Hooker on a rascal

I once worked with power rangers in Westwood California it was a fantastic time in my life full of promise and new experiences.  There was a lot of drinking as well.  In fact probably more drinking than promise but its the entertainment industry.  The company I worked for was a training ground for this industry that takes all comers and spits them out in larger numbers than it accepts.  This place was a wonderland of learning and partying.  After work drinks were a staple and expected.  I got out of several hot spots  simply due to the relationships I cultivated with executives while slamming highballs and playing wingman.  So after a usual weekending gathering I stumbled my way to my car to get nudging ass home.  Don't judge I was young and it was the 90's. As I drove back to my Hollywood apartment down the famed sunset blvd in my state I missed the glaring yellow cast of the "you're out of gas ya jackass" light.  As it will happen my car lurched and jerked to a stop.  I was stranded in one of the richest neighborhood in the country in one of the most famous streets on the planet.  I was screwed.  I evaluated the situation and broke into swrevy action by jumping out of my car and pushing it one very long block to a side street as there is no parking on Sunset in this neighborhood.  I ran through my mental Thomas guide to orientate myself and the nearest gas station.  Blocks and blocks away was the outcome deep into Hollywood further down in an area know as the strip.  You see filling stations are far too gouache for the flats of Beverly Hills.  So off I went walking off into the night in a 'hood so safe I actually posed the biggest threat to law enforcement.  I was in for a long drunk walk through some lovely mansions.  

I walk for miles until the manicured lawns and personal trainers gave way to club lights aging hair bands members strutting the spandex.  I was getting close to my goal, gas that precious precious liquid.  

So after my long ass hike through the land of the rich and famous I came to a gas station where I begged the attendant to let me use their gas can to carry back to my deserted vehicle.  He would not have it.  After several minutes of heated negotiating in broken English, to this day I cannot recall exactly how I wrested the disputed can from his clutches.  I just know I had the can and needed to fill it.  

Filling a gas can in public  is a deflating experience.  You're there filling a small ridiculous red can with no car in sight, everyone knows you fucked up and ran out of gas.  It's a rookie move and everyone knows it.  Now as I'm standing there filling I hear a low hum come up behind me.  I hear a pleasant if not annoyingly sexy voice say,"run out gas huh?" I turn to see a creature one does not expect to see in nature, a hooker on a rascal motorized chair.  Yeah, I respond looking ashamed and confused.  "What the hell is she doing on a rascal" was racing through my mind but I explain my sad tale of a journey home interrupted.  As I tell the tale I attempt to process what exactly I'm seeing.  In front of me is a mid twenties white girl who's name escapes me after so many years. I do remember she hailed from Champaign IL and was working her way up to San Francisco because,"it's better up there." She never explained her claim.  Her body didn't look like it required the aid of a rascal motorized chair; a solid caring father figure sure, but not a rascal. She had fair skin and wore appropriate whore clothing, overly tight and tacky.  I did notice she had a rather large set of fake boobs, a tax right off I assume.  She was essentially a hooker on a rascal.  

After our small talk she asked if I needed a ride to my stranded car.  Of course the only answer in my state to this was yes. I hopped on her little rascal and we took of at such a comically slow pace Tim Conway would have been jealous.  There I was all 6 foot 3 200lbs. of me gas can on my knees facing backwards on the back of a rascal drivin' by a hooker trucking down Sunset Blvd. 

On our trek she was cordial and accommodating by asking if I would like a sexual act involving her mouth and my joint.  I graciously declined as the ride was quite enough I thought.  There was really only one question running through my mind as the bright lights and sounds of the Sunset Strip rushed by us.  Her conversation was lost in the din of my thoughts, what does she do with her rascal during the trick? Tricks trunk maybe, bike chain to a street sign I don't know.  Either way we reached the end of our adventure when the border of of Beverly Hills were the sidewalk ramps ended. The curbs it seemed were designed specifically to thwart slightly handicapped rascal bound hookers.  No ramps no tramps.  

She explained this is the end of my ride.  Unless I wanted another type of ride.  I understood her heavy handed innuendo and once again declined.  However seeing how I kept her from making money for the duration of our trek I spotted her a few bucks, you know for the electricity.  I felt it was the right thing to do.

I walked the rest of the way due to a blatant disregard for title 24 by the Beverly Hills DOT.  After a long crooked walk I made it back to my car, emptied the embarrassing can.  Knowing I had a great story to tell of the fantastic trip down Sunset Boulevard in the back of a hookers rascal.

