and deserve to be treated with the decency afforded to the rest of humanity that so happens to live under a roof. This statement had profound resonance for me, and I actually felt proud to have met this woman. Her philosophies seemed so beautiful in a pithy, basic sort of manner; one might assert that she had a poetic philosophical sensibility. We talked for probably 90 minutes outside before retiring back in to attend to a stray customer here and there, but it was really an incredible experience.

I strode to the bus stop and rode to the Pink Dot. On the way, I ran into Ralphie, the usual Night Manager at Pink Dot, who’s into classic Mississippi blues, the artwork of R. Crumb, independent films and anarcho-punk. We were a little early, so Ralphie invited me to join him for Pizza and a brew at small shop on Sunset. We drank our Stellas and discussed Harmony Kareem’s Mr. Lonely, spurred by this sacrilicious [sic] picture:

We also talked about how Ralphie had seen a car crash where a person died and how I had never seen a car crash other than one I was actually in when I was just a pup, and other things. We made our way to Pink Dot, and the night went off relatively uneventfully.

Thanks to some insider info from my compadre Ron, I opted to walk down to Santa Monica Boulevard to catch the bus, which runs 24 hours, instead of catching a ride with the loathsome Kenny. This worked out famously, and I was able to catch the same bus I take to work, the 204, to get home; it turns out it runs 24 hours as well.

While waiting for the 204, I saw my first car crash. A Hispanic fellow in a 80s-era white GMC van rear- ended a silver 2006+ Mercedes sedan , which was waiting at a stoplight, and that Mercedes in turn rear-ended a near-identical silver 2006+ Mercedes sedan which was in front of it. I noticed the driver of the first-hit Mercedes checking to see if the passanger was OK before pulling into the gas station to exchange insurance info with the other involved parties, which was kind of heartening (the opposite of disheartening?).

Another gentleman who was waiting for the bus witnessed the crash, and we exchanged a few obligatory comments about the contrast of the vehicles involved and how much it would cost the poor fellow to cover the damage he had done. Using a cigarette as a conversational conduit, I inquired to the gentleman, whose name I later learned was Rafik, as to why he was up at such an ungodly hour (it was around 3:20 a.m.). Rafik informed me that he had, just that night, finished his book, which was, I shit you not, a treatise on the world’s oldest constitution, which involved Muslims and Jews in the middle east (the name of which he did not mention). I say “I shit you not” because, at least to me, this is quite an ambitious and immense and impressive undertaking. I expressed this much to Rafik, to which he smiled humbly and told me about how he had managed to pare it down to only 42 page.

I asked him about the school of thought in which his treatise was conducted, and he sort of chuckled and explained how the Muslim scholars who critique it would probably deem it “heretical,” due to his liberal, objective, and pragmatist take on the subject. Among the topics discussed in his treatise was the function of art in revolution. Just the idea of discussing this subject with a stranger at 3:30 a.m. on the streets of Los Angeles made me take a step back and, admittedly with a tinge of self-importance, reflect on what an amazing context I am currently in. He told me about how art has tended to be a crucial aspect of revolution throughout history, whether it was the dance and poetry of the Muslim revolution that occurred nearly two millennia ago, the poetic philosophy of Karl Marx, or the proletarian theatrics prior to the French Revolution. I told him about how I was a writer, and we discussed music and poetry briefly.

However, the bulk of our conversation (which continued from streetside bus-waiting onto the bus itself) was a broader, more abstractly philosophical one, which touched on the oil crisis and the changes our nation would undergo should oil no longer be a viable energy option, the nature of human connection as it pertains to public transportation, how unregulated free-market economy seems like a more humanistically moral alternative to requiring permits, hegemony, Judeo-Islam relations, urban folk art (his best friend is, as he described him, a “phenomenal metallurgical sculptor,” and, he informed me, was brought to tears upon reading his treatise), and other general political and philosophical topics. It seemed quite profound to me, although, admittedly, my knowledge in these fields can be described as ‘layman’ at best. I got home and was overcome with a feeling of connectedness and, at the risk of sounding grandiose, a renewed faith in my fellow human.

