newsprint & palms

Back in L.A.

2008-07-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T17:13:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

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

exSITEing

2008-06-12T13:13:00.001-07:00

an exciting new site update: links! check them out when you have grown disgusted with my inanity.

2008-06-11T14:35:00.000-07:00

The valets whose houses I razed (Ray-Ray and Pele) quit smoking jade haze and thus got a pay raise which they used to fund a retaliatory waylay on yours truly which dazed and confused me, so forgive the delay, here's a pomp-rife quadruple post presented duly.

Actually, i have just found myself a little inundated with tasks-at-hand (I had no days off either CityBeat or Pink Dot last week, nor will I have any this week) and have shamefully allowed myself to my internette log to get all termite-infested and doughy.

SUNDAY

This is a cat who lives on my street, whose name is Baron Von Fluffenstein, whom I call Baron Von for short.

Sunday night I had work at Pink Dot, during which time I got to better know Ralphie, the aforementioned manager with a penchant for punk and delta blues. He’s a really interesting cat; he travelled to London last year by himself just “to clear his head” and move around. He regaled me with tales of the ubiquity of the constables and cameras there, a presence that he said made him feel like Big Brother was watching. We even philosophized a bit, coming abruptly and unequivocally to the conclusion that nobody ever knows what they’re doing in life. Because that’s impossible.

Also Sunday night while at work I got to once again bask in the radioactively efflorescent glow of Pedro’s antics; luckily for you, sports fanatics, I had my camera with me and was able to capture this rare footage, seen for the first time ever right here!

If Pedro were a festive, down-home country event he would be a hootenanny.

As 3 a.m. drew nearer, I queried my fellow dotteurs about a ride back to my place; the busses and subways stop running after 1 a.m. and do not resume until 5 a.m. here, because all normal humanoids here shut down during these hours, tired from sex and gorging. Unfortunately, only one guy lived near me, and he was a new driver working for the second time that night, and was unsure how to get me back and make it to his place without getting lost/wasting a lot of time. I told them thanks anyways, it’s not your responsibility, and decided to hoof it.

And what a strange saunter it was. On La Brea I found two trash bags full of mostly new clothes, and grabbed two hoodies. Score. As I continued on my way down La Brea, I was surprised to find several small flocks of what I assumed were Orthodox or Hasidic Jews (they were dressed formally with delightfully twirly payoth and those distinctive wide-brimmed and significantly less jaunty hats) of all ages. After coming across the fifth or six group of them, I asked one what was going on, and he somewhat tentatively (it was around 3:30 a.m. after all) informed me that it was Shavuot, which is the Festival of Weeks.

I walked past a store and saw this in the window:

It is an animal skeleton dressed in a suit. There were probably a half dozen more of these in the other windows. I would have taken pictures of them but my camera died after I took this picture. IT DIED. It was 3:30 a.m. on the streets of L.A. and I came across these macabre marionettes and they grinned eerily out the windows and killed my camera (temporarily...turns out it was just a dead battery. i thought maybe the camera was suffering from shock). It spooked me a li'l'.

As the hour grew later I began to get a little nervous and started considering just hanging out in any 24-hour joint until the buses started running again. But I was tired and wanted to get home, so I decided to trek onward. I schemed a little scheme to minimize my chances of getting mugged with a few strategic moves using only my cunning and a common articulated fieldmouse: I emptied my pockets into my bookbag, then I put my book bag and the paper bag containing the hoodies I got on the street into a nearby shopping cart. Then I covered my bookbag with the hoodie I was wearing, effectively concealing it, making me seem like a bagman. Then I started talking/rapping/singing to myself. The content was comprised mostly of nonsensical word association and stream of consciousness quasi-freestyling/beat poeticizing/spoken wording (not too unlike this mangled mass of muddled, matted mutterings).

So there I was, pushing a shopping cart down Olympic between Crenshaw and Bronson and cultivating audible insanity as a defense mechanism at 4 a.m. It was a sight for four-eyes-ed poor guys in porkpies worldwide. Definitely a worthwhile life experience, I feel, and also another instance where I was able to cultivate a little insanity/absurdity in the world, which is always a plus for me. A+ for sleeves. They keep my arms warm.

As it turns out, I encountered relatively few people, most of whom were sleeping homeless folks who startled me a little when I came across them, and perhaps three or four other pedestrians with whom I exchanged nervous nods. All of it was more innocuous than I'd imagined, which is lucky, I guess.

I finally made it home at about 6 a.m., my feet starting to chafe from my largely cushionless Vans, my back aching slightly from the burden of my bookbag (which I put on after perhaps an hour of cart-pushing), my legs aching wonderfully. I started to snooze as the sun was peeking at me from behind the horizon. Luckily it was overcast, so the rays were blunted and my slumber was unstunted.

MONDAY

I found more interesting soda! It is blue mountain dew that is nearly the exact same dew hue as my desk at Pink Dot:

I slept until 1 p.m. Monday, forcing myself out of bed what with having to get up early for work the next day. Almost immediately after I creakily crept from my eye-crusty crypt, I got a call from Bora asking me to come in and work a half shift until 7:30 p.m., which I did. That was mostly boring and I got a chance to catch up on some emails between cola sips to prevent nodding off. I was relieved by Dulani, with whom I got to exchange contact information, which is exciting to me because he seems a most intriguing fellow.

After getting off work I got applications for working as a server at two nearby upscale eateries. Getting a job at one of these places would be a financial boon; they are quite pricey so I imagine the people tip well.

I arrived home around 9 p.m. to raucous laughter and loud conversation coming from what sounded like behind the house, and decided to investigate the situation. I encountered a group of six college-age kids playing beerpong on a table in the garage behind my place, above which is another apartment of which Howie K is the landlord. I met the kids and played beerpong with them for awhile, but they were already pretty loaded and retired early. They were ok.

TUESDAY & WEDNESDAY

On Tuesday, it was sunnier.

I went to the CityBeat and got a couple of assignments from Ron. Ron, as I mentioned before, is a phenomenal writer, but he is a little scatter-brained and eccentric as an editor, which suits me just fine.

I managed to get tickets to Crystal Castles, an ataricore/bitpunk/chiptune musical outfit, through Ron. I learned today (Wednesday) that there will not be room for a review story on Crystal Castles in the upcoming issue, but I still get to go, and I am incredibly stoked. My other assignment was to do a couple of 300-word preview stories on some upcoming performances, one by Lil Wayne (rapper) and another by Venetian Snares (breakcore techno/electronica). I started culling information for those stories Tuesday but found myself stymied by a lack of available listening material. Wednesday I searched the gaping vault of the internette for music reviews on Weezy and Venetian Snares, which gave me a better sense of what I would be writing about. However, on Wednesday it came to my attention that the preview stories I would be writing would be outdated by the time they ran in next week’s paper, so I had to scrap them and start anew on a music event occurring the following week. I’ve decided to do the story on an upcoming performance by Gravy Train!!!! (electroclash/queercore techno) and Bridez (mixed genre hardcore techno/experimental rock). Should be rad.

Tuesday was Carman’s 23^rd birthday, and he invited me over to his place after work to watch the game and to go out to dinner. We went to a restaurant called Rock’n Sushi on Santa Monica Blvd, which was ideal because it had a big-screen T.V. with game three of the NBA Finals on. Lillian, Julie I, Greg, Alfred and another friend of Carman’s whose name I forget joined me and Carman at the restaurant, where Alfred treated us to hot sake (which I had not tried before and which I highly enjoyed), and where we ordered five sushi rolls to share. The sushi there was fantastic in my opinion, the best I’ve ever had, but then again I have not had all that much sushi in my time. Still, the sushi was rich and flavorful, hearty but light on the stomach with a wild variety of tastes. I do not know what was in all the rolls we had, but there was one with yellowtail fish which was excellent. Also, the waitress spilled a glass of water on me, and Greg asked if that would earn us another container (pitcher? vile? vase? it is a clay/ceramic tall container about 250 ml in capacity I think) of sake (even though he doesn’t drink), and she obliged. After dinner we went to Starbucks and Greg and Carman’s friend whose name I forgot mused on how baseball is The Best Sport due to its rigid atemporal fairness; they said at first that it was the most democratic sport but revised that theory later to say that it was the most socialistic sport, due to everyone getting an equal chance. My only contribution was that curling was equally as fair (can’t wait til winter ’10 olympics woo!). Then the discussion digressed to mixed martial arts and wrestling and we learned from said unnamed friend that Stone Cold Steve Austin used to have flowing blonde hair and went by the name of Stunning Steve Austin.

Carman and Greg walked with me to the bus stop (they were out for frozen yogurt), and during our ambling Greg once again provided me with a slew of useful, interesting, relevant information about the state of journalism in Los Angeles, specifically concerning a virtuoso writer who used to work under Alan Mittelstaedt, the former CityBeat News Editor who took me on as in intern.

I’ve got an interview for one of those high-end restaurants Friday at 11 a.m. and a Crystal Castles concert that night at midnight, and these two events will sandwich a truncated shift at CityBeat to attend the editorial meeting and hammer out the preview story and another truncated shift at Pink Dot (which I finagled in order to make it to the concert on time). It will be a bizarre, jostling day of blustery hustling hastily colored in with half-dried out pastel sharpies and embossed with a screwdriver, recounted inaccurately by a troupe of rejected CourtTV dramatization actors on ketamine in the cool buzz of the sultry street lights of sunset strip (which is where the concert is). I’m pumped pumped pumped.

-DS

2008-06-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

my brain swells in the warm, pastel breeze

THURSDAY

On Thursday I went to the CityBeat to attend the weekly editorial meeting. The new Arts Editor is the man whose writing I previously lauded, Ron Garmon, and after the meeting I asked him if he had any work for me to do. No, he didn’t, but I ended up sticking around because I had work that night at Pink Dot, and it would have been a waste of time to take the bus home. I floated on my back like an otter about the internet, breaking websites on my lakewater-moistened, soft underbelly. And then eating them. Also I ate at Fatburger at lunch which was tasty.

Mr. Cathedral has revamped his maddening muttering lately, often breaking into soulful yet understated cooing fugues, perhaps orally delivering his magnum opus or singing the aria to a centuries-old pigeon opera. I combat it with dance pop/trance/house music from the 90s played at an extraordinary volume level.

During the night shift at the Dot I met Dulani, a young professional of Carribean descent who works at a Hollywood actor database company, and who just got a $10,000 per annum raise. He has written a screenplay and wants to start his own film publishing company. He’s also a music junkie; using his “torrent slave” hard drive he has acquired about 900 gigs of music—nearly one terabyte. Tear a bite of the sandwich if yr afraid to incise. His music taste was extremely diverse and inclusive, which is similar to my music taste, and dope tunes were a consistently engaging conversation topic. We also talked about writing, females, and grocery stores. There was no Oscar that night, nor was there the uncannily hilarious Pedro, nor was there the kind-hearted Freddy. Instead there was Ralphie, a young manager, who exclaimed not infrequently during our 6 p.m. to 9 a.m. shift us of his desire to have a chardonnay or two (roughly paraphrasing).

Ralphie is a record collector and a connoisseur of classic Mississippi (a.k.a. delta) blues albums, his favorite era being the 1920s and ‘30s. He’s also a fan of punk, but he also has sophisticated taste in this field; he prefers Dead Kennedys to Rancid (too poppy) and doesn’t like oi! punk (which is really quite understandable, it can get redundant and monotonous and repetitive and static and redundant). He’s listens to CDs and LPs, but only collects wax. On the front desk was some white dude whose name escapes me and who smoked a lot of cigarettes but who was otherwise pretty average.

Work passed quickly, passed like a travelling circus caravan passes a graveyard or like how a mash liquor-drunken clown passes out face down in the elephant stable car; this was due in some part to the stimulating conversation available in Dulani, Ralphie, and the people who live inside my mobile telephone. Dulani is another exceedingly kind Angeleno. He gave me a ride home even though he lives significantly far away from me; he used to live very close to where I now live, and knew how to get there. He declined the offer of gas money, and we talked about food and Duran Duran and Hollywood. I got home by 3:30 a.m., which wasn’t so bad. A day most satisfactory.

FRIDAY

Friday was my day off for the week, and I made it relatively productive. In the morning I cleaned up the apartment, cartwheeled over to Superior for some lunch parts and warshed my laundry on an olde-fashioned ye olde laundry washboarde.

After all that was completed I biked over to the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles for a show by The Mountain Goats (which is mostly John Darnielle, the acoustic guitarist and singer/songwriter, and a little bit of some other dude with an electric bass). I was anticipating there being a big line for the 7:00 p.m. show, so I showed up at 5:30 in attempt to secure myself a spot. But there were actually only a few people at the museum, which gave me a chance to give the exhibits in that part of the museum a cursory glance. Here is a part of the outside of the museum:

There were typical dino bones, exhibits of recreations of African Mammals, as well as a similar one of North American Mammals, which is where the concert stage was set. I checked out the American History section.

I was schooled in the schools of mammology:

Some of the mammals moved around on round feet with strangely frigid rigid skeletons and otherworldly growls:

I also got to brush up on my dodgy ornithology:

and my stickily sickly and stogy ichthyology and oceanography:

Some painfully obvious, snifter of Bailey's (creamy) and a monocle, palentological osteology:

As well as some neo-palentology, thanks to someone in an eerily accurate-seeming dinosaur getup (whose sole purpose i think was to make little kids have accidents, as can be seen in progress here):

There was what I have to assume is a replica of an Easter Island Head:

There was an exhibit on what it would have been like if there were acid in the old west (mostly it came down to whimsical cartoons and impossible faceless ersatz humans):

You're straw... (-Driver Stu Benedict)

Around 7 I went to the stage area, where I waited for about an hour for the music to start. I got a pretty good spot. This is what the crowd looked like during the show:

And this is what they looked like before the show:

During the wait I met a duo of native Angelenas and an Angeleno, with whom I discussed music. There was a guy at the concert wearing a Bass Fest shirt, which pleased me to no end, and makes me wish I had worn my Pipe Camp shirt.

