East Hollywood Blues

A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Month: January 2018

It’s All About the Jews

The Millennial Gentrification Invasion of 2018 has brought a special breed to East Hollywood.

Case in point: my neighbor from across the street Kelly. She just turned 30, is new to the area, has blonde braids and walks her rather placid little Chihuahua named Frank twice a day. I found looking at her to be a lovely experience so I decided to strike up a conversation.

It seems she had just moved back to the States from Islamabad, Pakistan where she went to find out the truth about the reincarnation of her mother from a Rothschild heiress who is currently stationed by the Rothschild family in Islamabad to do their bidding for world domination.

While there, Kelly found out her mother had been reincarnated twice; both times as men and the first time as Robert Plant‘s son who died when he was 5. Her mother is currently a musician who lives in London but is moving to Sweden.

So does one find this information by confronting the Rothschild heiress? No. One stalks her and prays to the Great Hermaphrodite Goddess. How does one pray to the great Hermaphrodite Goddess? By quoting and singing Helter Skelter  which shows us how the Zionists and Rothschild’s are really running the world and don’t want us to know about reincarnation as a member of another gender.

Even with East Hollywood’s Millennials it’s all about the Jews.

Masshole Owns Your Soul

I couldn’t tell if these guys were part of the neighbouring Macbeth cast. Edinburgh Fringe 2011, Royal Mile.

It’s a restless, languid evening in Los Angeles.

30 years ago I would have gone forth into the Lower East Side night looking for some sort of angry fix or date with destiny but a bar fight doesn’t cut it when you are in early middle age; so I pulled out my medical history to be sure I had in fact been vaccinated for consumption and ventured forth in to the East Hollywood night. Destination: the Monte Carlo for cocktails.

I chose my seat at the half moon bar nearest the door so I wouldn’t trip over the peeling linoleum floor if I had to make a quick exit due to police raid or I had to rebuff the affections of a bald, toothless prostitute in a black mini skirt and hot pink tube top. Looking up at the TV white noise wishing it were the mindless noise of a bad Woody Woodpecker cartoon instead of more righteously indignant commentators getting all up in arms about a who really gives a fuck topic anyway when I heard a familiar voice over by the pool table.

“7 ball, two cushion, side pocket. If I make this I own your soul, ok?”

It appeared that Masshole, a dumpy 29-year old city employee originally from Boston always dressed in a light blue shirt, jeans with a massive out of date Prince Valiant haircut that didn’t quite fit with his curly hair and massive almost to the size of an A-Lister head, was in the house.  When he put on his helmet Masshole was a great pool player who also fancied himself as Papa Legba and The Monte Carlo as the crossroads. He would probably beat you at pool as he knew every slant and lane and dead spot on the shitty little pool table that probably dated from 1932 when it was a remainder off balance Pawn Shop buy. Masshole would then claim to own your soul but being the ever gracious Mephistophelian he would allow you to buy it back. The price: a price of a shot of rail bourbon.

His opponents’ voice sat me upright.

“Why not. I’m an Atheist. People don’t have souls. When we die we just end. That’s all.”

It was Man Bun holding a pool cue in lieu of his service dog, watching Masshole’s shot with great intensity obviously hoping to force a miss. Alas, the shot went in and Masshole threw down a blue Bic ball point pen and little blue spiral notebook from his left back pocket.

“Sign here,” Masshole said.

“Why,” Man Bun asked.

“It’s a contract. I own your soul.”

Shockingly Man Bun scribbled his name on the small piece paper.

“I win,” Masshole said.

“But the game isn’t over,” Man Bun countered.

“I own your soul. I win.”

“There is not such thing as a soul!”

“Look,” Masshole said. “Buy me a shot a rail bourbon and we’ll start a new game. Buy me two shots and I’ll tear up this contract and give you your soul back.”

Masshole knows from an easy mark.

Just as Man Bun was negotiating price – it was $15 but he would take $12 for the two shots which should total $10 – with Masshole in walked A Line dressed in a pink tank top, denim jean skirt revealing a greenish blue tattoo that went from ankle to crotch on her left leg. She still had on that damnable gray Envelope hat.

“Baby come on, we’re going to be late for Cricket’s dinner party,” she said.

As they walk out the door Masshole screams after them “What about your immortal soul?”

“There is no such thing as an immortal soul,” A-Line screams back.