18 Years Ago Today

We were stepping out of the C&C club on Sunset Blvd in the wee hours of the morning after closing the club down.  We wouldn't normally go to a place like this but my girlfriend at time and myself had a mutual friend in town visiting from Colorado.  We all were fairly buzzed as sauntered down a very dark Havenhurst Drive to our car.  As we chatted and laughed at the night a white VW Golf rolled past and pulled into the drive way ahead of us.  Having your guard down in Hollywood is not a good idea especially in those days but its true enough today.  As the car stopped a young black man got out pulled a hood over his head and leveled a sawed off shotgun at my head.  He approached and demanded our money as he shuttled the barrel over each of our faces.  Its true time slows down and everything seems to get that much more clear and defined when something like this happens.  I handed him my wallet, the girls handed him the money they had in their pockets and no one said a word.  I had lost contact with the outside world at this point, there could have been a marching band passing during all of this and I wouldn't have noticed through the thumping of my heart beats and sound of air going in and out of my lungs.  The gunman started searching our pockets for anything we neglected to hand over.  Greedy son of a bitch.  My girlfriend had overlooked a $5 bill in her back pocket this did not please the hood.  He got the barrel in the face and a taunt of "Don't lie.  Next time it will get you killed."   Pretty chilling at the time.  As he was backing off I don't know why I did it but I asked him to give me my drivers license back as he wasn't going to be able to use a skinny white guys ID for anything and that he was just going to dump it.  He actually stopped and pulled out of my wallet and handed it back to me.  I couldn't believe I won that little victory in the situation.  That's what it seemed like a victory.  The whole incident only lasted a minute at the very most however it felt like an hour.  The adrenaline had dumped and nerves kicked in after the guy had left.  One of the girls started to lose her shit and started crying which is understandable.  We flagged down a cop who were amazingly all over the place immediately after the robbery.  We then had to wait for the LAPD and the West Hollywood Sheriffs dept. decide who's case it was as Havenhurst is the boarder line between the two jurisdictions.  We gave our statements to both groups and neither seemed to be very excited about taking on the case.  I remember the police lecturing us on late night Hollywood.  Yeah thanks.  After an hour I was able to get to a pay phone, yes a pay phone as cell phones were not in the picture for another 5 or so years, and cancel my credit cards and ATM card.  We were finally on our way home thinking we were having a really shitty night.  Little did we know that would be the best part of the night.
As we made our way down Santa Monica Blvd. back to our apartment in West LA we came to the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica.  We crossed the intersection at 4:31 am and world started to shake apart.  My initial thought was we had a blowout and that our luck was pretty shitty that night.  That only lasted about a second as I could see the car was actually bouncing sideways as it rode the waves of asphalt that were rolling down the road.  When I say waves of asphalt I mean the asphalt was rolling in waves just like the ocean without the white caps.  It was surreal and terrifying.  The power was awesome, it was all encompassing as everything was shaking.  The high rises of Century City were visibly swaying, the power poles were shaking so much the electricity was hopping the lines and arcing through the air in an incredible light show that would be entertaining if it wasn't so terrifying.   Transformers were exploding one after the other down the line.  And what made it worse is that it kept going and going and going.  It truly seemed like a very long time of  uncontrollable shaking and rolling.  Throughout the entire quake the vocal expression of terror grew as time went on.  The girls were full on screaming by the end of the quake I was cussing like a sailor then it was over as fast as it erupted.  The signal and street lights were all out as far as I could see down Santa Monica.  The building lights were all out.  The radio station was off air, nothing but static.  The only thing you could hear and it was almost as loud as the quake itself was a symphony of car alarms and building alarms from across the darkened city.
I floored the little Honda I was driving and got it up to 95 mph down the dark Santa Monica to get back to the house and what we thought was safety.  There were no other cars on the road in any direction down any side street, nothing.  It was incredibly creepy Night of the Commet type stuff.  As we pulled up to our apartment the neighbors were  all out walking around in the dark with flashlights, and this always sticks out in my mind, everyone had the same wide eyed open mouth expression on their face eerily lit up by the directional flashlights.  It was a solid 5 minutes after the quake before we were standing in our apartment building strangely enough the Melrose Place like pool was still sloshing around nearly empty as it spilling out most of its water during the violence of the shaking.  The ground apartments were swamped with water. As we made it up the stairs to our top floor apartment we noticed some large cracks in the building.  The apartment itself was a disaster.  Everything was off the walls, shelves and cupboards and scattered haphazardly across the floor in various stages of destruction.  A nail was stepped upon by one of the girls and needed to be addressed.  After that we just tried to clean up and get information.  The power was out, the gas was off, phones didn't work and the refrigerator was practically empty.  We were not remotely close to prepared to deal with this kind of disaster, no food, water, or as it would turn out money/credit cards due to the robbery.  We were truly screwed.   At least we could stay in our apartment that night.
After some very kind treatment from friends, coworkers, and Discover Card were were able to get money and food during the time it took to get our ATM and Credit cards straightened out.  You have to remember the business were all closed in our area, the banks and ATMs didn't have power, the phones were inoperable and there was no internet.  The grace of friendship is all we had for several days.  We were able to get our friend off to the airport once it opened up and it was there were able to contact Discover Card and tell them our story,  they forwarded us the money and if I remember correctly they removed the amount from our balance that next month without us having to pay it.  I could be wrong about that.  I remember they treated us like humans and I will always appreciate that.
The days after the quake were rough but once we had money to purchase food and water were better off than a lot other in Los Angeles.  The month of sleeping in shoes in the living room because the fear of aftershocks and building integrity sticks out in my mind as well.  It was very stressful
Oh and eight days after the Northridge quake my favorite Toyota 4x4 truck got stolen out of the parking garage.  So yeah it was not the best week of my life.