SUNDAY

I had a fairly gonzo dream last night, and what’s more, it was very lucid and seemed oddly connected with reality, to a degree more than dreams usually seem so. The gist of it, at least what I remember, was this: I’m called to scope out the house of someone (this someone I think was owned by my neighbor from across the street in Greensboro, Debbie Lumpkins, although it was not the house across the street from me) as a creative cinematic consultant. I am not sure if such a title even exists, but I suppose the immersion in the glitz of Hollywood has begun to seep slowly into my skull and saturate my brain like so much Rogaine. So I walk through the front door and adamantly comment about how much I love the high ceilings. I almost compliment them (them being the faceless people who were accompanying/employing me) on the exquisite mahogany wood paneling, but then there is none, so I don’t. We walk up a dim, dauntingly long staircase to what I think can be best described as ‘the upstairs area,’ because I am not sure what floor it was (due to the length of the staircase) and I am not sure exactly the function of the area: It was a cavernous, spare, and sepia-lit room with dusty wood floors and ominous white walls. Something in its aura indicated its anciency (I think that is an acceptable noun form of ancient). The most distinctive aspect of the room was the circling balcony/loft, which had no railing. I think I made a comment about the lack of railing, and then I noticed the face of a Native American man in the shadows of the unlit recesses of the loft, and then the body of this man fell down, which was naked and deformed, and I made eye contact with him and some commotion occurred, and that’s when some absurd non-sequitur shift occurred in which I was sitting in an auditorium with some friends of mine, and it turned out to be a high school presentation of some sort, and it was my last year of high school and I was getting all misty and sentimental about it.

Yeah…so anyways, Sunday was once again pretty commonplace, save the two young men I met on the way home from Pink Dot, once again at the bus stop, and the conversation once again initialized/facilitated by the sharing of cigarette smoke. These guys (John and Gabriel were their names) had just gotten back from dancing at a club, and we discussed electronic music (they like Justice, Chromeo and 8-Bit but haven’t heard of Crystal Castles). We got on the bus and I sat near them to continue conversing about this and that, and learned that John was the owner/CEO/head of his own IT firm, and his partner, Gabriel, worked for him. He has been involved in IT and tech design for awhile, and decided to start his own firm in order to allow himself the creative freedom and latitude he desired. Offhandedly, John mentioned how “there’s never a dull moment on the Metro.” Not two minutes later, a drunk Hispanic gentleman got on the bus, sat down beside us, opened a bottle of Corona with his teeth, and proceeded to offer us a beer from his bookbag, which was declined. The gentlemen drawled and slurred the woes of his night in Spanish to John, who spoke some. I could understand only bits and pieces, but the gist of it was that he got shafted on some tips and was angry about it. He told us all about his wife and kids, getting drunk at the taco stand on Santa Monica and Vermont, immigration services, and much more. Finally he got off, and I had a chance to exchange slightly alarmed looks of amusement with John and Gabriel before getting off at my stop.

Never a dull moment.

The corner of Sunset & Vermont
The Corner of Wilshire & La Brea
The Corner of La Cienega & Sunset (Where Pink Dot is Located)

-DS

I've been dividing my time lately between writing 100-word album reviews for the CityBeat, sprawling missive sentences and sharpie poetry. It's pretty fulfilling. I got a job yesterday (Tuesday) at Doughboy's, an upscale diner-style restaurant; I start Thursday. It will be nice to have the extra dough, and once that shit bakes I will be gaudily rich. Nothing too terribly interesting has happened to me recently, so please find below some pictures. I plan on posting a link of a video of Crystal Castles' performance but at the moment I am unable to upload them.

As I walked into the Roxy, I decided to get a picture of the inside, and then Eric Wareheim walked in front of my camera.

The Canadian noise-rockers DD/MM/YYYY, who opened for the electronic music duo Crystal Castles.

The crowd inside the roxy for Crystal Castles. Note the drunken glasses man.

Alice Glass is somewhere there crowdsurfing. Note the exuberant maroon man who's wavin his hands in the air but who probably does care, at least a little.

Mostly blurry pictures of me and Eric Wareheim before the Crystal Castles show. Here are links to some instances of his shows, Tom Goes to the Mayor (he is the mayor) and Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job.