The opening act, The Annuals, was pretty average musically, but something about them turned me off. This is what it looks like when The Annuals happen:

Their bassist’s manner of controlling his instrument and forcing sound out of it can be best described as ‘undulatingly cavemannish,’ in my opinion. Make of that what you will, but for me it was quite off-putting (it was markedly toolish, don’t ask me how to back this up, but it was) to the point of being comical at times.

The lead guitarist was a good player, as was the lead drummer, and the two electric keyboard/synthesizer players and the other drummer and the other guitarist were better than passable as musicians, but together even their many parts equaled neither a substantial nor enjoyable sum, in my opinion. They seemed to have a lot to express, but lost cohesion and the power of clear communication due to the thick, multi-layered wall of sound.

But the Mountain Goats (again, mostly just one man) were phenomenal, taking a minimal approach and utilizing it brilliantly, in my opinion. If you come across this and you aren't sure what yr seeing, it's Mountain Goats:

John spoke to the crowd in between sets with a colloquial, Mitch Hedberg-esque lilt. His anecdotes drew big laughs and every song title mentioned was met with lots of applause. The music was heartfelt, with original and inventive lyrics that were thought-provoking and often funny or touchingly sad. As an individual I briefly chatted with after the show put it, “they had a great sad set.” My personal favorites were “Jenny,” which they opened with, to my slight dismay as it is one of their best:

My other favorite was “Woke Up New (on the Morning When),” which is sweetly plaintive with a sort of optimistically glazed melancholy throughout the lyrics. I didn't want to put two videos on this page, so here's a link to it. The shoddy camerawork owes to my intense immersion in the song. In total, the Goats played for about an hour, then came back for a two-song encore. It was fantastic. I can even appreciate having to see the Annuals, because they made The Mountain Goats even better by contrast.

I got home and ate some tuna fish and celery and sautéed onions and went to bed around 11:30, owing to the fact that I had work the next morning at 9 a.m. for which I had to get up, get out and do something at 7 (I won’t let the days of my life pass me by; how will I make it if I never even try?).

I got a decent amount of sleep and have been doing not much aside twirling merrily about the internet and doodling in my moleskin and typing this blog.

SATURDAY

Saturday was boring (work, sleep), and not worth talking about.

Instead, use this, which is what every Saturday should be like anyways.

-DS

2008-06-05T14:34:00.000-07:00

Special Trunkful of Truncation Edition

For whatever reason I’m feeling torpid and unmotivated to explicate on the hot sauce-drenched happenings of my life so please enjoy this travel-size edition of the Palms, with plenty o’ photos to compensate. One followed by a furlong's worth of zeroes (in 12-point times new viking font) bonus points for anyone who gets this reference:

TUESDAY

In Los Angeles, Tuesday is bruiseday for shoobies like me, and if you don't watch yr back you'll get wailed on by little kids and elderly. They don't cotton to outsiders like me and pony boy.

It was back to the CityBeat for more listing work. Nothing new or exciting transpired, just mostly extracting data from the websites of bookstores and imputting it onto the online calendar database.

I ate lunch with Carman at an Indian food buffet, which was scrumptious and which seemed authentic.

After work I stuck around afterward to stumble awkwardly about the internet for awhile, then caught the bus home.

Here's what my fridge looks like inside:

And here is an avocado I found:

After a hearty, heartfelt, heart-wrenching and heart-warming egg-and-corned-beef-hash dinner, I decided to go on a bicycle adventure. My direction was left on Vermont, which is opposite the way I go to work and which is an area I had yet to venture. What I found was pretty. A little less than ten blocks down Vermont were a cluster of museums, including the L.A. Science Center and the L.A. Museum of Natural History. Here's some landscape shots of the area leading up to the museums:

I found a rose garden:

I came across an outdoor exhibit about the cosmos:

I found some planes. One of the planes was a slightly smaller version of the SR-71 Blackbird called the AR-12:

I rode down Figueroa a little, and made my way to the edge of USC’s campus, which was well-landscaped and tranquil:

It was a good spot for a late night bike ride. I came back and went to sleep.

WEDNESDAY

Wednesday is pens day at my apartment, and all the tenants and the house met together in the foyer to display and discuss their favorite pen. Howie K's was a peacock quill and octopus ink. One tenant's was a limited edition hyperjumbo sir marks-a-lot the size of a baseball bat. Another's was a crayon tied to a severed monkey's finger. Mine is a sleek sleeper of a pen called the excalibur.

This day was pretty lackluster as well. I caught a ride with Alfred to work; it was he and Alan’s last day. As such, neither of them had any work for me to do, save a small batch of listings that Alfred gave me. I asked Rebecca if she had any work for me or ideas for stories, and she said no.

I ate lunch at a Corean (alternate spelling of Korean, which the restaurant used) food restaurant, at which I got a twist on the old burger and fries standby: Gourmet sliders served on thick potato bread buns with only mayo and coarse coleslaw, with sweet potato fries on the side.

It was not all that great but it was an interesting flavor/texture combination, which made the meal worthwhile, I think. I both saw and exclaimed this on the way back from lunch:

I came back to work and read news stories from various alternative news outlets, including an interesting one analysis of veganism and some conspiracy theories.

I’m excited by the prospect of having a sort of power vacuum and thus having the opportunity to get more stories in the paper, but at the same time I am still an outsider to this place and require a little direction, at least at this early stage in my career here.

I went home with Alfred, and once home I spent some time writing and watching a lot of Sealab 2021.

When it came time to feed I dined on beans and cheese and tortillas and salsa and lettuce and corn on teh cobz0rz and it was epic win.

THURSDAY

Thursday's spurs day at CityBeat, and everyone donned their favorite pair of horsehurters, some adding their own decorative flair, such as pinwheel spurs or hypno-spurs. Mines were spinners.

My story ran in the paper today, you can read it here. I am happy with the way the story turned out. Thursday I came to work for the weekly 11 a.m. editorial meeting, and after I leave the Beat I’m headed to Pink Dot for the 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. shift.

Should be dotty.

I think I just had a bananeurysm.

-DS

a double-clutch dutch oven post: special holorhyme edition

2008-06-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

ICE CREAM SUNDAY [sic] IS MY ESTEEMED PUN DAY

This day was less productive than I would have liked it to have been;
bisque made of fuzz abreast seductive Brandeis--should have spiked it, you math whiz.

I went to Starbucks for the standard procedure, hoping to quickly conquer the internette and have a productive, fulfilling day afterward. However, the internette was being an unconscionable jackass, and I found myself stymied by the gluey tendrils of its web. What I mean to say is that, for some reason, the wireless was really slow and made all internetical activities quite tedious and time-consuming. Here are some pictures of the place in which I sleep and brood and such, featuring recently acquired accoutrements, which I had intended to include in the last post had it not been for the aforementioned impediments:

After spending probably four hours getting all of that hoopla squared away, I hopefully zoomed back home on my dual-wheel velocipede, thoughts of continuing the perpetual cram of musical glut into my computer dancing a pert Merengue in my head (FYI a meringue saunter is no adequate substitute for a cakewalk). I was engaged in this, the fine activity of importing more of Carman’s CDs into my music library, for less than half an hour before receiving a call from Bora, the manager of Pink Dot. He asked did I want to come in and cover somebody’s shift tonight; I told him yes I did. I bided my time for some fine introspection, tidied my dimes and my dim sum collection, excitedly mimed, which is dumb thought projection, and indicted and fined my Sprite for illegal lemon-lime injection. Also for embezzlement and criminal malfeasance. Life without parole in an iron maiden customized to be a cooler/prison.

The shifts at Pink Dot are 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. and 6 p.m. to 3 a.m., and I was called in for the latter. Sunday’s shift was manned (an appropriate term as there were no female employees) as follows: Pedro on front desk, Freddy on expedite and manager duty, five or so drivers, and Oscar and I on the operating tables, as it were. Well, it weren’t really as that, they were more desks than tables, but our positions are called operators, and you could say that I spent my Sunday in the operating room. Or OR for short, or tour your floorboards, or oar and cavort with a core of cohorts who’re adored, or lure a poor boor door to door for fourscore til you’re bored with the chore and can endure it no more. For sure. For instance of the amount of down time there is at the Dot, here is some drawing I did in my corner that probably took a good ninety minutes:

I tried to think of a clever caption to go beneath it, like "Detroit: Where the Weak are Killed and Eaten," but I failed to do so.

Pedro, Freddy and Oscar are all very interesting dudes who I’m pretty jazzed to be working with. Here is a picture where you can see Oscar on the left, Freddy in the white, and a couple of drivers (standing), with Pedro nowhere to be found (presumably he was on the roof throwing water balloons filled with truffle oil at innocent passersby):

Oscar is a 6’ 2” ish 27-year-old who dresses como un hipster and who has a diverse taste in music, a taste that I consider good. He had one of those portable iPod speaker docks, and throughout the night it spewed Bob Dylan, 20s-30s era swing jazz, some indie rock, and some strange, ear-prickling tunes that I suspect were from an OST or score of some sort; at OTB my horse comes up short.

Freddy is a shorter, shiny-headed, 30-year-old vato-looking guy with aspirations of copdom and a heart of gold. That is to say, his head is shaved bald, he might strike one as an erstwhile gangmember due to his, compact, stocky physique, occasionally mean mug (ice grill [frowny face]) and said hairstyle, he wants to get out of his job as manager at Pink Dot and complete his training to be a cop, which he started a several years ago, and he’s a really kind individual. This last piece of description is based on his humoring a woman, who struck me as an insane bag- or possibly cat-lady, for about an hour after we closed (at 3:15 a.m.) by engaging her in conversation as she rattled on in Spanish-heavy spanglish. Also, when I asked if he could give me a ride home (since the buses stop running at 1 a.m.), he replied matter-of-factly, “don’t even trip,” which means “but of course” for all you velveteen dandy fops. He was also a very friendly and understanding manager to me as I still learned the ropes; he had no problem helping me out when I didn’t know proper protocol; so I give propers to Freedy, the pro to call.

The most interesting new acquaintance, however, was the rhinestone vaquero by the name of Pedro. Pedro is a film student in his early- to mid-twenties, about 2.1 meters tall and who weighs perhaps 230 kilos; he aspires to attend The Actor’s Studio West, a fine academy of fine arts where fine people find fine-tined combs and fine-lined tomes, both of which are consigned online and signed by Jake Delhomme. I think the best word to describe Pedro is ‘eccentric,’ although ‘loud’ is probably just as apt.

A pruriently interesting female entered the store and Pedro made high-decibel yelping noises when her back was turned to him, causing her some confusion and dismay. Pedro knows how to wink correctly (where it is just like blinking but with one eye only) and he’s not afraid to do so when the time is right.

Occasionally, regardless of whether or not there were customers in the store, Pedro would start screaming what I can only assume is dialogue from a movie or play that he has seen or been in. Particularly excellent was when Pedro, who spoke excellent English and Spanish, continually yelled in a thick, gruff Cuban-American accent (like a true thesbian) a la Scarface “PUT DOWN THE GUN, HOLMES! JOU LIKE TO POINT ALL THE TIME, WHY DO JOU LIKE TO POINT? PUT THE GUN DOWN!” and various variations on this general concept, with customers’ faces splattered with a mix of 46% bewilderment, 35% fear, 18% timid humor and 2% Ralph Nader, with a margin of error of +/- 0.5%. The looks on the faces of the employees had the same components, but with a much heavier leaning toward the humor, the timidity being derived from some tacit desire amongst us for Pedro to keep going because it was damn hilarious, wildly entertaining and slightly unreal.

Once in a while, Pedro would shout, again very loudly, “WHAT’S JOUR DREAM? EV-EH-REEBODY HASS A DREAM! WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD!” or, feigning a rudimentary knowledge of English with a thick Mexican accent, “I HAVF [sic] FRAYN, PAYRO (the ‘payro’ being his linguistic twisting on ‘pedro’ as appropriate to the affectation, ‘frayn’ being friend and ‘havf’ being ‘have’), WUH JOU LAY TWO MEE HEEM?” etc., etc. My impression of Pedro was that of a man who will someday be an intensely successful entertainer one day due to a natural affinity for affectations, emoting, showmanship, and extroversion. He was a hoot, and occasionally he did hoot (for, if he were to remain mute, his points would have been moot). I got a ride home with Freddy and Oscar; we left around 4:15 a.m. This is what the alley beside PD looks like at that time of day:

I made it back after some rapper called buffalo nickel or silver half-dollar spat angrily about how he didn't want people to not like him, when people would probably like his music better if he just did not mention how much people don't like it. The strong, brave thumpage of the subwoofers in the back-back of Freddy's whip helped drown out Gold Sacajawea Dollar's incessant, insipid ramblings. got to sleep around 5. It was a fun night at work, a section of the inside of which looks like this:

MONDAY

Having gone to sleep so late the previous night, I did not stir from my slumber until 2. I engaged in more of the CD importing business for a short while, then went to Superior for some groceries and some cash (they have a behemoth Automatic Transaction Machine Machine there that spits out ATMs from which cash in effect can be drawn). The cash was for a bus pass, which, after I rolled home on my piss-poor excuse for a penny-farthing, I ventured out to get.