The Snake Pit

I hate snakes. I once ran on water at Electra Lake high in the San Juan mountains just to get away from a garder snake or whatever they are called. I used to think they ware called "gardner" snakes, but I also thought Jesus died when he was only four months old when I was a kid so there you go. For those of you who don't get that, he was born in December died in April... four months. I guess I took things too literally but I digress. I'm sitting in a bar maned the Snake Pit on Melrose Ave in Hollywood or west Hollywood not sure anyway I've been here a few times. Everything being equal I've been here a lot however most of my visits were several tears(that is supposed to be 'years' but my auto correct knows me too well) ago. They still know me and always say, "Hey!". Which I know is polite speak for, "you used to spend a lot of money in here but we can't remember your name so we'll just smile and say, 'hey." Which frankly is OK with me. I would rather that than have to go into an in-depth conversation with bar folk. Bar folk suck. If you are older than 25 and dont know that bar folk suck you are either bar folk yourself or you are plainly stupid. This is a universal truth just like gravity and you should always pass the first Price is Right showcase. The fact that bar folk suck makes them interesting to hang out and watch. Their inherent sucky-ness is entertaining like carnies or adult boy scouts. Anyway I'm here by myself as my old lady is out with her friends eating somewhere fancy no doubt and all my friends I've attempted to contact are either on a date or out at a show of one kind or another. Adding to the night is the fact I've placed a dietary restriction on myself to where I can only drink tequila. If you know me you know tequila is not my friend. Jose has kicked my ass more times than high school algebra. So here I sit in a crowded Hollywood dive bar with some unrecognizable tune droning on the juke box under the more of a din crowd noise. I'm a good several into my margaritas so much so not only do I have a heavy buzz I have killer heart burn. Yeah fuck you forty years old. Fuck you. I actualy enjoy my alone time in a packed bar. I have a SOP of ignoring everyone in the place while observing all the goings on. Kind of like the old creepy guy without the "creepy." I hope.

Writing flow ruined. I'm done.

Trying this again. A cool moto vid.

Computers, can't live with them, can't shoot'em. Well I guess you could shoot them.

First off I know more about the nether regions of the Hilton sisters than I do about what makes this computer work, operate, or function properly I want to get that out right at the beginning.  You see growing up, all the way through school, I never once worked on a computer until my senior year of high school which was back in the ass end of the 1980's.  Yes the last century to you young readers out there who should have been dissuaded from reading this blog by the "adult content" banner out front you little bastards.  The funny thing about my computer class in high school is that it was a programing class... let that sink in a little... a programing class.  We had to create simple programs using some dead computer language to get a round ball rotating on the screen or some simple shit like that.  Now never ever even touching a computer in the past I'm thinking I may have made an error in my class selection at this point.  I needed a class that started with "push this button to turn on magic box."  I blame the system.  Either way I'm a guy who failed algerbra (I'm so bad at it I can't even spell it)  struggled with geometry, and laughed at the idea of Calc-usless.  Anyway I guess more to the point like any other red blooded American, I had never taken any foreign language classes either up until that point* so learning a new language that was comprised of numbers and symbols was like trying to read  any other emotion besides surprise on the Beverly Hills House Wives Botoxed plastic fake faces.  It wasn't going to happen.  So ultimately the class kicked my ass I did nothing but I did get "help" from the other students and somehow passed with flying colors which shows a glaring problem in our school systems.  I should have failed that class horribly but I got a very good grade.  I never got that damn ball rolling on my own. 
All that to say I don't know shit about computers or their funky strange language of terms and error codes.  A virus to me is a cold and you wait for it to get better.  Not so much with computers I'm finding out.  As a result of my total lack of knowledge about computers my Macbook Pro is dead to the world after an ill fated OS upgrade.  Now OS stands for operating system I'm told and my old computer needed a new operating system to upgrade my iphone 4 software or whatever.  In process of upgrading my Mac froze up like a Democrat with power in the House and Senate, nothing, no movement no booting up no pinwheel of rainbow death.  Nothing.  Off to the Mac store I go I guess.  Luckily I have a back up PC that worked  wonders if not a little shitty and clunky and wholly not as cool as a Mac.  Well it worked up until about two days ago when I clicked on a  what looked like an official notice from somewhere.  Bam my PC was frozen with crazy deadly warnings of viruses and corrupted files, much like a out numbered Republican in the House or Senate.  Turns out they were all false positives to get me to click on the Trojan horse type virus.  See I understand the historical references when dealing with computers.  I get that, I guess its all in the way you learn stuff.  Anyway I didn't learn fast enough and have ended up with a feverishly working paper weight of a PC.  The internal hamster wheels are flying but nothing is happening.  Scanning with various malware and virus programs aren't doing shit, at least nothing in two days and I figure in the Tron world that's like forever isn't it?  Or is it the opposite where its like a nano-second.  I can't remember and the movie isn't out for a couple days so I won't know until then but I digress.

*I took French 101 my senior year.  There were several benefits of the class for a 16 year old guy, two of which were the teacher Ms. Zoa Glass.   Heellllloooo Zoa.  The others were a hoard of freshman and sophomore girls.  Je m'appelle Erik.

Knocking off the cobwebs.

Wow I can't believe how long its been since I updated this thing. Way too long. I really have nothing to contribute at this time but so many others are blogging now I felt compelled. Yes the power of bog compels me.
At some point I will have to let loose on to the world my blog and reap the whirlwind.