I do not have an armband radio but I like to listen to music when I jog.

More interesting sodas! Or, I guess, more of interesting sodas, because they are not any more interesting than the other sodas.

I work with an hombre from Israel who is an enormous pro-wrestling fan and who also had a cool Newman shirt.

The second celebrity I met in Hollywood was this raccoon.


***

DS

OMNIDAY

I may have been hasty earlier in my assessment of Mr. Cathedral’s vociferousness…at first I thought the pigeon’s incessant cooing mindless and annoying, but this morning I detected a sense of urgency, even longing in it. I wonder what you are waiting for, Mr. Cathedral. What is it that you fret about?

If I had to guess (which is a scenario so wildly absurd it threatens, even as I write this, to asplode my head into a billion BattleToads vs. Double Dragon SNES cartridges), I’d say that Mr. Cathedral was once known as Jack Cathedral, Wall Street whizpigeon and statue shitter extraordinaire. He’d strut gracefully from borough to borough, hob-knobbing with the feather y jet set, getting wasted on sewer water with the plump denizens of the swankest & dankest dumpsters. He’d gain influence by performing high profile shitjobs on monuments, luxury cars, and celebrities. A hornet-filled helium balloon of a life.

Unfortunately, a few too many frigid winters in the Big Apple led to a nasty inflammation of Jack Cathedral’s rheumatoid arthiritis. Wingbones too brittle and tender for the flight, Jack traded his life savings of unpopped popcorn kernels, bits of hobo, and discarded metro cards to hitch a ride to the Big Orange with his greasy god uncle Jerry, the albatross who defected from wherever it is albatrosses defect from and started making bank giving small, flightless birds rides on his enormous wingspan. At some point during that fateful flight, Jack Cathedral became Mr. Cathedral, stodgy Angelenx hermit. And he’d never revert to his lighthearted, happy-go-lucky ways. And he spends his lonesome days on a smog-dusted sill, solemnly rasping plaintive dirges about how impotent he feels away from the electricity and zazz of his erstwhile eastern abode.

We all peak sometime, Jack. So I guess the best you can do is look back fondly on yr memories and continue yr rooftop belting of elegiac hymns, and I’ll keep you in mind and embrace my youthful time in The Big City, and I’ll take particular relish in the luxury cars and celebrities upon whom I shit.

THURSDAY

Thursday I went to the L.A. CityBeat for the obligatory editorial meeting and then barnacled around afterward since I had work at 6 at Pink Dot. The delighfully eccentric Ron Garmon (he actually owns a pair of rose-colored glasses, and he wears them around the office) put me and Carman to work writing 100 event preview chunklets for the "7 Days" section of the paper. I got a chance to mimic the work of the master and he seemed to like it pretty OK. That occupied most of my time at CityBeat, so I spent the hollow, fluorescent hours at Pink Dot working out my Bridez/Gravy Train!!!! preview piece, which I think turned out well. As far as I can tell, music writing is just stringing together a lot of glittering, mildly apt adjectives and (literarily) wearing them as a necklace and dancing around naked in a Denny’s parking lot until the crystal meth has run out and the hat yr transvestite astronaut girlfriend’s dog wears no longer sparkles the same way it used to. Oh…how it used to sparkle. I caught a ride home from the fairly loathsome Kenny, a middle-aged delivery driver who lives near me.

It’d be sweet if there were just bats, made of fire, bouncing off the walls all the time.

