A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Tag: East Hollywood (Page 1 of 2)

Another Day Another Deranged Shooter

Another day another deranged shooter in East Hollywood.

This time I found out from the LAPD themselves, not an alert popping up on my phone. It seems a knucklehead barricaded himself in an apartment in the SRO next to my building. So after my workout when I was at my most sweaty and slimy the Cops won’t let anyone on the block.

“It’s an active shooter situation,” the Cop says.

“When will it be over,” I asked.

“It will be over when it’s over. No more questions. Go that way,” he pointed down toward K-Town. I was in no mood to argue with the guy about needing a shower, especially with the SWAT team staging what looked like a raid behind him so off I went to the Local to wait out.

There is no place better to wait out an active shooter than at the Local. Jack the Albino behind the bar and our three Russian gun nut pals agreed and thus we waited drinking and trying to figure out what sort of rifle does one use to hold off the LAPD in an East Hollywood SRO when A Line and Man Bun came in with their dog complaining about the Tear Gas in the air.

They had never been in the Local but it was the closest clean well lit place to go. Man Bun gripped his dog tightly.

“Those Cops poisoned my dog! She’s choking,” he cried while A Line tried to remain composed as she called her Mother.

“Oh my Gawd can you believe it Mother? Gun violence is finally here. In East Hollywood! I’ll never be safe again.”

The refused all drinks and water for their dog from Jack the Albino while they waited with the rest of us for the all clear go back to your homes to sound out.

While walking outside to catch a whiff of the CS gas wafting up Beverly towards Silver Lake because hey wouldn’t Hunter S. Thompson do the same thing, I overheard two cops talking and was able to piece together the events of the day in my corner of East Hollywood. It seems the LAPD had been looking for this Guy in the SRO for three weeks because he shot at and hit his soon to be ex wife and her new boy toy outside a movie theater near the Miracle Mile.

Although no status had been offered vis a vie the condition of the boy toy and soon to be ex it appears that the LAPD takes attempted divorce by public shooting very seriously. Therefore they tracked said knucklehead to the SRO next to my apartment and surrounded the place. They only evacuated the block when he pulled out a gun and shot the door frame. SWAT had been called and had occupied an apartment with a clear line of sight into the domicile now being used as a bunker. Negotiations were continuing but had been pushed into overdrive by the emergence of a mirror, a credit card, some white powder and what appeared to be a rolled up $20. Hence the Tear Gas.

Two hours later the neighborhood was given the all clear to return to their homes sans the SRO residents who would have to wait until the LA CSI unit finished their work. It seems our knucklehead had brandished a weapon and fired in the VERY general direction of SWAT team member who in turn gave him Suicide by SWAT which was over 6 hours in the making.

I walked back to my joint with great determination and relief. I stunk so much I was beginning to offend myself and a shower would surely be a welcome relief for everyone in a three mile radius. I walked up the stairs and found the apartment SWAT had occupied during the siege was mine. It was also readily apparent from various marking in the dust on my fire escape that the fatal shots had been fired from three feet outside my kitchen thus allowing the stench of gun powder and involuntary death to permeate and hang over everything in my home.

I walked outside, down the stairs and into the street in an attempt to get away from legal side of the crime scene where I found a righteously indignant almost to the point of being WASP’s from Greenwich, Connecticut A Line and Man Bun arguing with a plain clothed member of the LAPD demanding reparations for their inconvenience and now poisoned dog who in true Chihuahua fashion was biting at the LAPD plain clothes cop.

This was the last bit of weirdness I could stand. It was time to go to the same desert where Phil Kaufman took Gram Parson’s corpse and burned it.

Skateaway Baby

The Millennial matted haired blonde tweaker roller skated through the cars without a care for the chaos she caused the East Hollywood traffic backing up Beverly Blvd. for nearly a mile.

It wasn’t her skeletal form nor the beige vest that all the Meth freaks wear out here, a sort of weird reminder that East Hollywood is still a district in a desert town and the proper camouflage is needed, causing the cars to crawl along. Nor was it her totally tatted up body causing the clichéd LA bottleneck – everyone out here seems to let tattoo artists loose on every centimeter of their once virgin flesh.

No. It was the bright yellow kite with a smiley face she was flying.

I suddenly find myself in Dire Straits frame of mind. I wonder if she knows a DJ playing movies all night long.