Updates since the last entry... from sometime in 2009
got engaged to my ol' lady
1 car crash
2 motorcycle crashes(1 small one, 1 big one)
1 broken hand
1 dislocated shoulder
lost 30lbs
gained back 15lbs(broken hand and what not)
changed Crossfit gyms
increased my kingdom on Facebook

Yeah that's about it.

Salvage from my old Myspace page Angela 11/9/08

Its happened again, another of my friends has passed away. Angela's passing was a tragic accident no one could have expected. Two friends in a matter or 8 days is too much. I think we forget that life is fleeting and we only have a certain number of wake ups in our lives. When we forget this fact life reminds us in cruel and unexpected ways. I didn't need the reminder I can assure you but never the less I got a wake up call if you will. A message from a friend to call him about something as soon as I get the message, left in a tone of voice that lets me know its serious and its not a casual call. I did like everyone else most likely and braced myself for bad news all the while thinking if not hoping it was not really that serious. It was about as serious as one can get in this world. It was real for sure but somehow I couldn't wrap my head around the news. What? That's crazy! Who? Oh my god! Oh my god. That's all the lady heard as she passed me on the side walk while she walked her stupidly small dog past my conversation. I get no cell reception in my home so I have to go outside to converse with the world. My neighbors get to hear everything from how my grandpa is doing, to my ass kissing eternal hunt for a proper job, to me getting tragic news of a friend missing and another friend in pure agony over the loss. Too much for such a small amount of time. I feel numb as it hasn't really sunken in yet. It has intellectually. I know I will never see my sweet friend again. I know she will not flash that smile that scrunches up her nose again.

I can imagine how the families feel, I've been there and feel so terrible for their loss. Its something you can't fathom unless you have gone through it. People give sympathies and prayers and the positive thoughts which is very nice but effectively useless when you're inside your own head rolling through numbness, erratic emotions, and memories faster that you can process them. It hurts and doesn't go away for a long time. It sneaks up on you during the most innocent of times. It could be a song playing on the radio or a movie or a smell sometimes nothing at all that sends you from your melodic everyday droning to the pain of loss and ache of missing. Its not a fair fight that's for sure. They will both be missed as both were really great people that deserved the best in life. I guess not really knowing what awaits us after passing, maybe they did get the best in life and are enjoying the fruits of their lives. I don't know. Nobody does but its all we can hope for to put our minds and souls at easy between sporadic moments pain.

Angela I miss you. You are still a sweet caring friendly soul in death as you were in life.

Salvage from my old Myspace page

A great guy died today. Stephen Cox was a teammate, father, and husband. He had been battling cancer for several years. Several surgeries, hospital stays and the chronic pain never seemed to lower his spirits. Of course I only saw him occasionally when he felt well enough to play hockey. So I guess I saw him on the "good" days or maybe he put on a macho locker room face in front of the guys. I don't know. What I do know is he loved to play with a competitive streak a mile long. He was the oldest guy on the team by several years yet he seemed to be in superior shape. He was rarely out of breath while the younger guys panted breathlessly on the bench. I used to tell him he wasn't really trying. He would just flash his squinty eyed broad smile and tell me to piss off.
He was always smiling and having a good time tossing jokes around like quick draw artist. He was smart funny and proud of his family. His kids and wife would occasionally come to the games and cheer us on. They had to have been bored silly as our games are not the most viewer friendly activities in the world. They would hang out after the games in the parking lot and relive our heroics on the ice over a couple beers. They really seem like a close knit family and I feel terrible for their loss.
Goodbye Coxy, maybe now you'll cover the points when the puck is in your zone. The good people always seem to get taken from us while jackass' are free to roam the earth. Stephen seemed like he lived the life he wanted to live. I think when you get down to it that's all we can hope for in this world.
Vaya con dios Stephen.

What I've Learned

Women don’t want you to fix their problems. They just want you to sit, listen quietly, nod your head and say, "I love you, you are very special to me, and/or that’s so unfair."

Women don’t want you to fix their problems unless their problem is a flat tire

Contracts with employers aren’t for you. They are for your employer. If you don’t agree try refusing to sign the contract.

I don’t care what anyone says after a certain age you feel like shit after exercise.

People from other cultures know how to relax and they can do it at the drop of a hat.

They say money can’t buy happiness well I would like to give it a try. I have a few ideas that might just work.

Motorcycles are the cheapest and safest recreational drug on the market today. The V-Twin is some good shit man.

People expose their lack of intellect by using imbecilic examples to support their stance.

Republican and Democrats are both wrong. Independents and Libertarians are also wrong. If we can find a logical mix of all four we would really have something.

Bill Clinton was the best Republican Presidents ever.

When the word "racist" is used as a political tool it becomes worse than its original abomination.

The morning of September 11, 2001 fear over took sex as the most overwhelming driving forces in our society. Look at the news, our national foreign policy, and Bush’s second term.

Who Would Jesus Bomb? Best bumper sticker ever.

Bill Maher is an asshole he may be correct on many topics but he’s still an asshole.

Tell your father you love him while he’s still alive. You can tell him once he’s gone but it will not feel as good.