So much for a loophole.

Is The Beverage Cart Still In Play

The Troll is nowhere to be found.

Tommy, the GM at my gig in the oak paneled, red banquette appointed Steakhouse tells me this in a resigned matter of fact voice after I walk on the floor for my Thursday shift.

“Is he suicidal,” I asked.

“No such luck.”

“Do we have to go get him out of that Crack house in South LA again?” This is not something we would do for the usual lack of talent that is to be found in the So Cal Hospitality Industry but the Troll is my junior barman and senior server not to mention a 28-year old Meth freak but credit where credit’s due; when the Troll is here he is always punctual to the second and cleans everything even if it’s with a compulsive tinge.

“I don’t think he’s in country,” Tommy said.

It seems the Troll, so named as he is from the Lower Peninsula of Michigan hence a troll because he lives under the bridge not because he has unkempt curly brown hair, an ironic beard, a blank glare in his brown eyes and walks from the hip with his arms out to hold his balance steady; no he disappeared four days hence after a fight with his fiancé the Dumpling, our floor manager.

They screamed, yelled and threatened bodily harm to each other and their tri-colored Miniature Dachshund until a neighbor in said Hollywood enclave called the police who arrived to keep the domestic peace for the third time in two weeks.

The Dumpling always wears three or four strands of beads. They are gifts from the Troll after each fight. These aren’t beads found in your better Jewelry stores on Melrose Ave or even bought from an elderly Hopi woman on I-40 before you head up to the Hoover Dam. No, these look like anal beads and it makes me wonder if these two got the memo from Vivid Entertainment: anal beads are out – butt plugs are in. However, this time when they reconciled the Dumpling asked for escargot.

“You want escargot, I’ll get you escargot,” he said.

Tommy told me the Troll walked out of their apartment and promptly ended up going on a bender, which ended with him coming to on an airplane. According to what the Dumpling told Tommy he asked the Stewardess two questions: where is this plane headed and is the Beverage Cart still in play. Answers: Belgium and yes.   He spent two days detained in Customs and was put on the first flight back to Los Angeles. He was due back in town at any moment.

“I’m not letting him back in when he gets back,” she told everyone who came in for dinner.

I have often wondered what the Dumpling, a 27-year old knockout blonde from Mississippi, sees in this guy who is one step away from Swamp Thing on the evolutionary chart. The 30-year old leggy brunette who works the floor with the Dumpling tells me he has the gift of the gab when it comes to the ladies.  I assure her anyone who uses Peanut Butter crank to spit shine his Brain Pan is a liar. No one can keep their frothing mouth open that long and tell the truth.

Twenty minutes later the Dumpling passes word she received a text saying the Troll is coming up to the Steakhouse to apologize. She assures us there will be hell to pay. Tommy stops touching tables in the dining room. He hangs out by the bar with me waiting to see the moment when Karma finally bites the Troll in the ass.

Not five minutes later, the oak doors are thrown open by the Troll, sweating his latest fix out – dressed in his work blacks, on his knees lining up escargot after escargot until he puts the last one at the Dumplings feet.

“Baby, I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “They followed me home.”

Of course she takes him back with an embrace and kiss that is supposed to bring every diner to their feet applauding the love they have just witnessed but can’t see because of the black cloth separating the dining room from the bar so they only have Tommy and myself and we are none to impressed. At least one exiting diner nearly slips on a snail. The Troll puts another strand of beads on her right wrist – a tableau right out some Hubert Selby Jr. short story in Song of the Silent Snow.

”Jesus.  Makes you wonder about young love with these kids doesn’t it, “  Tommy said.

It makes me wonder who will clean up the mess.

But I’m Holding It

Picano’s, the El Salvadoran bakery at the bottom of my street, just re-opened after being closed for many months by the Health Dept. for what were officially kitchen violations. However, word on the mean but Millennially infested streets of East Hollywood has it that they finally got caught for selling Oxycodone to ’80’s Hair Band refugees and machete’s to street gang members and yours truly as a prop for a project – the manager was touched to have one of his weapons as a prop in a play on an actual stage – but that’s a story for a different time.