I have been quitting cigarettes recently, and Monday was my fourth day as a nicoteeny bopper, the ‘bopping,’ of course, being street talk for ‘destruction of’ and ‘nicoteeny’ slang for ‘addiction to nicotine.’ The withdrawal has been intense and miserable, and although I will not bore you or bore into you with details, the symptoms have been mostly: extreme irritability verging on bellicosity, increased food consumption as a replacement pleasure activity, and improved body odor, lung capacity, and teeth-hue. Bawdy nodes sprung with alacrity demand tissues.

But that is neither here nor there; the point being most bus rides and any interactions with any human (not excluding myself) tend to be construed by my newly detoxified brain as an affront to my very essence and being, and fine reasons to be morose, and maudlin, but I be verbose and dawdlin’, mayhap I’m something of a prosaic harlequin, which reminds me of a passage of a “poem” I once farted out. I think you’ll like it. Maybe?

...and, truthful, (even sardonic, rude-ish) I’ll explain how I appreciate their consideration—
and their dutiful (even Masonic, prudish!) disdain of how I cultivate spare consternation.

You’ve filled the pages with trash (they’ll say), you literary dervish!
And, patiently, I would agree; that’s
litter at your…
service?”

Yeah…so enormous digression aside, I was pouty on the bus and did not have a good time but I am still holding strong on the freedom from fumes (it is day five as I type this) and plan on enjoying a deep breath of air as soon as I finish this blog post (but not a second before…delayed gratification, you know?).

I bought my buss pas for the month of June for the low low (in L.A. they ride on lolos and play the adventures of Lololo and Lalala) price of $62, American (I think that’s $50 Canadian and maybe like half a Euro), which will save me some money in the long run, in which I will now be able to participate due to my perpetually improving lung capacity. This is a view of where I wait for the bus to go to both the CityBeat and the Dot, facing opposite the way I go:

I returned home glad to have gotten that done, took an inexplicable nap from 7 to 10 p.m. (which may have been influenced by the emotional exhaustion that goes along with the withdrawal and how it can make you [read: me] easily and irrationally irritated, even by yourself) imbibed some spirits (ghouls, banshees, miller lite, wraiths, phantoms, and specters), and managed to get back to sleep around 1 a.m.

I’ve been horsing around a bit; I’m feeling a little sheepish, sluggish, priggish and piggish, serpentine and dogged and prepared to wolf down some cocktails. I’ve been hogging this bird’s-eye-view like a magpie hopped up on Quaaludes. But most of all, I’m feeling really pterodactylish, which probably has something to do with the mutant dactyls I spawned in my Petri dish.

-DS

dumpster divin, then you wail you gotta

2008-06-01T14:16:00.000-07:00

NOTE: The internet was absurdly slow and dysfunctional at Starbucks so this post includes less photos and links than it I originally intended for it to have.

SATURDAY

I scooped myself out of bed at 7, souped up the sloop john b and blooped out to the bus stop for to coup myself up within the tyrannosauric transport for 90 minutes en route to Pink Dot.
During that time I had a chance to frolic about in the cool waters of the quarry of my mind as I read more of Kurt Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions,” letting the echoing bark of dogs be muted by his soothingly cynical voice. Also there are illustrations! Which makes it feel like I have read more than I really have, which makes me feel smarter than I really am, which is good for morale in general, and also helps to quell the incessant mutt mutterings. Here are some buildings on Sunset Blvd. that I pass on the way to work:

The first one is obviously the House of Blues; I do not know what the second one is but I liked its architectural swagger.

Work was uneventful for the most part. I quickly acclimated myself to the job and completed my training around 10 a.m. Saturday morning (my shift was 9 to 6), which means no free lunch from the deli but now yr on the clock and getting paid. A step up. Steve and I divided the workload pretty evenly throughout the day, of which there wasn’t much to speak of except for a lunch rush. I got off a little after 6 (Steve was getting a little antsy about not getting off on time and quipped with Scottish flare "if someone doesn't come in to relieve me soon, I'm going to relieve myself!" and imagine the corresponding gestures) and got a chance to introduce myself to some of the late shift workers, then got going back home, reading more Vonnegut on the way.

After returning home, I called up a friend and walked around aimlessly outside as I talked. I noticed some interesting truck in a dumpster, and this observation inspired me to explore other nearby dumpsters as well. I walked through a few alleys adjacent 28^th St., crossed the street and checked out some more alleys near USC’s sprawling frat court, and made out with a pretty decent bounty. Near the start of my hunt, I found a pair of yellow rubber gloves, which made the whole affair a lot easier,less gross and more sanitary. I met three other dumpster divers in the process, and there was a novel sort of camaraderie in the air. When two Hispanic dumpster divers (they were interested mostly in bottles and cans, which you can exchange here for cash) took their leave from a dumpster I was examining, they said adios and I said buen suerte, which means good luck. My other dumpster diving acquaintance, an older black gentleman, was pretty excited to receive a full can of Bud Light that I had found in the trash, and bid me “good lookin’ out,” which means ‘thanks for considering me in yr search,’ as I ventured off to the next crusty cornucopia. Here’s what I bespectacally culled from the smashing (like British for good) trash receptacles:

-One pair Adidas track & field shoes, size 12.5
-One pair Nike track & field shoes, size 13
-One pair leather dress shoes, size 13
-One pair Adidas shelltops, size 13
-One pair Vans midtop laceups, size 8ish
-One pair Vans lowtop laceups, size 11
-One pair Rainbow sandals, size 8ish
-One pair sandals, size 13
-One Scarface movie poster, mounted and framed
-One alcoholic motivation poster
-One small piece of art depicting tee-shirts
-One street sign with Hebrew (I think) characters
-One oven mitten
-One 1.75 L bottle of Grey Goose Vodka, empty
-One full can of Bud Light, full, which I gave to a fellow dumpster diver
-Two coasters with French printing
-One screenplay, entitled “Swingers”
-One necklace with a shiny shell
-One USB cable
-One Ikea knife block, complete with knives
-One beer mug, enormous
-One espresso mug
-One festive basket, sized perfectly for carrying all of the above (seriously)

This was my post-diving feast:

I plan on checking out shoe prices on eBay to see if I can get anything for the track shoes, which seem pretty nice, and the Rainbows, which are in good condition, and which I know sell for $50 new. The dress shoes, big sandals and probably the shelltops I’ll keep for myself, seeing as how they are my size. Depending on if this proves to be a lucrative endeavor, I may make another trip out to the dumpsters.

Hang Gliderly Yours,

-DS

it feels like a koala bear crapped a rainbow in my brain

2008-05-30T22:52:00.000-07:00

ANOTHER LEVIATHAN TRIPLE BROWN BETTY POST

WEDNESDAY

The highlight of Wednesday was the story I wrote for CityBeat.

Having discussed it the night before at Carman’s place, I carpooled with Alfred to work (he lives near 30^th & Hoover), which saved me time and money. Upon arriving at the CityBeat, I got about 12 emails from Alfred, each of which contained a different prospect for a sidebar column in the upcoming issue.

The issue that came out this Thursday was originally slated to run with my L.A. County Metropolitan Transportation Authority Story, but it didn’t due to a few problems. I didn’t attribute enough of the quotes to the public speakers because they cycled through quickly and I wasn’t able to get their names. There also wasn’t much of a news value to the story; the union advocates said their piece and were excited about it, but there was no legislative action taken, or any for that matter, concerning their demands. Alan gave me constructive criticism telling me these things, and noting that there were some good elements to the story. I lament not being able to work with he and Alfred over the course of the summer (he’ll be gone by next week, as will Alfred); they are both talented journalists from whom I could learn a lot. On a positive note, Alfred has mentioned to me that I should stay in contact with him after he leaves if I ever need some advice or things of that nature. I’m definitely pleased at that prospect, as well as the prospect of maintaining at least some contact with Alfred through Carman.

I narrowed the topics down to two potential story topics: a preview story about the author of a book about L.A.’s early music scene presenting the book at a local book store, or, the story I ended up choosing, a discussion forum being held at the Hammer Museum of UCLA concerning racism and other flaws in America’s criminal justice system.

I made some calls, and ended up having a 20-minute, engaging, enlightening interview with the main speaker of the event, Marc Mauer. Mauer has dedicated his career (which includes work as an orator, author, activist, lobbyist, and researcher) to the subject of America’s criminal justice system, with an angle predominantly opposed to it due to its flaws, and a specific focus on racism. That’s all I’ll say for now about the story; if all goes according to plan it will run in next Thursday’s CityBeat and I’ll be able to link to it from here.

By about 6:30 I had gotten the story written and through several revisions with Alfred, who made some excellent and helpful critical commentary on my piece. Alfred and I decided to get dinner since I was going to be leaving with him, and after he got his work squared away (around 7:30), he called up Greg and we headed to dinner. We decided on a vegetarian restaurant serving what seemed (I have no way of verifying this) like very authentic Indian cuisine. There was a large quasi-outdoor dining area in the front of the restaurant that was in a sort of greenhouse-esque enclosure. The inside was smaller and more cozy, with a kalediscopic interior design: walls thickly smattered with pictures and artwork depicting Indian people in traditional garb, decorative rainbow adornments (I’m not sure exactly what they were specifically; there were some cloth orbs and strings), and a plethora of gilded frames, molding, and decorative accessories. Our appetizers were potatoes and vegetables baked inside a flaky pastry shell (the name of most of the dishes escape me). We ordered the “Punjab Glory” entrée plate, which consisted of basmati rice with carrots and peas, chickpeas, naan or a very similar, doughy flatbread, a crispy, wafer thin cracker-like item (I forget the name), shredded lettuce, curry vegetables, a apple-cinnamon-tasting dipping sauce, a sweet, seafoam-colored dipping sauce, and a cool, creamy cucumber sauce evocative of taziki (sp?, that sauce on gyros). We also got a second entrée to share which was a medley of vegetables dressed in a spicy, zesty sauce and encased in flatbread, presented like a quesadilla. It was all pretty glorious, if not a little spicy for my taste. The lack of meat was no disappointment.

Throughout dinner, upon my request, Greg gave me a broad outline of/crash course in local politics, or, as he put it, ‘a lesson in political science.’ He listed all the current county government members, their political parties and (more importantly, due to less traditionalism in keeping with party lines) their ideologies and placement on the liberal-conservative spectrum and their histories, briefly. He then, again upon my request, explained the situation with the King/Drew Hospital and how it came to be such a debacle. Alfred also contributed important contextual and other information intermittently. It was really a lot of great information; hearing it was almost intoxicating; I felt like a sponge, hoping to soak up all this pertinent data but with only a limited capacity (at least for one sitting). I definitely feel like I have a better grasp of local government now, albeit a very limited one. Also, I got a nanohistory of the legendary governor Jerry Brown, whose heart smiles and never frowns. I’m telling you, people, be on the lookout for the Suede Denim Secret Police. They’re coming for yr uncool niece. California Uber Alles doesn’t make any more sense to me now than it did before, but it was keen to gain some context. As Greg put it, Governor Brown was a peculiar subject for Jello Biafra’s ire. As it was Greg’s birthday the next day (Thursday), Alfred sprung for everyone’s dinner, which was extremely kind of him. These guys are good people. It was really a pleasure to be around such knowledgeable, informed, aware, intelligent people and to hear their take on things.

After dinner and the subsequent half hour of inculcation, we decided, upon Greg’s recommendation, that we should head to Red Mango, a chain of frozen yogurt joints that originated in Asia (Japan, I think, but I can’t remember) and became trendy and popular in California among the dessert crowd and the health-foodies. I admit I was a bit skeptical about the whole operation at first ($4 for a cup of cold curds?), but I was sold after the first bite. It was just frozen yogurt with fresh raspberries and strawberries, but it was delectable! Really caught me by surprise. Quite a treat. We shot the shit as we ate in the hiply furnished dining area, which was a spare-furnished, relaxing affair that had a sort of minimalistic sensibility to the color scheme and overall design aesthetic. We talked about music, drugs, work, fun (and how lame it was, according to a Greg; he and Alfred both have sharp, deft, understated, wry, occasionally cynical and sardonic senses of humor that are very appealing character aspects in my opinion), and the general state of things. At one point the question was top three hip-hop albums, and they both gave excellent answers (well-founded, -thought-out and -put), and I felt a little inadequate in my responses, despite the fact that I consider hip-hop to be my forte as far as genres go. It was really an exciting experience to hear their choices and why they had made them. Alfred dropped Greg off and gave me a ride home, and, as Big L once said (paraphrasing), “they left him sleepin with his temple leakin.” Except, in this case, that phrase does not refer to me being killed by a gunshot wound to the head, but me slumbering with so much information whirlpooling in my head that there were bound to be some ideas that leaked out, probably through the temporal lobes.