Bugs hurt at 80 mph

When your Grandmother says, "You don’t know what you’re doing." She’s right.

Rich, powerful, A-type personality men will cheat on you ladies. As often as possible. Its not you, its them and no amount of plastic surgery with stop it.

Kids learn from what they see in the home. Robin Williams’ father must have been a crazy fucker.

Mother Nature teaches you two lessons, 1) Mother Nature always wins. 2) Winning isn’t always the point.

Cory Haim died today. He was pretty much a douche bag and a bad actor. However, it was not entirely his fault as Hollywood creates this bogus world making people actually believe they deserve the money, attention, gifts(read drugs and women/men) and the work.Especially influenced are the young stars who make the childish adults around them a lot of money. Once those young stars stop making the cash for whatever reason they get tossed onto the used heap and forgotten yet still left with the sense of entitlement. One is left with the tools they were brought up with to fend off the rejection and disappointment but if they don't have the tools they end up on COPS or the evening news. Like I said it was not completely his fault but he was a douche bag.

Slight drizzle my ass.

Alright so I wake up this morning and look out the window. What do I see? Well better question is what do I "not" see. The SUN! The fucking sun is hidden behind some gray bullshit the weather man calls a "storm coverage." Fuck him I say. What the fuck am I paying $3.39 a gallon a gas for if I don't get the FUCKING SUN all the FUCKING time? Bullshit that's what I say.

Then it doesn't even have the sack to fully rain. It just drizzles all fucking day. You know how they say a good heavy rain washes everying and makes everything look/smell clean and new. Well take notice that they don't say any fucking thing about a good drizzle. Why; you ask yourselves would they give such praise to a "rain" yet nothing about a good "drizzle?" They're both parcipitation, and in the world of political correctness rain and drizzle should be equals. I can tell you that it's because there is no such thing as a good drizzle. A drizzle in Los Angeles does a couple things. First it cleans nothing, it just smears all the filth around. Drizzle does not clean filth off, it just sort of seperates the filth from whatever its covering and moves it a quarter inch. So your car looks dirtier, your house looks dirtier and the city looks like a burned out Vietnamese village in a Kubric film. Secondly it makes the asshole drivers in LA do two things. So we're going into a sub-catagory here folks. Fist sub- It makes pussy drivers creep along at a pace that would make old people fucking, look like coupled up enigizer bunnies. Second sub- it makes douche bag drivers think their SUV's and their Bemmers with ATRAC, rack and pinion...whatever drive like complete and total two bit assface cum chugglers*(not that there's anything wrong with that). Third thing a half-assed drizzle does to LA is make the street people smell worse than they already do. Seriously its not enough wetness to drive them into shelters, under birdges, or into Paris Hiltons jeans but it is damp enough to make their multi-layered Z Cavariccis and "Frankie Says" t shirts smell like the crotch of a menstrating yak in the foothills of Mongolia. Dude that smells bad. I don't know personally what the crotch of a menstrating yak in the foothills of Mongolia smells like, I just had a wacky scratch-n-sniff book when I was little. My grandparents went on trip to Asia minor in the sixties...never mind I digress. Anyway so now the city looks dirtier(that's not a word), its unsafe to F'in drive, and the bums smell un-Godly. This is what I had to deal with in Hell-A(see what I did there with the whole "LA" thing?)

Rant over. My next blog will be cheery I swear.
* Please note I have nothing against anyones sexual practices. Hell I practice all the time. Guzzle whatever you want I don't care.

Hollyhood

So there have been some wierd things happen in my hood. I live in Hollywood CA not the capitol of the entertainment business like most think. That would be Burbank or Culver City not Hollywood. However, we do have some crazy motherfuckers in my hood which I think distiguishes it from other hoods in LA. Take this example from this morning.
At 5am this morning, a "drunken naked guy" used a sock full of rocks to shatter the glass on the front door, and stormed inside to eat "all the pastries". Police responded and found the guy running around the store, resisting arrest. He had feathers in his hair and an American flag... although it wasn't explained to me if this was a large or small flag, or where it was placed (or, perhaps, raised). The cops had to use rubber bullets and a beanbag shotgun to subdue him.
That's normal around here. Well the American flag thing isn't. A similar thing happened many years ago that was also featured on the show COPS where this crazier than a shithouse rat guy got naked and attacked the roof of a Burger King. No flag that time. Those of you who live off Fountain will know the guy with tits that walks Fountain every night. He seems harmless just a bit old and with tits. Par for the course here. The female hookers have moved on and have been replace by the tranny hookers. For those of you in Mid-America "tranny hooker" dosn't mean a connecting bolt on the drivetrain of your Ford. Its a dude/chick working the streets for nickles and dimes. My friends and I used to get hammered and run down the shity part of Sunset high-five-ing hookers on our way to the various after hour entertainment. The hookers didn't get the social commentary of the spectical. What can you do they're hookers?

We have crime as well. Although most of the bodies are dumped in Castaic Lake norht of LA, the Russian mafia kills folks in my hood on a fairly regular basis. They run a couple brothels there as well but no one bothers them. We even had a car jacking in our driveway. Seems a guy was running from the cops off Sunset Blvd. and ran down to our street. He saw us in my roommates car and jumped in the running, with driver side door open Chevy Avalanche. I beat him down pretty well until he decided to get out of the car and steal another one. The cops caught him down my the Yukon Mining Company(speaking of Trannies) and Trader Joes parking lot. I beat him pretty bad but the cops really kicked the shit out him. Then there's this young hispanic kid that steals anything that isn't bolted down. Not sure how he stays out of jail. That's probably a better story.