I used to get up, make my coffee and watch as the Sebastian Bach and Mötley Crüe middle aged wanna be’s line up to get their medication as memories from a night’s debauchery at The Rainbow Room in 1985 was reminisced over for the hundredth time since 11pm while leaning on one of the last working pay phones in Los Angeles.  Since the grand re-opening, two groups line up outside the place: El Salvadoran yenta’s with their push baskets and Millennial hipsters in their yoga pants trying to support a local business that doesn’t seem to have the exact kind of Starbuck’s product they’re looking for but what the fuck buy local.

The other day as I opened the door to get my large coffee, I found myself in the middle of a commotion. It seems Man Bun, with his fabulously frosted hair and cerulean dyed bun daintily tied on the left side of his crown, was in an argument with the manager about his Lhasa Apso that he brought into the joint.

“But I’m holding it,” Man Bun says.

“It’s a health code violation and we can’t have the dog in here,” the manager said.

It’s a service dog,” Man Bun claimed. “I need her to relieve my social anxiety otherwise I can’t buy anything in this crowd.”

The crowd was me, three El Salvadoran yenta’s waiting patiently for their turn to buy native deserts and other cookies and cakes and the manager.

“Look buddy, I just re-opened a minute ago and I don’t want to be shut down again. Do me the solid ok? Don’t bring the dog in here. It’s a health code violation,” the Manager said.

“It’s a service dog,” Man Bun screamed as the yenta’s went about their shopping, looking at lists and the like.

“Then get one of those little yellow coats that says it’s a service dog and I’ll let it in. Until then DO NOT bring the dog in here.”

Man Bun looked around with disgust. “I’m going to call the Health Department and they’ll get you to check your White privilege. You and your deplorables!” He walked out with enough righteous indignation to make A Line proud. Of course the rest of us wondered if he knows where El Salvador is.

The Abomination Of Desolation

The 30 Something Leggy Brunette sent me the gift of music today via iTunes. Her note was full of concern for my well-being.

“I’m sorry you have to spend the 15th alone. Try not to get too depressed, I’ll be home soon. My stepfather played this song ‘Deacon Blues’ and it totally reminded me of you. Listen to it and think of me. Love you baby!”

She actually bought me Aja, I thought. I haven’t owned that album in years. I was truly touched somewhere in the depths of my pitch-black soul. I clicked on the appropriate Get Your Gift now button and found my brand spanking new MP3 waiting for me: Steely Dan’s Greatest Hits. It’s the thought that counts.

The 15th is a date I’ve tried hard to forget for the last 2 years and nothing’s worked. I tried blowing all the bad shit out of my brain but it all came back after I got hungry in the eighth hour of the field trip to my frontal lobes. Crawling down to the bottom of a Jim Beam bottle proved to be a liver not memory eraser so I was forced to trust in time.

The Once and Future Ex went back to New York to see her family for the holidays and except for a text telling me she had arrived safely on December 24 decided to cut off contact – ghosting as the kids call it. There were no Facebook updates, Tweets or any return calls to my many voice mail messages. I moped around the house for a couple of weeks grappling with the knowledge my marriage was indeed over. We had been dancing around the topic of a separation for months and let’s face it you are never surprised when love dies and a relationship ends.

The surprise came on the 15th. My production partner threw me several texts telling me to go to her Facebook page ASAP. The Once and Future Ex had finally posted, sharing a link to a National Geographic documentary on polyamorous marriages. “Come see me and my new life partners,” she enthused. I clicked on the link and at the 22:34 mark there was the Once and Future Ex telling the documentarian why she left me for a man and a woman. “I was so bored in my marriage. He was too Career oriented and had no time for me. I wanted an adventure with someone who wanted to be with me.”

At that exact moment while I looked out over my Michael Mann view of Culver City wishing my filthy hand crank panes from 1954 were a Bay window with rain droplets gently hitting the glass because it seemed like a classier way to find out you were betrayed by the best since Brutus, the doorbell rang. I opened my large white door and was served with divorce papers. And of course just when I thought it couldn’t get more humiliating and embarrassing, the sympathy texts/calls started. After they were done I couldn’t get off the couch for a week. So much for sterner stuff.

‘Deacon Blues’ didn’t seem to fit my mood. However Bob Mould’s bloody howl of pain to begin the Golden Palomino’s ‘Dying From the Inside Out’ worked nicely. As my memory amped up the pain of two years previous, I looked through my bookshelf for a glimmer of anything that tuned me on to go 30 years earlier. Jim Carroll didn’t seem right and I couldn’t find my copy of ‘Men Without Women.’