THURSDAY

I didn’t have to do any intern work Thursday, but I did attend the staff meeting held in the CityBeat’s offices at 11 a.m. The meeting was relatively small, with only myself, Carman, Acting Editor Rebecca Schoenkopf, two other staff writers whose names I don’t know, the moribund News Editor, Alan Mittlestaedt (the position is moribund, that is; Alan is strong as a spring ox from what I can tell), the world-class, incomparable, uncanny, masterful (seriously) wordsmith Ron Garmon. Garmon’s work is really just superb. I expressed this sentiment to Alfred after having read a few pieces of Garmon’s, and Alfred corroborated the claim, which should really solidify its truth, as Alfred is an individual with a fantastic journalistic attunement and a great writer himself. It was the closest I’ve felt to starstruck thus far in L.A. (it wasn’t very much, admittedly, but it is more than any other person I have encountered so far). The guy is pretty interesting in person. He was wearing rose-colored aviators, a silky, slightly loose, tastefully unbuttoned, flower-print shirt, some uneventful pants and shoes, with blonde, slightly spiky hair. As Alfred put it, Ron can seem a little scatter-brained and all over the place in person, but on the page he’s excellent. The issue that came out that day was discussed briefly, a few ideas were discussed for the next issue, and that about settled it. It was pretty uneventful. After that I tried out a nearby burger joint which touted “The Original Big Boy Burger” (yes, that Big Boy, the Astro Boy doppelganger with a burger perched atop his open palm like a tray, thrust pridefully heavenward). It was mostly a Big Mac. Except more expensive. Also it had ketchup and sweet relish on it, which was gross. Not bad overall, though. And the Pepsi I bought cost $2.50. (this also happened to me at a restaurant on Friday) What the hell? I seem to remember paying half that back home. It was pretty heinous price gouging if you ask me. I’ll be sticking to water next time.

After lunch, I went back home, gliding gracefully on the smooth, spacious, comfortable, quiet-as-a-god-damned-church-mouse bus as if I were an angel wafting through heaven on a souped-up Maybach-customized cloud, or a young, Turk of erstwhile lore soaring majestically on an intricately designed carpet, reaping the benefits of the lack of stipulations to prevent loopholes on the part of my now-perpetually indentured djinn, cursing bitterly under his breath. Those benefits include the ability to spit lightning and the power of cotton candy vision. Also no lines for me at the DMV, and whenever I order a 5-piece nugget at McDonalds I instead get 6 nuggets. And a switchblade.

I began to import into my sprawling iTunes library some of the CDs lent to me by Carman, most notably of which would be Maggot Brain by Funkadelic and Dinosaur Jr.’s self-titled album. Quality vibage. I began to head back on the aforementioned silky bus lines around 6, having been invited to enjoy dinner with Greg and his companions for his 23^rd Birthday dinner that night. I went to Carman’s first to catch some of game 5 of the NBA Western Conference Finals (which L.A. ended up winning). Carman, Alfred and I headed out about 7:30, after we had knocked off the remainder of the pale ales from the previous festivities. We went to a restaurant called the Vegan Spot (everything on the menu was vegan) on Sunset Blvd. (Greg is a vegetarian and has been for several years). Once there, we met Greg, his girlfriend, his friend Lilian, another of his friends whose name regrettably escapes me (as does that of his girlfriend), and Emma. We got introduced and conversed for awhile as we waited for the lone cook of the tiny eatery to prepare and serve our food. Carman had a “Sloppy Joe” that he described as, shall we say, not quite of the caliber to merit the spirited and moving type of performance that the meatful sloppy joes were for Sandler (WHEN HE USED TO BE FUNNY) and Farley (who was always funny, thanks to his premature death. I guess that’s a little glib, but c’est la speedballing. Neither was Alfred’s salad, which was surprising given that it was a vegan joint. I, personally, quite liked my “Club Sandwich,” which had a convincing turkey substitute, ample sprouts (which I love, mostly for their texture), veganaise (vegan mayonnaise), ersatz bacon which was surprisingly decent for a vegan concoction, avocado, tomato, and red onion. All the sandwiches came with coleslaw, which was a courser and less-heavily dressed version of the southern barbeque and hotdog compatriot that I’ve come to know. A friend of Greg’s brought up an interesting quandary: how did the restaurant flavor the vegan eggs in her breakfast burrito to taste like eggs? I initially responded that eggs have a pretty mild flavor, but she made the point, astutely, that they nonetheless have a distinctive and recognizable flavor. It’s a question for the ages, I guess.

After dinner, our little murder of Angelenos (like crows) headed to a gelato spot, due to the suggestion made by Emma, who, we found out, has sampled over 100 flavors of gelato (this occurred during her time in Italy). It was a good choice, for sure. A little pricy ($4.50 for a regular), but decidedly decadent and delicious. I decided to tread a fairly cautious route: cinnamon and Italian vanilla (you got two flavor choices with a regular). Despite this seeming like a bland selection, it was actually very rich and intensely flavorful. Emma, the connoisseur, had orange chocolate and another flavor, which I forget; Alfred and Carman both had tiramisu and another flavor. Consensus was reached easily that the fare was scrumptious, and it was an uncommon (at least for me) and exciting post-dinner treat. Discussion ranged from favorite music documentaries, favorite Prince songs, and weird stories involving celebrities. My favorite was the one ending with a guy who purportedly saw Bill Murray at an airport, made eye contact with him, and then was put in a headlock by him, with Murray saying over and over to his victim, “Your friends will never believe you! Your friends will never believe you!” The murders components parted ways and I was given a ride back by Alfred, with whom I discussed what North Carolina/Greensboro was famous for (things that I was able to come up with: the Woolworth’s sit-ins, the Grasshopers, the historic Battleground, and being “The Gate City,” whatever the hell that means (for Greensburl [sic]), and H.P.’s furniture empire, W.S.’s tobacky [sic] empire, Burlington’s coat empire (I didn’t mention that one, but it did occur to me), Carrowinds, the Queen City in general, the State Capital and its corresponding monuments and historical landmarks, UNC basketball (and not anything else worth mentioning besides UNC and its history as far as Chapel Hill is concerned), and, of course, Lexington’s signature OMGWTFBBQ.

FRIDAY

Today I had two interviews, one with Starbucks at 10 a.m. and one with Pink Dot, a grocery delivery service, at noon. I was hoping to get hired by Starbucks, which is about two minutes away from my house by bike, straight away, and to be able to forgo the second interview. I think this would have been a possibility, except the manager informed me that she was only hiring people who could continue work through the fall, which is when their business really begins to pick up, as they are adjacent to the undercaffinated populace of USC. Alas. I did get a free coffee out of it, which was swell. As such, I headed to the bus stop to catch a bus that goes way the hell up Vermont, when I get off at the Sunset intersection, and then a bus that goes way the hell west on Sunset. The total busride time is about 90 minutes, which actually was not such a bad thing, I think, because it gave me a chance to make a 50-page dent in Kurt Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions,” a book I got as a gift from a friend, and which is intensely relatable and pretty funny so far.

I got to Pink Dot, met the manager for the “interview,” which consisted of him asking if I had already applied, me saying yes, and him asking if I would be able to get started training today, which I said I could. I grabbed some lunch at Jinky’s Café (there was no sign of Velma), another place to which I applied that is right down the road from Pink Dot, and went back and started training as an operator. Pink Dot has the grocery selection of a modest- to large-sized gas station convenience store, as well as a respectably diverse liquor, wine, and beer selection. They also have a kitchen downstairs, which offers sub sandwiches, pizza, salad, soup, and a few other items. All of it is a little overpriced. The store is open for customers to walk in and buy things, but the majority of business is done over the phone, with orders taken by an operator, bagged up, and given to the delivery driver. It was really easy to pick up the skill required to do my job, all I had to do was learn the GUI of the computers, wherein you just type the name or brand of the thing the person wants and select appropriately. The guy training me was Steve-O, a half-Scottish, half-American 30-year-old who still had enough vestiges of his accent to be quite endearing. Not to mention he was a nice guy and experienced enough to quickly explain the job to me in easily understandable terms. I also met Oscar, who works the front desk, Bora, the manager who I mentioned earlier, Danielito, one of the many delivery drivers, and a few other people I was introduced to whose names I’ve since forgotten. I trained from about 1 p.m. to 5 p.m., and by the end I was able to take and input orders on my own with relatively little incident. As Steve-O eloquently put it, the job is “seductively easy.” What he meant by that was the job is easy enough that one might, hypothetically, be inclined to do their job, and be able to do it more than satisfactorily, he insisted, while in a state of hyposobriety. He said this tends to occur somewhat frequently for the employees there. I don’t have the desire nor the funds to fuel such a habit, but I was enticed by the ease of the work and the downtime that might be conducive to getting more reading done. However, I’m not sure how well it pays, and with the commute being as long as it is, I figure I’ll only work here for a couple weeks maximum until I can find a job waiting tables, which is a particularly lucrative endeavor around these parts, I’ve discovered, on account of the fact that you are paid minimum wage plus tips, rather than that $3.15/hr bullshit they had in N.C. It’s good to know I’ll have some income.

I got my camera charger in the mail thanks to the venerable Dad, so pictures will happen in the next post, my prurient readers (that address to the readers stolen from the crunchily tastelicious Ron Garmon, and used in a much more sensical way, as well). Until then.

-DS

boba, mochi; don quixote

2008-05-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

TUESDAY
THAT'S TCHUSEDY FOR ALL YOU SOUTHERN FOLK

The busses here have what I can only assume are pneumatic breaks, and the sound of these breaks is nigh identical to the the ubiquitous booooo sounds of Anita Ward's 1979 marvel "Ring My Bell," whose title's patriotic euphemism is a glowing beacon of good-ole-fashioned American creative gumption. I've got the rockin consumption and the boogie-woogie ebola.

I ventured back to the gilded, cavernous vault that is the CityBeat office with a sparkle in my step and the end theme to Pee Wee's Playhouse in my head (that synthy, contemplative, sort of ambient soundtrack to Paul Reubens' flying scooter escapades) Tuesday. I learned something new at work: being an intern means supplicating to the internet, the goddess of data entry and menial labor. Also some small animal sacrifice, which ended up being lunch after the rites were completed (there's no seasoning like spiritual seasoning, hopefully the diet will not cloy). Whooda thunkit. Yeah so mostly I did more calendar listings and subsequent posting of said listings to the CityBeat website. Lunch was actually at Cafe Back Door, a small, health-food oriented restaurant a few minutes from the office. It was an excellent, if not slightly expensive (a little less than a Hamilton) lunch; Carman got a gourmet grilled cheese (none of that white bread and Kraft bullshit, we're talking grilled sourdough and a premium three-cheese medley), and I got a salmon cake sandwich (which I had never had before, and which is like crab cakes, only...salmon) and fries. Both meals came with a mixed fruit cup on the side, which was really tasty and refreshing. Carman got some jasmine milk tea with bobas (little tapioca balls that you slurp up through the straw, a texture not unlike that of the orbs in Orbitz soft drink).

We got to leave a little early because of our blisteringly prodigious data entry skills, and were lifted off our feet and pulled by our noses to Jack in the Box by the smell of french fies (you know, like in the cartoons). After eating four tacos and some tater wedges, I went with Carman to his pad to watch game four of the NBA Western Conference Finals, in which L.A. eked out a win over San Antonio. Charles Barkley was a steel-drivin' man/my name is Daniel I'm your biggest three-speed, oscillating fan. I don't see how anyone could comprehend this blog/but (as in except) you (my valued, good-looking, high-powered, assertive-personality-having, astronaut readers). Emma, another intern at the CityBeat, joined Julie, Greg, Alfred, Carman, the hip-ass Carlton T-Shirt, and I for the game, and we sipped tasty pale ales while we did so. I took my leave afterward, while the crew went to Red Mango for some frozen yogurt, and possibly mochis. Another good day.

torpid torpedoes

2008-05-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

MONDAY
ALSO: MEMORIAL DAY

I did mas que nada, which means 'the minimum,' on the day intended for honoring and remembering our fallen soldiers and living veterans, and I suppose also the current military enlistees. Even being in opposition to the war as I am, it is hard to translate that disdain to the soldiers themselves, they are more or less pawns, and don't deserve (in my humble opinion) the derision that the chief executive does .

I woke up around ten, spent an hour or so organizing music files on my computer, and then headed off to the rolling hills of the internette for a session of loutish lounging. There were no pulsing logarithms to which to groove on those hills. During my time there, I got to feeling a little anxious, concluded my session, and went to Ye Olde Wendy's for some comfort food. A man attempted to give me a pamphlet about the Bible, and told him I wasn't for Christian propaganda. He inquired as to why I had used the term propaganda, and I could see that he was maybe a little hurt or offended. I explained to him deadpan that propaganda does not necessarily carry with it a negative connotation; it merely means media created and distributed for the purpose of furthering or inhibiting a specific cause, group, person, etc. He thanked me and I thanked him, and although it wasn't really a positive experience per se, but it was kind of cool to have connected on an honest level with the man, and that there was a presence of mutual respect.

I ate, started watching Chinatown, which I borrowed from Carman, and fell asleep about one hour into the film. I awoke around 6 p.m., finished the movie, which I enjoyed pretty good (although my diminutive laptop speakers were often drowned out by the various sources of noise pollution, and as such I missed some dialogue) and spent the rest of the night working on some writing. It was tough to get to sleep but I managed eventually, and I'm feeling adequately spry and chipper today.

Also, Alfred (the L.A. CityBeat Calendar Editor who lives on Hoover and 30th) said that we can carpool, which will save me some bus bread. Hopefully the pictures will be back soon.

-DS

a trip to melrose

2008-05-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

Wan Sink: You Lure Sense, Sate Shun
Special LolLinks Edition
Because Everyone Likes Pictures

SUNDAY

I biked up to Starbucks to start my day as usual, web logging like I was some sort of arachnid lumberjack. As I was lounging around the internette, Carman called and asked if I wanted to hit up Melrose Street. I had checked out a small stretch of Melrose Saturday after he’d mentioned it being a locus of hipsterdom, but I was at the wrong part of Melrose, and all I found was the barrio. He informed me that there’s only about a mile stretch of Melrose, around where it intersects with La Brea, which has the interesting stores teeming with the tragically trendy. So I concocted some lunch and skipped merrily to the bus stop to meet up with Carman at Wilshire & La Brea.