Christmas At The Monte Carlo

Christmas in East Hollywood and the denizens are quiet.  No Mexican polka at the SRO.  No OD who’s probably laming it from  one of his ex wives anyway.  No ‘go to karaoke songs’ from Man Bun and A Line.  The only sound on the street is the drone of  A Christmas Story from various TV’s on the block.  All seems right in the ‘hood and Jean Shepherd’s estate is flush for another year but I’m jonesing for some action.

I flip through my medical records and see my tetanus is shot up to date so I decide to get a shot and a beer at the Monte Carlo on 3rd and Vermont.

The Monte Carlo smells like a recently cleaned adult bookstore. The troll like 5’1″ blonde hooker wanna be in far too tight red stretch pants is screaming at the larger than beer bellied but still looks like the Les Nessman type.  All he’s missing is the bow tie and the ever moving Band-Aid.

She was worried about him. He mumbles that he can’t get it up so he’ll call his buddy.  She’s drinking a florescent red Cape Codder while the two Millennial Sandernistas discuss Bernie in Pigeon simile and eye her nervously.

The only thing wrong with this scene is the Queen song playing as the Korean bartender whose name is unpronounceable claiming she’s known everyone in the bar since she’s been 19. Then Andy, a portly squat Samoan, makes the scene. The barmaid tells him he looks great. Les Nessman tells him how ugly he is.  Finally Les Nessman stubbles out the door asking loudly to anyone who within ear shot “where the fuck am I?”

I leave satisfied, if a little dazed, by the glut of weird humanity.  But I wonder, did Bukowski drink here?  What about Chandler?  Then the oddly sexual but not really exchange between Les Nessman and the troll like 5’1″ blonde hooker wanna be in far too tight red stretch pants puts me in the mind of a quote I barely remember from a novel never published: ‘trash begets trash said Fong.’

Quick note to the Great Magnet: can you please put Singapore by Tom Waits on the box instead of the horribly out of place Tom Petty next time I stumble by?

The New Rolling Pin

Two hipsters of unknown but relatively recent vintage wearing beards that would impress your average Hasid were discussing online dating next to me on the train as I made my way to work in the Steakhouse.

Hipster #1 – So I told my boss I needed Saturday nights off so I could meet girls.

Hipster #2 – You don’t need to take a day off. You need to play World of Warcraft dog.

Hipster #1 – Really.

Hipster #2 – Really dude. That’s how I met my chick. We just started talking then I decided to drive to West Virginia to get her. I got there and was like ‘bitch you’re with me now.’

Hipster #1 – And now she’s in L.A. dog.

Hipster #2 – She lives in my room dude.

World of Warcraft is the new rolling pin.

Cops Aren’t Real Sources

There is a police action on the northwest corner of Beverly and Kenmore, 20 yards from my apartment. Three Millennials, two boys with horrible haircuts, ironic beards and torn Tommy Bahama shirts and one young lady with an expensive bag and very cheap shoes are talking to one of the militarily clad (female) LAPD officers whilst texting away on their cellphones.

As I wait for the light to change, the police officers come back to their cars placing brandished shotguns, pistols and rifles back where they belong.

Said three Millennials walk past me typing furiously on their phones.

Guy 1: Can we trust her?

Girl with expensive bag and bad shoes: Cops aren’t real sources.

Guy 2: Word.

Citizen journalism at its finest.

It Really Happened

The subway ride today found me standing slightly in front of two college girls in their baby blue tennis uniforms with EAS stitched over the heart slowly making their way back to NoHo from 7th Street/Metro Center or various other points in between. They were engaged in a conversation about a boy and a girl.

Girl #1: So they he said it and it happened.

Girl #2: It happened?

Girl #1: It really happened. It happened.

Then they speak quickly in some language I’m not sure of even though I understood some of the words as they ran by quickly. It was as if Moon Unit Zappa’s Valley speak and Esperanto had a child in Encino. After a few seconds they were back.

Girl #1: Then she said it and it happened.

Girl #2: It happened?

Girl #1: It happened. It really happened.

Girl #2: It really happened?

Girl #1: It really happened. It happened.

They lapsed back into their post-Valley Speak speech. Maybe it was the humidity, the heat or the feeling of disgust as another Mass Man and great unwashed Meth freak argued over the chewing gum on some passed out schmucks’ shorts but I thought I could understand what they were saying, as it happened.

At that exact moment in time, the train came and I was off to East Hollywood and a date with destiny or a chicken burrito which ever came first.

This may sound odd but I’m pretty sure I was at Ground Zero at the discovery of cold fusion.