Finally, after listening to Richard Thompson’s side winding outro solo with Anton Fier’s bombastic yet jazzy drum fills for what seemed to be the twelfth time, I tired of the misery and put on ‘Deacon Blues.’ Although I could see how this would remind my dark haired, olive skinned, blue eyed friend of my youthful self she never knew – I did always dream of being able to blow a cool blues in the afternoon just like Miles in between bouts of stomach flu in January of 1987 – the loser aspect of the song always bothered me. I was never a loser, an aspiring bohemian but never a loser until I was ghosted, left, forgotten and had the letter L tattooed on my forehead.  I can hear you saying aren’t you a huge Leonard Cohen fan? Yes, I am but unlike Lenny I have never found beauty in the aforementioned condition.

So after the third time through the song, I perused my iTunes looking for Dean Benedetti’s recordings of Charlie Parker’s solo’s or maybe ‘Candy Says’ by the Velvet Underground, something to placate my thirsty, aging bohemian soul.  Suddenly from across the driveway I heard something, a karaoke tune played in Jamaican dub style with a familiar, horribly fractured melody. It was ‘Deacon Blues.’

“That’s my new go to karaoke tune,” Man Bun said moments after the song mercifully ended.

“That is so cool. Did you know Steely Dan is named after an early version of the Rabbit vibe? I read it in the liner notes to their Great Hits MP3,” A-Line enthused.

It seems in my corner of East Hollywood a man can’t have a Mid Life Crisis without a karaoke soundtrack.

I am bereft.

The Myth Of The American Road Is Dead

It’s a karaoke night at a local East Hollywood watering hole because every bar around here offers karaoke 24/7/365.

Two 28 year old self described ‘dudes’ are discussing their favorite cars while their friend – another ‘dude’ Rickrolls the audience but I’m not sure the ‘dudes’ understand the concept.

Dude 1: Dodge.

Dude 2: Toyota Prius.

Dude 1: Any Volkswagen.

Dude 2: Acura ILX

Dude 3 comes off stage to a smattering of applause.

Dude 3: Subaru WRX

Dude 1, 2, 3: Dude.

A random bar patron, a balding guy with a Ralphie Cifaretto collegiate sense of fashion about 42 or so joins the conversation.

Random Bar Patron: I’d love a 1957 T-Bird convertible.

The Dudes take umbrage.

Dude 1: You are climate change denier dude.

Dude 2: Wasn’t that the car from that 1970’s show Route 10.

Dude 3: That was Interstate 10 dude.

Dude 2: That was the show where they drove the highways picking up chicks and surfing.

Dude 1: That show is my spirit animal dude.

The Myth of the American Road is dead. Somewhere Steinbeck, Kerouac and William Least Heat-Moon are crying into their beers.

 

#bohemiancultureisdead #theshowwascalledroute66

Dancing To Angry Chair

Last night, A-Line and Man Bun were engaged in a karaoke session.  The highlight: A-Line belting out a rousing version of “Angry Chair” slightly on the sharp side thus causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

When she finished Man Bun said “you know I always thought that song was missing something.”

“You know I always thought so too,” A Line said.

Then in a Road To Damascus moment the Man Bun says “I’ve got it! Next time we’ll give it a Hip Hop beat.”

In an excited voice A Line replies “that would be so awesome! I’ll do it like that and it will be my go to karaoke song!”

I don’t know what’s worse: having a go to karaoke song or trying to make a dirge danceable.

 

Monthly Sugar Baby

4:45am.

My phone blows up. 8 text messages in the course of 15 minutes. Each text begs me to go to my Tinder app and read the messages sent over the course of the past 7 minutes.

The messages were from the 27 year old Burlesque artist I had met a few days earlier. The 30 something leggy brunette was AWOL visiting her family some where in the deserts of Utah where they had a winter house so in a fit of lonesome peak that would make Hank Williams Sr proud I decided to try out Tinder so I could be one of the cool kids.

As I sat in the Lock and Key on Vermont swiping left wondering if these people had ever heard of the advent of the lightbulb I swiped right on an attractive 27 year old Honey blonde with purple streaks in her hair.  Then she swiped right and not 30 minutes later she was sitting next to me in a silver dress slit all the way up to her upper thigh.

How hard can this social meeting dating thing be if lovely creatures like this lurking about. Am I right?