Its a crazy hood but I love it. Its got excitement, character, good bars/eaterys, you can find good music, and there's more filth than you can shake a stick at.

Mammoth Mountain DJ

I have to put a few things out on the table before I go on here. First I love skiing with a passion whithout it I would die a painful agony of a death right after slipping from a marginally lucid existance to a sleepy, depressed, drooling, cheeto eating downward spiral. Second I like to shake my ass on the dance floor occasionally. It happens after a few drinks and a music mix of selections slightly harder than Zeplin and slight more dirty than Nine Inch Nails. (Hip hop in a pinch but I feel really fucking bad the next day) As it turns out I really don't want to see what you're workin' wit'.(Those in the know with be laughing here). Thirdly I'm drunk as shit right now at about 7,000 feet above sea level so please take that into concideration while reading.

After a day of ball busting, awe inspiring, peace in the middle east kind of skiing, I had the burden of going to a bar in the mountain village. Its a "hawain" themed bar named "laka nooki." Do you get it? "Laka Nookie"...."lack of nookie"...man that's good! Right! I'll pause here so everone reading can catch their breath from the humoristic blast to the senses you get when you understand the slight semantical difference between "lack of nookie" with the witty "laka nooki" I mean its like your saying, "lack of nookie" when you say the name. Oh man!...(end sarcasim here) I should have turned around once I looked at the name of the place. I mean the idea of pine apple flavored martinis, Kowabunga burgers, and lanai fries should have spun me on my heels back to the condo. But no, it was too damn cold out and I didn't bring a coat. Plus the group of folks I was with were fun and interesting. I had to enter.

So the first several cunks of time were great; filled with conversation of skiing and work, a vodka soda, more conversation, a vodka soda, more conversation smattered with some really decent people watching, a vodka soda, a vodka soda, a vodka soda. Hey I'm on vacation and I forgot that I was paying for my own booze. It was the altitiude damn it. Anyway, The place is packed with every kind of person you can image well let me be more persice(sp?), every kind of person you can imagine that would either live in Mammoth Lakes California or spend money to ski at Mammoth Mountain. This should clue you into the types of people we had on hand. We had the drunk touristas, the drunk locals with chips on their broad yet stupid shoulders, the wealthy douche bag males with their comb overs and regular sized condoms, the too old to wear that low cut top and tight jeans, "but my book club lady friends said it makes my tits look great" devorced mothers of 2.5 kids, and my favorit of all people to deal with; the (909) snow boarding, cage match watching, tattoo posing, dumb fucks, and fianally the wildly intellegent and socially responsible yet very poor spellers of a group of which I was a member. Let's just say I'm in heaven.

There was an area cleared of tables chairs and stools to be made into a dance floor. Its a respcetable size space and people are ready to begin the scene. The DJ (Douche bag Just out of county) on the other hand teases us with some quality NIN and some old Sisters of Mercy...but just a tease. He then lowers the boom on the unsuspecting crowd, that's right old school Michael Jackson. Hell you have have to dance to that right. I mean you have to shake your ass a little. Everyone can be seen boppin just a little if not out right breaking it down to the pedophiles beat. Hey the beat comes from before we knew so its OK. Some find it more appropiate(sp?) to bust into some saphoric bumping and grinding with some titty flashing to add flavor. Which is the one good thing that comes from the (909) I think we will all agree. So the night is looking up.

Then the "Muther Fucka"(not my words) behind the turn tables proceeds to bust out every reputable dance record released in the last 10 to 20 years. The only problem is he doesn't play the track we know and love to shake our collective drunk asses too. No. He ends up playing the track next to "The Track." Its like he was have to pay royalies or something. I'm not kidding when I say everyone on the dance floor would look at each other and say, "what the fuck ?" "Why is he playing this song?" Then he would tease us with a smash up of that crappy ass song and the song we all thought he was going to play. Only to be blasted by the sound of the needle being droped from height onto the open side of the turn tables. The concusion was something to behold. Was this guy really that bad? Yup he was that bad. I wish I was more versed in the annals of shitty music so I could run down the play list for my readers. But I don't even think Ryan Seacrest or Kassy Kassum have heard music this shitty. Kaytell records could not have put together a shitty-er collection on a 2 disc set or 1 cassette tape. The dance floor actually stopped bobbing four times at four consecutive music changes. I mean when you queit a room and make the two hammered chicks stop making out, look up and ask what is that guy doing, you know you have accomplished something special.

All I can say is thank God or Budha or whomever for Vodka soda.