The Mandy House


A familiar anomaly in the neighborhood last night: a vacant house with a boarded up door drawing foot traffic from the East Hollywood YUNNies and Homeless folk.   It seems the signs warning Do Not Enter and Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted  weren’t having the intended effect to my Ironic beard wearing and toothless fellow neighborhood denizens. In fact, by 11am this morning I watched 15 people use a three knock code on the wooden slat door to be let in to do whatever it is they do in the house of some sort of repute.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity you know 5 minutes, a tout in a Dodgers shirt and hat came up to me from the Water store on the corner.   After the usual street pleasantries and assurances that no, I wasn’t 5-0 or the G,
we got down to business.

“Are you here to see Mandy,” he asked.

“Is she fun,” I asked.

“You’ll love Mandy,” he said.

“She’s that good, huh”

“Mandy will make you feel great Holmes.”

“Will Mandy make me want to go be a force for good both here and abroad,” I asked.

He looked at me for a few moments not quite understanding my question. “Mandy’s not a broad Carnal.” With that he turned, mumbling in Spanish and  walked back in to the Water store.

Note to self: I found the exterior to the Crack, er Cat, er Mandy House in my next project entitled “Lyft Driver.”

The Messiah Will Be Clean Shaven


As I was crossing Beverly to get my morning coffee in a gray hoodie, cargo shorts and sunglasses an elderly Latina lady in a white blouse and blue jeans grabbed my elbow and told me I was the Messiah come again to save the world. She kissed my hand then walked down Kenmore Ave followed by two Millennial hipster types with long ZZ Top in ten years auburn beards wearing identical blue and gray shirts.

“He does look like the Messiah, doesn’t he,” he breathlessly agreed with her.

It seems the rules have changed. From now on, the Second Coming in hipster millennial circles will be clean shaven. I guess DeLillo was right. When it comes to facial hair don’t bother. Show them the bland expanse. It is more effective than one would think.

Man Bun and A Line


As I was walking back from the market in the broiling gloaming I saw in the distance a couple arguing on the lawn next to my building. Although I tried to ignore them, I found myself gawking at them surreptitiously. The young lady was wearing a gray A line suit with the skirt hitting just below the knees, a long sleeve jacket and an envelope hat. He was dressed in true bro style: shorts, ripped t-shirts flip flops and a man bun. Not just any man bun but one that was dyed bright pink with the rest of his brown hair frosted at the tips.

I tried to walk past quickly but it was then I heard their voices in this disagreement about something in a language that sounded like English but the words seemed to be in all the wrong places for the standard subject, object, predicate style; these were my neighbors across the driveway, they of the ‘Angry Chair‘ karaoke and the decision that every song needs a hip hop beat behind it. All surreptitiousness left me. I just turned and glared.

“Do you have a problem,” A Line asked me with a true tone of shrill righteous indignation in her voice.

I quickly regained my composure. “I’m loving your outfit. The Maxene Andrews homage? Love it! Truly fabulous.”

“This look is totally my creation. I would never stoop to look like some stupid disco singer from 1979!” With that she turned on the heel of her Spectator pump and jumped into the Lyft that had just arrived for her.

I turned back and Man Bun was standing in a pose that was half run in the house half let me get in your face. “You are so sexist,” he said and marched into the house.

I walked the last 10 feet back to the house confused. I know I had been properly chastised but I’m not quite sure for what.


Toilet Paper Leads To Child Support? Welcome To The Neighborhood

I walked out of the Korean deli at the corner of Berendo and Vermont at 1 am with the toilet paper I forgot to buy hours earlier as I was engaged in a meeting for my project.

I managed to walk 20 feet towards the Local when a shrill voice rang out and set the hair on the base of my skull and back – because the hair isn’t going to the top of me head anymore – straight up.

“Buck,” she screamed.

I could see her in silhouette; spiky blonde hair, black tank top and a tight black skirt slit just enough with what looked like velvet black ankle boots but I really need new contact lenses.

“Buck” she screamed.

The Korean deli owner at the corner of Vermont and Berendo calls me by my last name, which he thinks makes me sound like a thug,  while he reads the Bible behind bulletproof glass.   How did she know my name was Buck?

Perhaps a lucky guess from a denizen of a neighborhood moving from the Central American to the Anglo-Millennial. Do I know you, I thought.

“Buck,” she screamed.

The Original Drinker sat on the window ledge on the local Lavendaria  drinking his  Jose Cuervo, scratching his bald head and laughing at me.  “Looks like it’s child support time Carnal!”

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