Upon seeing me Carman noted that I looked “L.A.” (adj.) due to a loud, blocky winter jacket (it was cold! Well, cool…around 60 degrees) I’d bought my first day here from the house sale. I was flattered. We caught the bus to Melrose & La Brea; near this intersection is Pink’s Hot Dogs, which apparently is a world famous hot dog stand that’s been around for almost 70 years, and which is enormously popular, catering to celebrity clientele as well as regular schmucks like me. Legend has it that Orson Welles once ate 18 hot dogs in one sitting there. I imagine that would cause the kind of hallucinations that are conducive to weaving a tale about temporal voyages. Or maybe just severe, explosive, terminal diarrhea. There was a line at Pink’s that stretched around the corner, with probably 100-150 people waiting. I’ll tell you now, the hot dogs were just as fun as a rollercoaster, lasted longer, and made you less nauseous. Me and Carman got in line (that means on line for all you NY blogophiles) and got the menus, which had a brief history of Pink’s on the back. There were lots of signature dogs, some with two hot dogs in one bun, some with guacamole, bacon, sauerkraut, coleslaw, mayo, onions, mushrooms, lettuce, tomatoes, and even onion rings. Many were named after the celebrities who first asked for them. We perused the menus for awhile, smoked squares, and shot the shit.

After twenty minutes or so of waiting, Carman says to me, “So Dan, tell me your life story.” I was a little incredulous at first, but I saw that he was serious and decided to do my best to oblige his request. (As I mentioned in the last post, I find Carman’s willingness to dedicate an extensive period to time to activities might seem mundane or tedious on its surface to be a positive character trait, and one that has proven the said activities are actually enjoyable and not boring at all.) I chronicled my life as best I could on the spot, using my grade in school at various points of the years as a point of reference. I mostly construed my life in terms of my hobbies, recreational activities, friends, school, and some watersheds in my philosophies. It was an interesting and somewhat enlightening undertaking to condense everything that’s happened to me into about 30 minutes of talking, and I realized how huge a role school has played in defining me as a person. It reminds me of what a big change it will be to graduate college and start a career. I would have liked to hear Carman’s spiel, but unfortunately by the time I finished we were nearing the moment of flaming canine truth, and there would not have been adequate time for him to regale me.

We got our hot dogs (Carman got a Mullholland Drive [another David Lynch film which has, in my opinion, one of the scariest movie moments ever near the , which is a 10” stretch dog with grilled onions and mushrooms, nacho cheese, and bacon, as well as the standard chili dog; I got a 10” stretch standard chili dog [which comes with chili, mustard and onions]; we shared an order of fries and an order of onion rings) after about an hour of waiting, sat in the patio dining area, and tucked in. We met up with Julie I as we were nearing the end of the line, and she sat with us and shared some of the deep fried goodness and had a coke. My hot dog was fantastic; it was probably the best hot dog I’ve ever eaten. Admittedly, I’m no connoisseur, so I may not have a sophisticated enough palette to make such claims, but what I mean to express (and what I did, in fact, express verbally to my new compatriots, upon finishing my meal) is that it was a Damn Fine Hot Dog.

Julie I’s ’81 Vespa was on the fritz again, so she parked it at a gas station adjacent to the intersection of La Brea and Melrose and we set off to explore the stores. The stores on Melrose were unique and interesting, and attracted the hip and trendy like evangelists to…well, to anywhere. I’d say the majority of shops were vintage, designer and contemporary couture boutiques; with restaurants and other eateries (e.g. yogurt shops, which Carman told me are the latest in trendy Californial health foods) being the second most prevalent. I wish I could have gotten some pictures while I was there; many of the stores had highly stylized and artsy sign designs, made with mixed media, vibrantly colored, and jutting out above the sidewalks and streets, that were truly sights to behold. We checked out a store that was half comic book shop, half record store, wherein Carman purchased a small (6”or 7”, I can’t remember which) Elvis Costello single for $3, and I got a small Dead Kennedys button (which they touted as a “badge”) for $1.35. I feel like Julie I bought a record, too, but I can’t remember what it was. They had an LP of “The Name of This Band is the Talking Heads” for $15, a pretty good deal, I think, for such a seminal album, but, alas, money is tight and so it was no sale.

We visited a few other stores, a couple vintage/trendy clothing stores with items that seemed culled from thrift stores due to their hip or kitsch value, and marked up pretty high as a result. We stopped into a store that can best be described as pop culture store/art installation, which had lots of cute toys, some caricatures of pop culture icons like Minnie Mouse and the Cheshire Cat, custom sneakers, high-dollar artsy tee shirts, and other sci-fi tinged toy/model/action figure inventions of collectors and artists, custom painted and put on display in fluorescently lit glass cases. These stores are usually pretty spare, with some of the items on display not for sale at all but simply there as works of art to be enjoyed by patrons. This is another instance where pictures would help clarify the scene; it was definitely a novel experience.

Because it was Sunday, a lot of the shops were closed so we didn’t get to experience Melrose in all its wondrous, whimsical glory; I’ll definitely be back later on a regular business day with expendable cash in my soul and a song in the right front pocket of my heart’s slacks. And with the light switch on inside the birdhouse in my soul.

We made our way back to the bus stop at La Brea and Melrose (because there is no monorail), and Carman and I decided to get some sodas from the gas station where Julie I had parked her Vespa. Unfortunately, as we paid for our drinks we saw the bus leaving, and ended up having to wait another 30-40 minutes for the next one to come (because the bus on that street runs more infrequently than those on some of the more popular corridors). The wait wasn’t bad though, Carman and I reminisced on Calvin & Hobbes comics, stamp collecting, the AFL, and, of course, the XFL. We finally caught the bus and I stopped by Carman’s place to borrow the movie Chinatown, and a metric shit ton of CDs of his that I wanted to add to my collection. I came back and slept well, my stomach still gurgling from the hearty pig parts, bone meal, insect legs, rat feces and Dianetics books which, together, comprise hot dogs. It's a real good taste, though. A real good taste indeed.

-DS

Another untruncated triptych; a trunkful of mildly amusing fumbling bumbling musings humbly numbly grumbled for your enjoyment

2008-05-25T12:26:00.000-07:00

Warning: this is an exceedingly long post, you may be inundated in my inanity. Funny tanning goggles, water wings and flippies required. No peeing in the pool. ABSOLUTELY no peeing into the pool.

Sorry for the lack of consistent posting. I will try not to make it a habit.

Tubular Tribunal Post [Featuring Bonus Pigeonholing]

AN ISSUE OUTSIDE TIME AND SPACE

There is an enormous pigeon that lives on my roof and it incessantly makes cascading, guttural coos. It is maddening, but luckily I’ve got the old Ace-brand fan for the white noise. However, sometimes this pigeon’s will is stronger even than that of the valorous Ace fan, and Professor Cathedral’s (that is the pigeon’s name) gravelly lilt rises above the calming drone of the fan and saturates and contaminates my precious bodily fluids tauntingly, not unlike commie fluoridation.

THURSDAY

After I got my story finished, I hung around the office for a little while, waiting for Carman to finish his story. Once he got that adequately completed we headed to his place to watch the game (Celtics-Pistons NBA ECF Game 2; it was a good, close game, and the Pistons came out on top, tying the series 1-1). The concert was slated to start at 8:00 p.m., but Carman said it probably wouldn’t get going until 8:30-9:00, so we hung out in his room for a little while before heading out. He introduced me to a band called Television, which has a sound evocative of the Talking Heads (and which was from the same Era of early dance-punk, Carman informed me). Carman had me listen to a ten-minute track by Television, the name of which escapes me; he described as the most beautiful song in the world; their magnum opus. I vibed with it, for sure, and although I was not of the opinion that it is the most beautiful song in the world, I definitely thought it was cool of him to be so into the song that he wanted to share it with me, and enjoyed it a lot.

We headed out to the concert, which was housed in the El Rey Theatre, not too far from Carman’s or the CityBeat offices, got our tickets at will call, and headed in. There is a phenomenon I first became aware of when I saw a billboard with the pictures of two local talk radio personalities, and that phenomenon is that I (and many people, I suspect) manifest pictures of people’s physical appearance in their heads after they’ve heard their voices. The show represented two diametrically opposed instances of how this imagined visage can fall into congruence with reality.

Busdriver is an eccentric indie rapper with prodigious lyrical rapidity and a keen rhythmic sensibility as it pertains to linguistics; these traits sometimes mean compromised "meaning" (which I tend to be A-OK with, I like the use of language as a rhythmic instrument) that is sometimes salvaged with a pithy, catchy hook. My mental conception of him dovetailed exactly with his corporeal countenance; he had a distinctive, eccentric, agog stage presence, sometimes waving the mic rapidly to and fro in front of his mouth to create a sort of psychedelic rapid fading in and out of his vox. He was probably about 6’2”, 200-225 lbs., black, with a badass haircut that looked like a flattop circa 1992, except it went up in the back and was also less kempt. He postured himself ironically, often standing hyper-erect with his eyes mostly closed and gesticulating frantically with his free hand to the pace of his blistering diction. He was smooth with his mic tricks; he divided his attention between the audience and some electronic setup he had on a table in front of him, which he used for beat drops and other distortive effects. His DJ was very talented as well; most of the beats were made using live MPC, but for at least one song (we got there at 9, a little late), he pulled out an electric guitar and strummed some funk beats over which Busdriver spit hot fire. It was a killer performance in my opinion, and I felt kind of cool, with some indie cred perhaps, because I was familiar with the act and Carman wasn’t, meaning I got to inform him about his songs and his record label, as well as sing along to the tracks he played in his set. Good times.

El-P is another indie rapper who tends to be more intelligible than Busdriver, and who’s built up a strong following with his albums Fantastic Damage and I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead. He’s a great rapper with some inventive and thought provoking lyrics, as well as a fine rapping ability as far as speed and timing goes. El-P looked nothing like I expected him to; he was a short, slightly dumpy white guy. However, despite my initial pause, El Producto proved the triviality of exteriors, coming out hype as hell and ready to do a show. El-P had an uncanny ability to get the crowd live; they (myself and Carman included) often jumped around like they were House of Pain fanatics, they had no problem spitting the hooks when El-P flipped the mic in their direction, and were always down for putting their hands up and/or waving ‘em side-to-side when told. I wasn’t as familiar with El Producto’s body of work, but it was an enjoyable performance nonetheless, and I am so glad I was able to make it. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the headliner, Dizzee Rascal went on, because the busses stop running at 1 a.m., and El-P didn’t finish his set until about 11:30-11:45.

On the way out of the show, a peculiar thing occurred. Carman and I passed by a young black guy holding a stack of CDs in jewel cases. I figured he might be a burgeoning musician trying to drum up publicity, and asked for a CD. He said they weren’t free, but told us to name a price and we could cop. Carman and I both explained how we were poor college students, and that we didn’t have the money (Carman even mentioned to him how we had gotten the concert tickets for free). After a minute or so of this, the guy apparently got perturbed, and said something to me, punctuating his statement with something along the lines of “…your Bob Saget-lookin ass.” I was pretty sure this was meant as an insult, albeit a puzzling one, and just turned away from the guy, not saying anything. It was at this point that the young man started rapping at me, somewhat angrily, and, as I heard it, somewhat provocatively. Carman and I began to walk away, and he followed, still rhyming, After maybe 12 or 16 bars of rap, he stopped, and I made an executive decision. It occurred to me that this was an important moment for me, it was a chance to prove myself as an interesting dude to Carman and to save a little face for myself (I wasn’t offended by the Bob Saget comment, he’s actually pretty funny, but it’s the principle of the thing.. So after he finished, I started freestyling back, mustering what deftness of lyricism I could in my state of stiff exhaustion (I danced and bobbed my head at the concert, but the majority of it was spent standing still, which can get to me after a couple hours). I espoused some of Busdriver’s style, flowing with rapid, repetitive holorhymes in some sections. I finally finished, after probably 8-12 bars (with no beat[box]), with “stop talkin out ya neck or yr gonna catch wreck.”

The guy seemed (understandably) surprised at my response, gave me dap (respect/props) for my efforts, softened his demeanor and bid us farewell as we walked away. Carman seemed a little stunned, but said “dude, that was awesome,” and I felt pretty good. I haven’t freestyled in some time, and I’m better at it when I’m imbibing, but I felt like it was a decent impromptu performance. I was also glad to have done it simply for the sake of it as a life experience; not many people can say they engaged in an unplanned freestyle rap battle on the streets of Los Angeles. Maybe some people reading this do not know that I like to rap; I feel a little strangely about it as to me it seems like an instance of appropriating black culture. However, as an aspiring wordsmith and general lexicon artist, not to mention my deep appreciation of and love for hip-hop, I find rap to be a really enjoyable means of using language rhythmically, and the concept of freestyling is just that, free, and for that reason it also appeals to me. Tired but very content, I caught my busses home and slumped into my bed, slept like a baby log.

FRIDAY

Friday was largely uneventful. I spent the morning and some of the afternoon arranging the furniture I had procured Wednesday, and cleaning up the apartment. I got some packages containing clothes, coat hangers, plane hangars, gang bangers, ziplocks, clingwrap, bling rap, and, most importantly X-Mas Slacks and ChexMix snacks sent by the right honorable Mom. Primetime rhyme slime aside, I really do appreciate all she sent me, the items have diversified my wardrobe to a respectable level and imparted me with some useful cleaning, wiping and storing devices, which I have taken for granted despite how invaluable they are. Pics soon hopefully, the camera charger is on its way. That went off without a hitch; I got hitched to a snitch of a ditchwitch out front and now she and I lich [definition] are going to pitch which kitschy glitches can be repaired with stitches in Abercrombie & Fitches to rotting liches of Mitch and Rich until we’ve found a niche. Mmm, that’s rich.