Thankfully I can ski again tomorrow and cleans my audiotory pallet with an adventurous sorbet.(wow that sounds gay)

Dead guy in my appartment

So there's a dead guy in my apartment. Well not technically "IN" my apartment but in the building. He apparently passed several days ago in his upstairs apartment. His HOT upstairs apartment. The heat has caused some "advanced decomposer" and degradation of the body. That's coroner terms for he's rotting. Rotting to the point the crime scene guys asked a neighbor if my dead fair skinned white haired Anglo neighbor was a black man because he couldn't tell his race due to the skin discoloring. Which is also why I say there's a dead guy in my apartment because you can smell the body. Now I'm not one to make light of the loss of a human being as my father passed away recently and I would still gut the man who said a disparaging word against him,...but the smell.
I don't think I can handle it. I can accept a certain amount of physical pain, plenty of psychological pain, insults and oppression however; I'm really sensitive to smell. Smells bring me to my knees, that and dentist drills but that's another story. I'm not even sure I like the idea of a dead body in my building. There's just something about restless spirits and ghosts and what not that makes me a bit uneasy; not flat out scared just uneasy. I don't like anything that I can't fight back against if the need arose. I guess that's being paranoid but fuck it. Someone once said, "being paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you." I'm just saying.
Matt the old man who died was a loony bastard, and I mean that in the best sense. He walked around the building in a nightgown or a short robe with nothing on underneath sometimes he would get the mail wearing nothing. He would occasionally wig out and yell and pound on doors. There were delusional threats sporadically through the years but no physical attempts on anyone. Which is about all you can ask for in this day and age. I had spoken to him briefly a couple times, once I was working on my Low-rider and he mentioned how he would really enjoy riding a bike like that and how beautiful my bike was. So I had nothing against the guy. Of course he never came to my door kicking and screaming holding a knife either. I would have shoved it straight up his ass and I think he knew it. He saved the dramatics for the single women in the building. I guess he wasn't that crazy now was he?
So the cops are still doing the investigation to find out what happened and the windows are all open for venting. Not much more to say other than Vaya con Dios and pass the Fabreeze.

FU LA(wrote this around Christmas time)

This evening I was convinced to go to a local mall by my girl. Normally getting me in a mall between Thanksgiving and Christmas would take an act of God or a sopeana, in this case it was promise of a good steak. Every man has his price. Little did I know I would be plunged deep into the most revolting display of LA "culture" anyone had ever experienced. On the main floor of the mall this time of year they fill the area with a snowy scene of Santa's North Pole village. Nervous children waiting, not so patiently, in line with protective mothers and fathers for a short usually terrifying visit with Santa himself. These lines typically wind through manmade cotton snow and giant Styrofoam painted candy canes. The old Christmas standards seem to linger in the air while you catch yourself singing along. Marketing at its finest. Marketing or not, this is the American Christmas Norman Rockwell would have painted if he were alive today. I picture this: an overly enthusiastic teen dressed as an elfin photographer capturing a screaming child being lifted off Santa's noticeably wet lap by an eye rolling Santa's "helper" while overheated frustrated parents scold rascally cued kids. Done in Rockwell's realistic style and tone. It's the closet thing to a common tradition we have in our fast paced, consumer driven, self-absorbed society.
At this mall in the heart of Los Angeles they have a Santa's Village. They have the giant candy canes and the elfin photographer but they also have something no other mall in the fucking world would have. Let me paint the picture for you. First you hear the loud "hip" Christmas type music. It sounds like a re-mix version of Manhiem Steamroller and The Crystal Method. That's the best I can do to describe it. The DJ; that's right Santa's village has a douche bag DJ, is dancing around as if it's after hours at Avalon and the passing shoppers are a mob of tweaking club kids. Then I notice the five whores-a-leaping. Watching five scantily clad women, billed as "The Candy Cane Dancers" grinding each other to I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause in front of a line full of drop jawed kids was staggering. At this point I wasn't sure I was pissed about this scene or if I was about to laugh my ass off and start breaking of dollar bills, either way the looks on the faces of the mothers was priceless. So Santa's strippers are bumping and grinding to hallowed iconic music, well the acid house version anyway, while the "Hunky Santa" bobs his head and claps his hands like he's a Garth Brooks dance academy graduate. However, he is tall, dark, and very tan so the mothers have now changed their expression and pulling out the compacts to make sure they look good for "Hunky Santa." We all have our price don't we. They Candy Cane dancers and Hunky Santa do their little Bob Fosse Christmas Special while the whole mall stops to watch the spectacle. Looking up I see heads lining the railing peering over from all three levels of the upper floors some smiling, some laughing, others in just as much disbelief as myself. I have to assume the latter are from out of town or Culver City. The house remix ends and the dancers finish in a wild tangled crumpled heap of red, white and boobs. Which is a great name for a Bill Clinton biography. Anyway the Ghost of Christmas past was shitting himself at the sight of this I'm sure.
As the music faded away the dancers picked themselves up and a sporadic seemingly confused round of applause arose from the crowd. Hunky Santa seemed very please with himself in his big sleeveless red and white robe. Oh did I forget to describe the sleeveless robe "Santa was sporting over his shirt, oh wait no I'm sorry he wasn't wearing a shirt. Just and open sleeveless red white fur lined robe. This kind of throws a wrench in the traditional rendering that is our collective Santa. This low carb single digit body fat version is certain to screw up some little kids notion of Santa. Now imagine this kid finds out there really is no Santa in a year or two after coming to grips with the discrepancy of body and spirit, in about three years we will need to start watching the tops of clock towers here in Beverly Hills. Only in a Los Angeles mall would we have a Santa on the Atkins Diet. Only in Los Angeles would Santa's helpers be strippers dressed like the third shift at Crazy Horse. Only in Los Angeles would a mall manager think this would be an acceptable way to express and honor the Christmas tradition of Santa Clause. Of course at the same time in this day and age of political correctness, to green light a show like that takes some balls.
Once the show was over everyone slowly moved back to the hustle and bustle of urban mall Christmas shopping. The lack of politeness and lack of awareness for other gained hold of the crowd and I knew all was back to normal.
This place sucks.
Merry fat as hell Christmas everyone.