We started discussing her upcoming trip to Vegas. She wanted me to teach her how to gamble, specifically how to play a One Armed Bandit. After the shock of realizing that yes she was serious wore off, I started to explain the concept of vending machines and casinos to her when her phone blew up. She slipped me her number, kissed me on both cheeks and ran out into the East Hollywood night to meet her ‘girls.’

It appears this Tinder thing was going to be far more confusing than I thought. I did the right thing, at least it was the right thing when I was actively courting the Once and Future Ex, and sent her a text saying it was lovely to meet her.

Crickets.

I had put this into the nothing ventured nothing gained category so this text and Tinder fest was welcome even if it was oddly timed. I suppose I was holding out hope she might actually want to go out again. I opened the Tinder app and we started chatting.

Her: Hiiii!
Me: Hey there! How was Vegas?
Her: I had a blast.
Me: I love that town.
Her: Me too!  Can I ask you a question?
Me: Fire away.
Her: I was gonna ask you if you would want to spend time with me and at the same time help me
Quid pro quo.
Me: What kind of help do you need?
Her: Financial.  It’s hard being on your own.
Me: Parents can’t help huh?
Her: No!!! They disowned me when they found out I was a Burlesque artist!  If not it’s ok no worries I think you’re a really cool guy.  I was just seeing if we could both gain.  Maybe I have something you are missing
Me: To be honest In the middle of two projects this year so before I answer either way I have to check with my lawyer and accountant.
Her:  Haha!! Ok you do what you do.  Remember, I don’t mind scratching your back as long as you got mine!  Life is a give and take no matter how you spin it.
Me: How much are you looking for?
Her: Enough for a down payment and something I can count on steadily for my time.  My Trust fund pays my bills but I need more and  I deserve it.
Me: We all do.
Her: Not all do but I deserve it.
Me: I understand.
Her: I know you do !! That’s why I liked you from day one 🙂 Let me know if you wanna get together.
Me: Let me talk to my people and see what the year is going to look like.
Her: You’re awesome! We would have the best times together!
Me: I’m sure we would.
Her: And I promise when we go out I’ll have makeup on and look like Khloe Kardashian for you. Sleep tight!

With that I turned over and went to sleep. I assumed that exchange was some a drunken sext or bootie call of some type that went sideways quickly. The surprise came at 11:00am. My phone blew up with another 8 texts begging me to log on to Tinder.

Her: Did you talk to your people?
Me:  Yes. My lawyer and accountant threatened to kill me if I keep you in a non traditional sense. However they told me I get tremendous tax advantages if we get married.

Crickets.

Shockingly, I haven’t heard from her in some time.

The Millennial Cut Up Technique

Submitted for your approval: a transcription of two twenty somethings talking as I sipped on a Tito’s Immaculate Conception at the Local.   The words are easy to understand as they are uttered in English but the context, syntax and grammar appear to be in a foreign tongue unknown to most but spoken fluently by the Gentrifying denizens of East Hollywood known as Millennials.

1: No I’m talking about my sister’s friend. He’s a big fan of Kazakhstan.

2: Dude he must be into ballers.

1: That’s because he’s into popping pills all time. He must be Andy Garcia.

2: You know what’s weird I don’t remember seeing Ocean’s 13 but I totally remember seeing it.

1: Dawg you must have been to Paris with a cat burglar. I don’t remember seeing it but I saw it when I was learning English.

2: Dude it’s like all about the subtitles. And languages, not to mention words used in vampire lore

1: You are a serious guy dude.

2: The Louvre has never come up in conversation.

1: The French Revolution was the world’s coolest party that got out of hand.

2: Just like my frat man.

1: It was so cool with that movie and the guillotine.

2: You need to drink a diet soda and kill quickly.

1: That’s like Snow White.

2: It all seems like a cliché dude.

1: Yes you got it in there.

2: It’s over and over again dog.

1: Vape?

2: Not in front of the audience.

1: Basically they’re 3,000 strong.

2: Because every time you die you come back.

1: It’s over and over again dawg.

2: White people suck rightfully so I totally get it.

1: It’s just still gripping so drink the water because I love this movie so hard.

2: But only if Russell Brand is being racist and Brad Pitt hangs out on set for like a year.

I am forced to conclude William S. Burroughs’ Cut-Up technique has become passé.