Yeah…so, then I mostly just farted around the apartment, not doing much of anything (being a little tired from the long, long day before). I finished Dr. Strangelove (which I had started a couple of nights ago), and found it hilarious and excellent if not a little tedious at times during the dramatic war scenes. Nothing sticks with you like Slim Pickins’ rebel yell as he rodeoed that warhead to the ground.

After that, having been afflicted with a mild torpor, I decided to watch Blue Velvet, which is nothing like its pastry cousin, I’ll tell you right now. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched it, and I definitely enjoyed it this time through. Of all the David Lynch movies I’ve seen, this one had probably the least amount of mindfuck, which made it more comprehensible but not necessarily any better (in my opinion). I love the sound design in Blue Velvet, and the soundtrack is excellent as well; Lynch has a sensibility somewhat akin to Tarentino in his ability to take a seemingly innocuous 50s or 60s song and adhere a whole different, unexpected set of emotions to it. Case in point: Candy-Colored Clown (I think just the title of the song gives it the merit of its status in the movie, the alliteration and really fresh imagery it evokes makes it stick with you just on that one level). I may be mistaken, but I think Candy-Colored Clown is a Roy Orbison (I swoon for this guy’s insane vocal range and ability) tune. This would mean that Lynch has some sort of fascination with him, as he used Orbison’s “Crying” to an intense, chilling, haunting end in Mullholland Drive (hey that street is in the state in which I live woo!) which is exceedingly understandable. Orbison is phenomenal. There’s definitely a lot to that movie and I do not presume that I have it completely sewn up. But there’s one thing that will fill you up without ever letting you down and that is PABST! BLUE! RIBBON!! I’d recommend it to anyone not opposed to some disturbing imagery and some cinematic coyness; Lynch, as many less-than-mainstream directors, doesn’t package the meaning you are supposed to derive from the film neatly for you, it requires some thought (which, admittedly, can sometimes be offputting for me…I occasionally just want my movie to manipulate my emotions for 90-120 minutes and have the credits preceded by a pithy one liner that sums up the movie succinctly [preferably with a pun!]).

SATURDAY

The majority of Saturday was spent looking for jobs. Following an advert on Craigslist for a job, I went way downtown to Sunset Boulevard to fill out a couple applications. On the way to Sunset I saw the famous HOLLYWOOD sign in mountain relief, The Laugh Factory, and The House of Blues (whose marquee listed Dead Kennedys as an upcoming act, which surprised me…I think it must be a Dead Kennedys sans Jello Biafra). On Sunset I could see the mountains encircling L.A. (the streets start to go up at steep grades around those parts), and they were littered with multi-million dollar homes jutting out from their sides. It was definitely an interesting sight. I sauntered around Sunset for awhile, during which time I found a very odd shop that had many things on display that weren’t for sale (these were sort of like toys…maybe action figures or collectibles, that had been custom painted…this is a time when having a camera would have come in great handy), and a few things that were which weren’t particularly interesting to me as a consumer (some very expensive action figures, some strange shirts, some toys which were foreign and very expensive). It was pretty surreal, and I left. I went into another store, a hipster haven that was part headshop part custom/vintage boutique. There was lots of cool apparel and accessories there that I would like to own, but the stuff was mad expensive and the degree of trendiness of the clientele was intimidating to a layhipster like me. I found a nice hole-in-the wall restaurant, at which I ate a grilled chicken and avocado Panini sandwich (I’ve finally arrived in CA, right? Avacado on yr food and it’s got to be California) which was delectable, and headed back toward Vermont St. (perpendicular to which Sunset runs). I took the bus back to Vermont St., went to Vine St. and walked around just for the sake of doing it, saw some really nice suburban villas downtown on a street near vine that had actual yards and fauna, checked out Melrose for the same reason, and made it to Wilshire. I walked down Wilshire for a good hour or two, regaining that wonderful soreness, and scoping out the streetside shops for employment opportunities. I ended up finding only one place at which to apply on Wilshire, and took the bus home.

When I arrived home, I was a little perplexed and distressed when I found that my key, although it fit perfectly into the deadbolt keyhole, did not function as a tool to unlock it. It just turned in either direction ad infinitum, doing nothing. I informed Howie Baby of my plight, and he formulated a plan. Being the big ol’ teddybear that he is, he gave me some money to go get dinner while he ventured to Home Depot to obtain some tools to rectify the problem. I, being a little hungry but being more interested in saving the cash, decided ride my bike around aimlessly for awhile. I went to the Figueroa Corridor, where I applied for another job, and then went downtown for a ways, finally hitting Vermont again and making my way back to the apartment. Howard was still out (it was about 6 when I got home from job searching initially, and I made it back around 7:45 after my bike trip), so I decided to make some calls to catch up with people. I got to talk to my folks and a few friends with whom I hadn’t spoken in awhile. Howard made his grand return around 8:45. From the driver’s seat of his car, he handed me: three quarter-inch drill bits, cobalt; one screwdriver, magnetic tip Phillips-head; one corded drill, Black & Decker; and one deadbolt locking system, Quick Set. He gave me my instructions (drill through the center of the deadbolt [where the key goes] until it unlocks, replace the deadbolt, lather, return the items to me). It seemed simple enough, and I was admittedly a little excited to be doing it (a novel life experience!), but my glee faded as my labors proved more and more futile and as hunger and exhaustion began to weigh more heavily on me.

After about an hour’s fruitless drilling (during which time I got to meet Megan, the tenant of the apartment beside mine, #4, and explain, with a sense of high comedy bordering on tragedy, my situation), I contacted Howard and requested his assistance. It seems I had been going about it all wrong (drilling at full tilt until the drill damn near overheated); Howard drilled in short bursts and thrusts, and within a few minutes he had it open. I replaced the deadbolt, returned Howie’s tools, Howard attempted some humor about how I am now a certified locksmith and made some offhanded comment about how he was the ‘anchorman” (which I understand through the magnificence of context clues to mean a clutch player or finisher) in this situation as he was the anchorman on HIS SCHOOL’S DRINKING TEA M which he had me convinced actually existed (although there was only one other school in their conference, he says), and retired to my room with food on my mind. Although I was interested in saving money, I was at this point exhausted and famished, and figured I might as well go get some Denny’s, which is adjacent to Starbucks, since I hadn’t eaten there in many years and since I had hankerin somethin powerful for breakfast dinner. I definitely considered not going, but there was a strange feeling I had right before going out the door, and it told me I definitely should go.

Good going strange intuition/conscience/thedogsthatwon’tstopbarkinginmyhead, because on the way there I found a five-dollar bill. That makes a $7 net gain for no good reason (the first lottery ticket I've ever bought netted me $2 the other day, and I have since quit while being ahead). At Denny's, I ate a country fried steak and eggs (which were good, but not as good as Carolina’s Diner [which, interestingly enough, is owned by a man who was a former Denny’s area manager and who essentially plagiarized their menu, making a few minor variations, for the diner’s menu. But, I must admit, the diner simply does it better, so it’s not really immoral] food), tipped using most of the $5 I had found, and biked home, watched some Harvey Birdman and slept like a Whole Foods sustainable grocery tote full of free-range hormone-free organic, natural, gourmet, premium rocks. It was a day marred with whimsy, and it was great.

I'd like to coin a term, if I may, to conclude my post.

Californial-adj;

1. Of or pertaining to California.

-DS

delicious creamsicles, dreamsicles, dreamy bicycles

2008-05-22T17:28:00.000-07:00

Absentmindedly, I packed the wrong camera charger, and my camera has died, so there will be no more pictures until I get that mailed from home.

Yesterday I got in touch with Howard K and was able to get furniture from Apt. #5. I got a computer desk, a small chest of drawers, a bedside table, a round dining/card/misc. table, one baseline computer chair, one regular chair, some shelving units, and a fluorescent light. Pictures will be posted as soon as I get the camera charged.

Today so far has been an exciting, exhausting day, the kind of thing for which I came out here. I woke up at 6:30 to get directions to Union Station, a central subway and train terminal located in downtown L.A. I had to walk up to Adams to where it intersects with Figuerosa, and from there I caught a bus that took me into the true downtown L.A. I went past the Staples Center, near the central business district with the skyscrapers, and caught a rapid bus which took me about three blocks away from Union Station.

Union Station is an old train station that has some fantastic interior design. It's all wood paneling and old-style seats in the concourse and ticketing areas, with cavernous high ceilings and intricate wood design. Photos forthcoming. Connected to Union Station is another building whose name escapes me, which houses some board rooms used for meetings for the Los Angeles County Metro Transit Authority; the reason I was at Union Station was to cover a board meeting of the directors of the LACMTA.

At the meeting, there were many members of the public there to voice their opinion and show solidarity and support for the proposed unionization of Aramark employees (Aramark is a food service company that has partnered with MTA and which employs all of the people involved with the eateries and dining establishments associated with MTA institutions). The people who spoke were passionate about their cause, and as they spoke members of the community displayed their support by standing and applauding after each individual's speech (which were limited to one minute apiece). Although I was there to cover the proposed implementation of congestion pricing for some of the major highway corridors, this ended up being the more compelling story, and I that's what I wrote about. If it makes it to print, I'll have a link up here. There was one man in particular who really demanded the attention of the audience and board members. He was older, probably in his sixties or seventies, and claimed to have been a member of the AFL-CIO since the Roosevelt era. He had no need for the microphone provided and was not afraid to spew vehement invectives at the board members, at one time referring to them all as 'crooks.' He gesticulated wildly (a sort of determined flailing motion that was evocative of a wounded bird attempting to fly) throughout his diatribes (he spoke on four separate occasions concerning different matters). Among other things, he spoke of The Man and how he is best brought down, and each time he finished his spiel he was met by a mix of applause and stifled giggles and whispered comments (jokes at his expense, I assumed).

I got to meet Manuel, who was a member of the Bus Rider's Union who was there to champion the Union's recent victory which prevented the extinction of a few key routes and the reduction in running times of some others. He gave his organization's platform and backstory, which were pretty interesting; the BRU is simply a group of citizens that do not transport via auto and lobby and advocate for fair fees and convenient routes and scheduling.

The public's address to the directors notwithstanding, the meeting was dry and bureaucratic, and took almost three hours. After the meeting adjourned, I started trudging back uptown, in search of some lunch. I came across an intriguing food court of sorts in the heart of the city; there were restaurants of myriad ethnicities and nationalities, as well as a full liquor store, bakery, and sweets shop housed under one roof. I got to sample some Chinese cuisine (orange chicken, chow mein, and fried rice...pretty standard fare), which was tasty and which had a distinct flavor from the Chinese food to which I had grown accustomed in Greensboro and Chapel Hill.

After eating, I ambled fairly aimlessly through the streets of downtown L.A., looking for a bus that would take me either to work or home (where I could reorient myself and find the way to work). After some failed attempts, I managed to find a bus which took me to 7th and Vermont, which was less than a block away from Wilshire & Vermont, the corner at which I take my second of two busses to work (so this was a lot quicker than going home and taking the regular route from there). I got to work and discussed the meeting with Alan, the News Editor for the CityBeat, briefly, and got to work writing my story. It's a pretty straightforward hard news story which may or may not make it to print next week, but, as I said, I'll definitely have a link up if it does.

This brings me to the present, a few minutes prior to which Carman informed me he had obtained, through some possibly less-than-scrupulous means via his student radio station connections, two free tickets to a concert at the El Rey Theatre, which features Dizzee Rascal, El-P and Busdriver, and that I was invited. Dizzee Rascal is a British UK Garage/Grime act whose been around for awhile (maybe you are familiar with his "Fix Up, Look Sharp" or the Ratatat remix thereof), El-P is an alternative hip-hopper of the Def Jux label crew (whose most famous artist is [probably] Aesop Rock), and Busdriver, my second favorite driver of a bus to only the most excellent Driver Stu Benedict of Pete & Pete, is a somewhat enigmatic indie rapper who cuts wax on Epitaph. Busdriver is somewhat similar to Prefuse 73 or Subtle (yeah, probably even more obscure and not at all helpful), and has a similar flow style to Aesop Rock in that he often takes the kitchen sink approach, flexing incredible vocabulary and inventive lyricism at the cost of making any goddamn sense whatsoever. His flavor is right up my alley. Needless to say I reacted with substantial zeal and accepted the offer. That happens at 8:00. I am incredibly stoked. Sorry for the monochromaticism of this post, the next will hopefully include pictures so vivid your eyes will fall to their knees in awe. It'll knock yr socks on their asses. Eat a delicious creamsicle.

-DS

positive alternative interpretation

2008-05-21T19:46:00.000-07:00

or, the last picture might be representative of how the word 'love' is as contrived an meaningless as a hastily spraypainted sidewalk question. what's real is the other, less abstract human connections we have (if we're lucky), and we would do well to be mindful and come up with terms to describe them that are precise and apropos.

-DS

a minimally cryptic triptych -OR- a minimally invective trifecta

2008-05-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

MONDO TRIPLE POST!

Because I've lagged behind in posting but not in writing.

MONDAY

Monday morning in my room I danced so hard to Ace of Base’s “Don’t Turn Around” that I hurt my arm. A good start to any day, I think. I woke up at 9 a.m. upon my own volition, which I am hoping is indicative of a trend of needing less sleep in general, one of those benefits of adulthood I keep hearing so much about. (Next up: The ability to grow facial hair.) I cleaned up my apartment and headed to Starbucks to flail around the internet for awhile, and came back to make some lunch, which was my rendition of the first meal I ate in L.A., the tacos pictured in the first post.