Shoot Chuck Faucett in the Face.

Found this blog written by Brady Doty.(http://www.doty.nu/wordpress/) We were in 6th grade together about 25 years ago. I was the shooter.


"bb
in my old neighborhood in springfield we used to have a lot of bb gun fights..

we all had bb guns and after a while we figured out cans and army men and other little targets were just far too hard to hit..

we found it easier to shoot each other..

most of the guns we had would not break the skin from more than about 10 feet so it wasn't really as dangerous as it sounds..

at least that's what we thought until someone shot chuck faucett in the eye..

i don't remember who shot him - i remember he was up in a tree shooting down at some of us and before i could even raise my gun he was yelling something about getting shot in the eye.. it was kind of like one of those battle scenes from a bad vietnam movie where everything slows down and you hear a slow, growling, guttural voice bellowing "ahhhhhmmm hiiiiiiiiiiit.. aaaaaahhhhhmmm hiiiiiiit"..

this is where you'd expect to hear me issue a public service announcement about how chuck lost his eye that day and we should all remind our children to be more careful with firearms of any caliber and blah blah blah..

well.. he didn't lose an eye.. he gained a bb..

the shot just missed his eyeball and sunk in deep behind it.. and it's still there..

they told him it would be too dangerous to try to take it out and it wouldn't hurt anything to leave it.. so there it sits..

so the real lesson for the kids is this..

if you're going to shoot your friends in the face with a bb gun, aim for the bridge of the nose..

that way, when you miss a little, there's a chance your shot will slip nicely in behind the eyeball, providing your friend a lovely reminder of your time together.."

What I've learned

Women don’t want you to fix their problems. They just want you to sit, listen quietly, nod your head and say, "I love you, you are very special to me, and/or that’s so unfair."

Women don’t want you to fix their problems unless their problem is a flat tire

Contracts with employers aren’t for you. They are for your employer. If you don’t agree try refusing to sign the contract.

I don’t care what anyone says after a certain age you feel like shit after exercise.

People from other cultures know how to relax and they can do it at the drop of a hat.

They say money can’t buy happiness well I would like to give it a try. I have a few ideas that might just work.

Motorcycles are the cheapest and safest recreational drug on the market today. The V-Twin is some good shit man.

People expose their lack of intellect by using imbecilic examples to support their stance.

Republican and Democrats are both wrong. Independents and Libertarians are also wrong. If we can find a logical mix of all four we would really have something.

Bill Clinton was the best Republican Presidents ever.

When the word "racist" is used as a political tool it becomes worse than its original abomination.

The morning of September 11, 2001 fear over took sex as the most overwhelming driving forces in our society. Look at the news, our national foreign policy, and Bush’s second term.

Who Would Jesus Bomb? Best bumper sticker ever.

Bill Maher is an asshole he may be correct on many topics but he’s still an asshole.

Tell your father you love him while he’s still alive. You can tell him once he’s gone but it will not feel as good.

Bugs hurt at 80 mph

When your Grandmother says, "You don’t know what you’re doing." She’s right.

Rich, powerful, A-type personality men will cheat on you ladies. As often as possible. Its not you, its them and no amount of plastic surgery with stop it.

Kids learn from what they see in the home. Robin Williams’ father must have been a crazy fucker.

Mother Nature teaches you two lessons, 1) Mother Nature always wins. 2) Winning isn’t always the point.

Game 7 Penguins to be Victorious

Tonight is game seven of the NHL finals between "the team that shall not be named" and Pittsburgh Penguins. The Pens must pull off the victory as "the team that shall not be named" are a bunch of smug pricks that need disappointment and sorrow more than any other group of men I have ever seen with the exception of every single terrorist in the world. That's right I compared them to terrorists. They are that evil, and I know there are people out there that think sinking this low and comparing terrorists to "the team that shall not be named" is ridiculous and disgusting and I should never compare a group of hard working professional dedicated men to scumbag, amoral, foreign self righteous fuck tard hockey players. Its and insult to most terrorists. F' them.

I'm not a big fan of the Pens but I will back any team fielded against "the team that shall not be named." My team is the Colorado Avalanche. I will back my team through thick and thin as a good fan should do year after year. This year being a perfect example of the "thin." They will come back to the glory days just as "the team that shall not be named" will fall from its height.

Go Pens.

The inaugural post of this blog should summarize what I want this blog to be and what I want to express via the world wide web. Basically what I hope to do is just convey my thoughts on current topics, expose the things I think are cool, and vent my frustration with a world that seems to be spiralling out of control. Its my first crack at the whole blog thing so cut me some slack and FTW.