FRIDAY

Friday I got off work at 11:30 to go see Crystal Castles, an electronic music duo, at The Roxy. While I was outside waiting to pick up my ticket from will-call (Ron finagled me a free press pass which allowed me to snap photos and take videos [link]) I spied Eric Wareheim from the television shows “Tom Goes to the Mayor” and “Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job.” He was also waiting for his tickets at will-call. I walked up beside him (he is actually slightly taller than me, which was surprising), stood there for a moment, and then said “Salame,” which is a “joke” from the show. He smiled politely. I told him how he was a genius, how his show was hilarious and how great and fantastic, and then I caught myself and said “you probably don’t want to hear this shit,” to which he did not reply, which I understood to affirm my claim. So I asked him if I could take a picture with him, which he did. I was so excited. T&EASGJ show is one of the funniest new comedy shows around, and in my opinion it is THE most original and inventive. Bob Odenkirk of Mr. Show writes for it, and David Cross, the other main actor on Mr. Show, has guest starred multiple times (Mr. Show is my favorite television show of all time). Eric was the first celebrity I have encountered in Hollyweird, and honestly he probably would have been in my top five celebrities to run into (if I somehow had a choice), with any of the Stella three being up there, along with Bob and David, and then maybe Stephen Colbert or Dave Chappelle or Jello Biafra or Daniel Dumile. It was tops.

Crystal Castles put on a phenomenal show. The crowd was live as fuck (the show Friday was a bonus show; the original show sold out so quickly and the response was so overwhelming that they booked them for another performance two days later). The opening band was mad respectful of the crowd; they said they would keep it short and did so, playing only a 20-minute (or so) set. The visual effects were dazzling, ultrafine: a tasteful mix of epileptic strobe lights a kaleidoscopic spray of polychromatic light emitting diodes, and plumes of smoke, not from a smoke machine, but from some proximate tetrahydracannabinol enthusiasts. Alice Glass, the vox of the operation, was hype and unabashed: she crowd surfed on multiple occasions, and spazzed around magnificently while delivering soulfully prismatic lyrics from behind raven hair and fiery eyes.

After my vodka-lubricated concert experience, I marched back up Sunset Blvd to Pink Dot, where I had left my stuff, and where I had to hang out anyways to wait for a ride home from Freddy (who Oscar and Ralphie will refer to using various permutations of ‘Freddylove’ and ‘Little Freddy.’

Relatedly, I think the dialect of Ralphie and Oscar is worth noting, if for nothing other than its aural aesthetic value. When I got back I rendezvoused with said homies, who were both off that night, but who were hanging around Pink Dot and getting progressively more smashed on cerveza and molta as the night grew later (they were also waiting for a ride from Freddylove). As we shot the shit in the parking lot adjacent to the alley beside Pink Dot, bathed in the mango glow of street lights, I learned that some drama had transpired involving Ralphie that night, and, suffice it to say, there was talk of a potential fight (for stock reasons — to defend honor, hash things out; to prove or make up for phallic inadequacy, etc.). This was a pretty natural topic of discussion and there was nothing too noteworthy about it, except for the way they put it. To express fighting, punching some people, and leaving, Oscar said “…we can get down, sock ‘em up, and take off.” There is something to be said about slang that is natural and not contrived, as Oscar’s and Ralphie’s was. It stuck in my head, is all; it reminds me of some short story I once read that ends with the recently murdered narrator remembering how a kid he once played baseball referred to shortstop as “da best position dey is.” This sticks with the narrator, and he remembers chanting it to himself in his head as he ran to the outfield to play, and so I similarly chanted “get down, sock ‘em up, and take off” to myself in my head.

There is always something beautiful to be found in the idiosyncratic, the peculiar, and the unfamiliar, I feel.

SATURDAY

A dude named Orpheus called me at Pink Dot it was nice. The night was boring and uneventful. I still have yet to get paid at Pink Dot despite having worked here for nigh on three weeks. Once I get paid, I am going to take care of some parentheses and then I am going to the damn beach and have a good time. But good.

SUNDAY

Shit is real. Stayin afloat thanks to some savvy and some luck: The other day I got two calls from a cigar shop, which I remembered was on Sunset within walking distance of Pink Dot, so with a little craftiness on my part, and thanks to Ralphie being the cool hombre he is, I was able to sprint over there to deliver the goods and reap the tips. Also, last night, some dude (presumably drunk and potentially strung out) came up to the locked doors of Pink Dot requesting stogues. We told him we were closed, he held up a $20 against the window, and I asked what kind of smokes he wanted. A pack of Parliament Lights for $20, and the change was mine. That is like $14 (cigarettes actually aren’t that expensive around here, but at Pink Dot everything is marked up). Speaking of which, the smoking cessation is going swimmingly. Happy Dia de los Padres.

-DS