For a music analogy this ended up being like an acoustic cover of the heavy metal original. Decent and enjoyable, but evocative of different sensations. I have gas stoves and a gas oven here, which is a new and enjoyably quick experience, and I used this butter to grease the pan:

It’s good someone is finally taking initiative and standing up against the tyranny of butter. I feel I am up to the challenge. After lunch I went back to Starbucks to research the cartography of my surroundings, and gained a very basic knowledge of the burroughs of L.A. Turns out I live in University Park, which is near Southern L.A. (formerly South Central L.A., the area of the city with the highest crime rates and the birthplace of such fine organizations as the Bloods, the Crips, and MS13.)

While there I got a call from Howard telling me that the handyman was at the house, and that he could open up apartment #10 so I could get some furniture. Unfortunately, #10 is a loft, and the stairs leading to it are extremely steep and narrow, so it was impossible to get any furniture proper from it. I was, however, able to get a large box spring and its corresponding mattress, as well as a microwave, some bug-killing sprays, some paper plates, five nonstick pans of varying sizes, some trash bags, some coat hangers, salt and pepper, nonstick cooking spray, a trashcan, some febreeze, some Clorox wipes, some paper towels, and a few other odds and ends. These were definitely helpful.

I went back to Starbuck’s afterward to continue my research, and I got the bus schedules and some maps of the routes. Using these, I got on the bus, (paying $5 for a daypass) and took it to work, with little incident.

(I actually managed to take a video of Vermont St because I was standing at the front of the bus, but unfortunately it will not upload). On the walk home I was able to reach a lemon out of a tree by leaping with all my might.

That night I had a magnificent breakfast of eggs scrambled coarse (I coined that term to describe eggs I scramble in the pan rather than before that are more heterogeneous as a result), corned beef hash (which I am pretty sure I could survive solely on), and some grilled white bread (because I have no toaster). I got to bed early because I wasn't feeling too well, tired, and excited about my first day of work.

TUESDAY

Today was a great daisy of a day, a great dane of a window pane through which my future can be seen with minimal disdain. I woke up at 7:30 a.m. and got pretty, made it out to the bus stop a little after 8. I go to 29^th & Vermont to catch the bus (Vermont is a fairly busy street, if you can recall an image of stores in suburban shopping centers like Friendly, this street is lined with those, except of varying nationalities (mostly Korean), and less gentrified). I take that bus to Vermont & Wilshire, where there are two of these, monumental murals painted on the sides of buildings whose sides are not perpendicular to the ground (they sort of jut out at a:

From there I go to Wilshire & LaBrea, beside the intersection of which is the L.A. CityBeat, which is housed in an old bank building with a black marble façade and ornate silvery interior design and stonework, with cubilcles in the center and desks around the second floor rim which is like a loft.

I showed up at 9 because I had neglected to find out when I was supposed to arrive. I ended up waiting around until about 11, which was actually great because it gave me a chance to read up on the back issues of the L.A. CityBeat that they had around the office and get a better sense of the writing style and mindset of the paper. The alt weekly is witty, cynical, oft satirical, liberal, activist at times, wry, and actually reports on some hard news along with arts stories. The diction used by many of the writers is rich, robust, varied, fresh, precise, and engaging. I found myself really excited by the writing itself; this is the kind of writing that I aspire to do. One writer in particular really dazzled me: Ron Garmon. I do not know if he has been around or not (I’ve only met a few of the staff members; Alfred, the Calendar Editor, Alan, the News Editor, Shelia, the front desk receptionist, as well as Emma and Carman, fellow interns), but his writing tends to be dense in the same way that heavy cream or dark matter is dense—people are often opposed to consuming it whole but it tastes so good. (Mmm....dark matter). His stories deal mostly with the L.A. underground party scene, a lavish, extravagant group of hedonists who throw eccentric, themed bashes in strange and secret venues. Very compelling stuff.

Alfred arrived, as did Carman, who I’ll get to in a second, and before we got to work Carman and I ventured to Jack in the Box, which is right next door to our offices. Upon Carman’s recommendation, I got two tacos for 99 cents, french fries, and the Jumbo Jack burger, all for under $5. I am telling you, nothing goes together like tacos and french fries. Delectable. We returned, and Alfred gave me linked me to some websites. I was to check their calendars and input the events (which were mostly author readings at local bookstores) for the dates 5.22-5.28 in a specific format (artist, brief description, location, contact info). I then did the same thing, but with some corporeal documents. All this took about three hours. The next task at hand was to input said listings into an online database, accessible by patrons of the CityBeat’s website. It was somewhat tedious work, yes, but the actual content of the listings was interesting, and the time flew (the wheels were also greased by with a few smoke breaks with Carman and all the free coffee I could stomach).

Carman is a guy about my age who is a student dj like myself, a writer for a couple of music blogs, a supersenior (5th year student) at UCLA and a native of the Bay Area. He and I got along easily, and we quickly found common ground via our music interests. After work, he invited me over to his place to watch the Celtics-Pistons game (game one of the NBA eastern conference finals), which was so exciting, because he is really the first contemporary/same-aged person that I’ve gotten to know here, and the only person I've really gotten to know in any sort of post-introduction way. His place was within walking distance of the CityBeat, about 7 minutes, from the CityBeat, a really sweet uptown setup. We shot the shit for awhile, I got introduced to Julie II, who was on her way to work, and then met Julie (I) while outside smoking a square (square is my favorite slang for 'a cigarette'). Julie’s an art student and she was really friendly too. She, Carman and I headed out to Ralph’s (the West Coast equivalent of Harris Teeter, except with an enormous wine selection) for some groceries. The groceries were for dinner, shrimp chow mein, for which they invited me to stay. They were so incredibly hospitable! I have to admit, as I kind of mentioned earlier, I did not expect the Californians, especially Angelenos, to be anywhere near as approachable, friendly, engaging and straight-up nice as they have been.

I will venture east when the nights grow cool and regale the countryfolk with stories of your most kind nature, my Angeleno sistren and brethren.

Alfred from CityBeat came over for dinner, and the fourth roommate, Greg, was around as well. [Random digression: apparently as a marketing ploy {which |in my opinion as a die-hard Simpsons fan| was quite brilliant} for The Simpsons Movie, 7/11s were remodeled as Kwik-E-Marts and sold products seen on the show, including the iconic {cinematic} pink-frosted donuts, Squishees, Buzz Cola, and Krusty-Os, the last three of which Carman had in his apartment, unopened.]

The dinner consisted of boiled udon noodles (big, thick, lo mein-ish noodles), shrimp sautéed in sesame oil, and stir-fried vegetables, all of which were quickly stir-fried in a sweet and sour sauce at the end. It was delicious. Here's Carman cooking:

I started to wash dishes as a token of my gratitude for the hospitality, but they would have nothing of the sort, and stopped me. We went out for a last cigarette, and Carman, Julie and I walked back toward Wilshire Blvd. (I was headed to the bus, they needed to go to Walgreens). We parted ways and I thanked them profusely for their kindness. I was pretty much reeling for awhile after that as I made my way back to the apartment (the commute takes about 45 minutes), and as the night grew cooler (it was around 60-70 last night) I started to feel a little ill again (not the dope kind of ill). I got home and headed to bed straight away, tired and content with a full day and a new acquaintance, maybe a future friend. It was a great day.

WEDNESDAY

Today was relatively uneventful. I didn’t smoke any cigarettes today and I’m feeling better; I think the sickness was probably some exacerbation of latent chronic respiratory disease. Today at work I did more data entry, the same as yesterday, which was fine. Alan, the news editor, assigned me to cover a story on public transportation tomorrow morning, so I’ll be going to Union Station to report on a meeting of public officials about taxing/tolling highways (with the intention of reducing smog/pollution by reducing the amount of auto drivers). Should be pretty interesting, but it starts at 9:30 meaning I’ll need to get up real early to make it in time. I’m stoked, though. Tonight, if all goes to plan, I’ll move the furniture into my room (upon Howard K’s return from Pasadena); pics will follow tomorrow if that is the case. I did a lot of sprinting about Craigslist looking for jobs today, with a decent amount of prospects. I’ll keep you posted with details on that as they occur. Tacos again tonight before the lettuce wilts, woo woo!

In my traipsings I found a couple of communiques that struck me as funny. The first says to hell with all that superfluous pluralization nonsense:

In today's age of the internette, nanotechnology and hyperfast life, who has time for esses? I say we just pare down the whole alphabet to 25 letters anyways. It's a much nicer, manageable number. Next was a store that sold shorts but had a funny way of telling people about it:

Next was a message of where to stand if you needed help from a local superhero of sorts:

Caution Zombie is the friendly neighborhood safety advocate and all-around stand-up guy. Last was a bit of cultivated profundity on my part (it reads 'is this love?'):

No, I don't think it is, but I do think one can draw a parallel if not afraid of seeming a little cynical: It certainly seemed permanent when it was created, but it too will inevitably fade.

Naught but peace, truth and unity.

-DS

here use these

2008-05-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

in lieu of a post, i humbly offer this: newspaper comics are the scum on the bottom of the lowest tier of the humor hierarchy, but thanks to some creativity they can actually be funny:

http://www.dougshaw.com/garfield.html

http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com/

http://marmadukeexplained.blogspot.com/

bleh

2008-05-20T16:03:00.000-07:00

so last night i went to sleep early, feeling a little shitty. i woke up this morning at 7:30 feeling about the same, achy (not in the positive, sore muscle way), feverish, and all turgid with lymph. the internship is going fine and i'll explicate on it later, as well as yesterday's escapades, but probably not 'til i am feeling better.

-DS

interesting sodas

2008-05-19T10:50:00.000-07:00

Here's home; 1157 W. 28th St., Los Angeles, CA, 90007:

I watched The Usual Suspects Saturday night, which to me was further proof of Kevin Spacy’s excellence, and tried to go to sleep. Not surprisingly, it was difficult to sleep, and I had a bit of conversation with myself, which consisted mostly of me lecturing myself on how Los Angeles will get less lonely and start to feel more like home as time goes on. I managed to get to sleep around 3 a.m., and woke up around 10 a.m. Sunday morning with a renewed resolve to get a bike and some breakfast.

This time I took a right onto 28^th, and headed uptown. Only two blocks down the street, I came upon the University Shopping Center. Among the shops were a Wendy’s (at which I ate lunch), an ice cream shop, a bike shop, a Payless shoe store, a Starbucks, a Denny’s, a movie theater, and a supermarket.

After eating, the first item on my agenda was to check out the bike shop. There was a moderate selection of new and used bikes, with prices ranging from $50 to $1500. After informing the salesman that I was looking for their cheapest, tallest bike, I walked out back and found a vintage (read: old) Schwinn Varsity road bike. It cost $70, which included new paint for the shifters, handlebars, gear mounting, basket mounting, and pedals, new grips for the handlebars and new tires; I paid another $20 for a lock; seems pretty reasonable to me. Later on in the day I had the fantastic luck of coming across a plastic crate on the street (I was nonplussed as to where one might purchase such an item), and attached it to the bike using some of those clicky plastic zip ties, which I bought at the 99-cent tienda of last night’s lore. Here's a picture of the bike pre-basket attachment:

During the time the bike was being tuned up, I went to Starbucks and frolicked about the internet for awhile. (It is strange, in a good way, to not have constant access to the internet. I think it will focus my internet use and prevent me from staring at Facebook until my eyes bleed, as I am wont to do.) After tiring of this most splendid activity, I went to Superior, the supermarket in the shopping center. They had one of those open coolers with all the ice cream in it, which I hadn't seen since Winn-Dixie more than a decade ago. I was probably a little more excited than I should have been; it was probably a little odd to see me grinning broadly as I snapped this photo inside...

I was able to get a good amount of foodstuffs and an electric fan there, all for $75. Finding the fan was a boon. Although it was impossible to assemble as the directions indicated, I managed to fenangle a solution (through some creative swearing, frantic sawing with a steak knife, and the use of Super Tape, which I'll discuss later) and it has made the apartment exponentially more comfortable. It will also provide some white noise to help drown out the intermittent helicopter blades and droning reggeton beats of the night. I also found some interesting sodas there as well, Jarritos refrescos (sodas), which can be found in N.C., an apple-flavored soda and a pineapple-orange "cactus cooler." Finding new sodas is a source of great excitement and joy for me. No lie.

It was after I left the checkout line that things got a little more interesting. Something I realized I’ve taken for granted is the supreme usefulness of cars for transporting things. I figured I’d just push my cart the two blocks back to my apartment, but it wouldn’t be quite that easy. After a few dozen feet of pushing, the cart suddenly skidded to a halt. I assumed I had gotten something caught in the wheels, and laid down beside it, not unlike a mechanic, and began to pull various strings and hairs from the axles. I repeated the process of removing fibers, attempting to push, and failing, five or six times before a guy behind the counter of the aforementioned ice cream shop yelled some helpful advice. There was nothing wrong with the wheels, man, it’s a sensor, an electronic thing, it locks up the wheels when you go past a certain point. No shit I said incredulously, thanked him, and considered my options. I managed to find an analog cart of yore in the parking lot, transferred my items to it, and began the push home. It was smooth sailing until I got out of the shopping center; the sidewalks and pavement proved to be rough and challenging terrain for the old workhorse. To make matters worse, the right front wheel was on the fritz. So now you may have an adequate mental image of me, tall, lanky, covered in sweat, and doing my damndest to maneuver my shopping cart full of groceries across the sidewalks, alleys, and streets of L.A. It was probably a humorous spectacle.

I got the groceries unpacked, said a little prayer to Mentok, the God of Shopping Carts, and rested a spell to regain my bearings. I set back out around 6 p.m. to explore around some more. There was one nice panoramic vista I was able to capture by standing on top of a L.A. Times newspaper box. I got to see the edges of USC’s campus, which were quite beautiful, and which included these two buildings, the names of which I do not know.

Past the campus was a desolate urban area, somewhat evocative of the old downtown Greensboro. I came across some phenomenal graffiti:

After five or six blocks of walking, I started back toward 28^th. On the way back I found the fast food district, a portion of Figureoa st., which housed such distinct Western eateries as Del Taco, home of the beautiful marriage of the taco and the french fry; Jack in the Box, at which I’ve yet to eat; Carl’s Jr., the eerie doppelganger of Hardee’s; and some more familiar establishments, including Panda Express, McDonalds, and a Pizza Hut/Taco Bell, the convenient, bastard son of Yum! Foods, Inc. (the megacorp that owns PepsiCo). Around here was where I found the plastic crate. On the way home I had a most uncanny and exhilarating experience: I saw a Surge soda vending machine inside a frat house. (For those tragical folks who are unfamiliar with Surge, it was a citrus soft drink produced in the early- to mid-90s whose selling point was its high caffeine content. It is fondly remembered by many of my contemporaries as the ultimate soda. Bring it up around the right person and you’ll get a very animated and excited response.)

I got back with my feet aching that wonderful ache that reminds you you’ve done something with your day, and made a Tony’s pizza, which, upon eating, I determined has an extremely similar if not identical recipe as the pizzas they used to serve me in elementary and middle school. It was a delightful trip down memory street [sic, it feels less cliché]. I enjoyed a few episodes of Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law (which I would recommend highly to anyone with 12 minutes to spare), hopped on the bike, and headed to the 99-cent tienda for a few more loose ends. At the tienda I was able to buy a Phillips head/flathead screwdriver two-pack, a twenty-pack of those clicky plastic zip ties, a shower curtain, a laundry hamper, some dish towels and some freezer bags for under $20. It struck me, as I was checking out, that these tiendas are the modern day equivalent of the general stores of old. It was an odd, comforting, sort of cosmic sensation.

-DS

[Bonus Post: He Had Dreams of Someday Finding a Box of Money]

I forgot to mention some odd things I’ve found. There was the plastic crate, which really was a very lucky thing to find, but there were two more things I found that were far more peculiar. The first was Candy Land (the board game, not the place, which is in Oakland, I think).

That’s right, Candy Land. What can you say about finding Candy Land, I mean, really? It’s a newer version, with some disturbing box art (we’re talking hypersaccharine, bad-trip inducing box art, with a frightening elfish creature decked in candycane garb and inexplicable yellow rubber gloves and the caption “Join Me for a Sweet Adventure,” which I think probably violates a copyright held by some archdiocese) and all the pieces present and intact.

A strange thing indeed, which I think goes magnificently with the next item, which I found in the closet: a brown paper Trader Joe’s bag whose contents were a roll of translucent "Super Tape," four bobby pins and 10 (unopened) cans of Miller Light. The beers are great, sure, but HOT DAMN! I GOT ME SOME BOBBY PINS. No wildly disheveled locks for this young Angeleno, no sir.

a touchy subject

2008-05-18T17:28:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that my statements about my feelings on race may appear insincere or contrived or unnaturally politically correct. I feel like anyone who knows me understands where I stand on race, but it is difficult to put my convictions and emotions concerning it into words eloquently and completely aptly; race is a touchy subject and it can sometimes be difficult to express myself as a white male without seeming racist. I think everyone is racist to an extent, but what I meant to express in the last post is that I do my best to temper the latent and ingrained racism in me and to view each individual I encounter as a person, not as a microcosm of a racial stereotype. Obviously this is difficult to do, and it is probably impossible to consider a person without at least briefly thinking about stereotypes associated with their race. I feel like race is an important aspect of this place, and I'll do my best to discuss it and hash out my feelings about it here.

-DS

traipsing the barrio

2008-05-18T12:50:00.000-07:00

After three or four hours of sleep Thursday night, I stayed up all night on Friday (Saturday morning) to get packed and ready, too excited and nervous to sleep. At 3:45 a.m., with the moon gibbous and the gibbons moonlighting as moonshine distillers, the venerable Mom and Dad drove me to RDU. I managed to get some sleep on the car ride there (I distinctly remember thinking how nice sleeping was and considering just cancelling the trip and sleeping indefinitely). I also managed to sleep for most of my connecting flight in Charlotte to L.A., which was about 4 hours. This speaks to my level of exhaustion; I've never been able to sit comfortably on a plane before, let alone sleep on one.

I got to L.A. (via LAX) at about 10 a.m. PST Saturday morning and took a cab to my apartment. The cab ride was about 10 miles of sweltering silence, and cost $55 ($60 with tip). It seemed steep, but without any mode of non-peripatetic transportation, I had to take what I could get. I met the landlord, who goes by simply ‘Howard K,’ and he proved to be a curious if not amiable fellow. His hair was evocative of Bill Murray in Kingpin, and he wore glasses similar to Harry Caray's. He was able to be long-winded without saying much of anything. Among other things, he informed me that youths tend to start out liberal, and if they find success in their lives, they will begin to become more and more conservative. Howard K is a conservative who told me about the demography of L.A., whites being the minority, with some chagrin. If said youth fails to make money, or if they fail to excel in their vocation, they will stay liberal, and the truly tragic losers are subject to becoming even more liberal (gasp). I got all the paperwork done, which was somewhat of an ordeal due to Howard K’s many digressions and attempts at humor, and lugged my stuff into my new room.

1157 W. 28^th Street, my new address, is a two-storey house that I’m assuming has been modified to be a multi-tenant establishment. My place, #6, is mostly just one room, with a bathroom and a kitchen nook. It is furnished with a box spring, a refrigerator, a stove, an oven, two sinks, a tub & shower, a closet and various shelving units.

I’ll get actual furniture this Tuesday when the tenant of #5 moves out. I have yet to encounter any of the other tenants, but I hope to meet some soon as I think they’ll be useful to me in acclimating myself to this strange, overwhelming, beautiful mix of natural beauty and urban splay.

After resting for a while and getting my computer set up (alas, no stealable WiFi), I set out to explore my new milieu. I decided to go downtown Saturday. The area in which I live is adjacent to the University of Southern California’s Campus (which I have yet to explore), and is rife with historical edifices. There are a few really beautiful historic houses around here, and a particularly stunning one with whimsical, almost surreal architecture.

I hadn’t walked two blocks before I spotted a yard sale, which enticed me because I was hoping to find a bike and some housewares in the day's endeavors. The event would be more aptly described as a ‘house sale;’ there is not too much yard space anywhere around these parts, and all the goods up for purchase were either inside the house or out in the breezeway. This house was really incredible; after talking to the people running the event, I learned that it was once a woman’s mission. The main room had beautiful, high (maybe 15’) ceilings, and the whole house was built in old-style architecture. I would guess it was built pre-1950s, I wish I knew more about architecture so I could more aptly describe it. It had an endearing air of cool openness, which was quite refreshing in the sweltering heat (I think it was around 90F-95F at the highest). I bought two plates, two bowls, three glasses and a mug, two knives, two forks, two spoons, a shot glass, a Le Tigre polo shirt and a 70s-looking ski jacket for $13. I would have also bought a DSM-IV (the bible of psychological disorders) and the Procol Harum album with the classic “A Whiter Shade of Pale” had it not turned out that the DSM was actually the property of one of the ladies running the event and the LP was $5, a little steep for me since I have no record player here. Even still, it was definitely a good start, I think. I took the goods back to the apartment and set back out in search of a bike, the internet, and more home basics.

The people I encountered in my travails were so friendly. I was a little surprised, because I figured L.A. would have a stony countenance similar to that of New York. I don’t doubt that there are indeed plenty people who have such a demeanor around these parts, but it was definitely encouraging to interact with such nice people on my first day here. The house sale people I mentioned earlier were an older black gentleman and two older black ladies. I mention demographics because I feel like it is worth noting…it is a strange and oddly refreshing experience to be a minority as a white person. After I bought the above mentioned goods, I shared a smoke with the folks in the cool shade of the breezeway and told them about my status as a new Angeleno (the demonym for Los Angeles residents). They were quite friendly and told me that USC would probably have some bikes for sale at reasonable prices, since students were moving away for the summer. The next two people I encountered were two Hispanic gentlemen standing on the corner of 27^th and another street. I asked them about the local business district and they told me I was headed in the right direction. They joked with the new guy a little:

“I just moved here today.”

“Oh! Where are you from?”

“North Carolina.”

“Is that near Compton?”

“No, it—“

[laughter]

I, nervous and eager, lacked the tact to detect their humor and began to explain how N.C. was not near Compton at all, which of course they already knew. After that I told them I should be getting on my way, and as I walked off one guy said “On the way back, a pastrami, no onions, from Subway.” I smiled. “Yeah, and some Bud Light!” the other guy said. It's strange how far a little human connection can go.

The first order of business after that was to find some food. A few blocks down from 28^th, the residential areas start to mix with the business district. I found a Hispanic restaurant and ordered (in Spanish, with a surprisingly decent accent, I thought) three tacos, which were far removed from the standard Taco Bell fare: fresh pico de gallo, soft and fresh tortillas, a tangy and spicy hot sauce and tortilla chips with delicious refried beans, and wolfed them down.

Having fueled up, I continued trekking toward downtown. After a less than a block of walking, I heard Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ reinterpreted as a electronic bell piece rather than a piano rag: it was the ice cream man. $1 for a strawberry shortcake bar seemed like a steal under the afternoon sun, and I had the stunning realization that ice cream can be used not only as a delicious treat but as a cooling agent. Fancy that. I made my way downtown, traipsing a few dozen blocks through the barrios.

The population is almost exclusively Hispanic around here, with some blacks and Koreans comprising the second and third largest demographic groups, respectively. In the three or four hours I walked around the area, I saw three white people. I feel a little tumultuous about this stark change of demographics, but definitely in a positive way (I consider myself to be a very open-minded white person and I have always embraced the idea of diversity). Here, I’m the minority, and I feel like it is important for me not to appropriate any cultures or act too familiar with the cultures I encounter; I'm an outsider. It's really exhilarating to be immersed in a place with such a different racial and ethnic makeup. Although I feel comfortable, I have to be careful to keep my mind open and my innate prejudices and stereotypes in check. It is definitely an exercise in which I am excited to be engaged.

There are lots of liquor stores, 99 cent tiendas (stores), Hispanic restaurants, Iglesias (churches), auto shops, and meat & produce markets around here. The buildings themselves tend to be painted in either desert drab or vibrant pastel motifs (sometimes a combination of both), and are usually flanked with palms and other tropical trees (I saw a tree that was bearing fruit the size of softballs, I think they were mangoes maybe). In some areas you can see the mountains that encircle this whole area. There is definitely no question that I’m in the West.

After making my way up and down and crisscross through the streets, entering a tienda here and there and asking “Perdon, sabes donde yo puedo comprar una bicicleta?” [excuse me, do you know where I can buy a bicycle?] usually receiving a slightly puzzled ‘no’ as a response, which is understandable; it would have to be at least a little bit odd to have a 6’5” lanky white guy ask you this question in Spanish around here, I finally encountered a tienda segunda (thrift store), which I hoped would have some bikes. They didn’t, but I did find a pan and some sheets and a pillow there, all of which cost less than $20. I was exhausted (but luckily not dehydrated, I brought plenty of water for the walk and was able to get my bottle refilled at the restaurant I mentioned earlier) by this point, and sat in the shade of the walls of an enormous preparatory high school, painted a deafening teal and lime, to catch my breath and search for the internet. My computer detected a network called “Free Wireless” and said it connected to it, but I was unable to access the web. I gave my computer a long, stern lecture on the importance of honesty in a relationship. I mean, if it can’t be honest to me after three years, maybe it’s time to reassess our lives.

I laid on the cool concrete for awhile to catch my breath, and two skateboarders came roaring toward me, obviously able to manage the footwork of foot-high ollies and various kickflips and 180s, but less adept at landing them. They skated straight up to me and I waved from the block of concrete on which I was sitting, and they came up there and tried to Ollie off, failing mostly. They appeared to be Hispanic (I didn’t ask) students, probably 16-18, and I asked them if they knew where I could find a bike shop and the internet. They were extremely helpful; they gave me three addresses of bike shops and told me to find a coffee shop if I wanted to access the internet for free [slaps forehead, why didn't I think of that?]. One had a Dead Kennedys shirt on; and I said that band fucking kicks ass, and he shook my hand. They told me about how the buses worked ($1.25/ride or $5 for a day pass), which was definitely useful, and I was on my way back to the apartment to get some rest; by this time I was absolutely exhausted. I managed to find my way back without incident and relatively quickly, and after contacting Mom I laid out my newly bought sheet and pillow, put on an episode of Hey Arnold, and slept for about three hours.

I awoke around 9 p.m., lamenting my lack of mattress, and decided to get some dinner at a diner-style restaurant I had noticed while I was out earlier. I got a patty melt and fries and a Coke, which were scrumptious, and stopped by the 99 cent tienda to pick up some basics (laundry detergent, dish soap, shampoo, toilet paper, ice cube trays), and headed back home. Hm. Home is a funny word to use, but I guess that’s what it is now. I’ll try to keep posting as often as possible. I miss everybody, give me a call if you feel like it. This is Old Man Winter signing off. Until next time, sports fanatics.

-Daniel Stainkamp