The Red Line was remarkably calm today.
It was as if the Moving Carnival that is the Los Angeles Subway needed a day for rest and rehab just like when I had the Influenza of the moment a few weeks back that has laid more people low than the H1N1 panic of 2009 or the Spanish flu if you are in the overblown media frame of mind.
As we pulled into the Vermont/Santa Monica Station I noticed a late 20 something couple sitting on the orange and yellow colored seats, wearing the same Blue Jean jacket, white shoes and black jeans with identical holes in each knee, playing a game on identical Samsung Galaxy smart phones in identical cases.
I suddenly flash on my grandparents in 1977 wearing the same rust colored beige pant suits and my mother saying how cute they looked, which is what the Lady with the Shopping cart sitting next to them is saying loudly to anyone who will listen. Then as we pulled out of the station, the Young Dressed the Same couple put down their phones and wordlessly started to play Patty Cake.
Although taken aback by this course of events, I am still in the frame of mind to think deeply about my grandparents, picturing them discussing their daily wear together as they stood in front of their closet mirror not by sending texts from across the room. Although now I wonder if they preferred Cat’s Cradle.
Two Millennials came in to the Steakhouse on Tuesday. Each was 28 wearing the requisite uniform of an ironic beard, several tattoos on the left arm and new clothes bought at a Big Box Store solely because they looked tattered enough to be Thrift Store issue. After agreeing to share the Tomahawk Bone In Ribeye Medium because they weren’t aristocrats – thank you Goodfellas – things took a turn for the bizarre.
Millennial #1 – What sides can we get with that?
Me : Fries. Sweet Potato Fries. Mashers. Garlic Green Beens. Parmesan Broccoli. Kale Chips. Steamed Asparagus. Creamed Spinach. Steamed Spinach.
Millennial #1 to Millennial #2 – We can get Fries. Sweet Potato Fries. Mashers. Garlic Green Beens. Parmesan Broccoli. Kale Chips. Steamed Asparagus. Creamed Spinach. Steamed Spinach.
Millennial #2 to Millennial #1 – So we can get Fries. Sweet Potato Fries. Mashers. Garlic Green Beens. Parmesan Broccoli. Kale Chips. Steamed Asparagus. Creamed Spinach. Steamed Spinach.
Millennial #1 to Millennial #2 – Yes. We can get Fries. Sweet Potato Fries. Mashers. Garlic Green Beens. Parmesan Broccoli. Kale Chips. Steamed Asparagus. Creamed Spinach. Steamed Spinach.
After another round of said discussion that was going nowhere fast, I pulled bartender rank ordering the Asparagus and Mashers. “Your mother will thank me,” I told them.
It was a bizarre interaction but hey, maybe they like Abbot and Costello and I’m the straight man. However, over the course of the rest of my work week I had at least one Millennial couple a night come into the bar and have the exact same interaction when I offered them side dishes for the their entrees.
As Rod Serling is dead I am forced to conclude the Interpreter scene from Woody Allen’s Bananas was indeed prophecy.
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.
Two self described ‘Bros’ sitting next to me at the Local drinking Blue Balls , which they claim are shots of Fireball with cans of PBR back, were rather distressing.
It wasn’t that they dressed alike with white t-shirts and Navy blue Dickie slacks or that they had the same Man bun and long ZZ Top black beard or that they had the same sleeve of the same Jewish themed tattoos all the way down their right arms. No. What stood out was they each had a tattoo of five numbers on their left forearm and nothing else but virgin flesh no Valley tattoo artist had yet feasted upon.
I tried to put it out of my mind but the numbers were so odd I couldn’t stop stealing glances. After my second Tito’s Immaculate Conception I couldn’t stop staring.
“What are you looking at bro,” the Bro closest to me asked.
“Those numbers on your arms seem out of place,” I said.
The Bro furthest from me held up his left arm. “This is my grandfather’s tattoo number from Buchenwald bro.”
“This is my grandmother’s tattoo number from Auschwitz bro,” the Bro closest to me said.
“We’re taking back Jewish tattoos from the Nazi’s bro,” the Bro furthest from me said.
“Have a shot with us bro,” the Bro closest to me said.
While Jack the Albino poured the shots I decided to make one more attempt to explain to the Bros what their tattoos meant.
“You know those weren’t tattoos the Nazi’s put on the Jews arms. They were brands placed strategically to humiliate those people before they were murdered.”
“That’s right bro. We’re taking back our brand,” the Bro furthest from me said.
Obviously I lost the debate.
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.
Overheard at the 7-11 at Normandie and Beverly:
Meth Freak 1 – The 747
Meth Freak 2 – Which 747?
Meth Freak 1 – The one that went into that river.
Meth Freak 2 – That river?
Meth Freak 1 – Yeah, that river.
Meth Freak 2 – The 747
Meth Freak 1 – Yeah. They gave Scully a choice: put the plane in the river or we’ll shoot it down. So when he put the nose up they let the birds go to kill him.
Meth Freak 2 – How do you know that?
Meth Freak 1- It’s all on the black box but they had to edit it out of the movie because of continuity issues.
Hollywood: even the Speed Freaks are in the business in this burg.
Last night two recently minted late 20 something lawyers from a local law school were sitting next to me at the Local. During the course of their conversation, which may or may not have been in an English vernacular known to anyone other than Millennials of their vintage and place, the Juris Doctors in question decried the lack of a good education system in the US.
JD 1 – The reason our schools be like fucking like suck in LA dog is because of bilingual education, man.
JD 2 – You’re so fucking right holmes. We teach too many kids in their own language yo.
JD 1 – Bro, we can’t teach kids from like Spain and like Portugal and like Mexico and like Great Britain in their own tongue. It costs too much money holmes.
JD 2 – Especially like the kids from like Great Britain, bro. Teaching their language fucks our shit up, yo.
JD 1 – We should run you for office bro. Then you can fuck their shit up.
I give you the Solon’s for the next generation. Somewhere Mr. Churchill is crying into his brandy.
As I waited for my chicken and rice at the local food truck, a local Meth Freak wrapped in a tattered blue and red sleeping bag tries to get my attention.
Meth Freak: Hey Goombah.
I ignore him.
Meth Freak: Hey Goombah look at this.
He pushes a lottery ticket with all the boxes scratched off under my nose.
Meth Freak: Do you know what a symbol is?
Me: Of course.
Meth Freak: Numbers are symbols too, right?
Me: How the fuck would I know? Numbers are numbers and symbols are symbols…unless it’s 666.
Meth Freak: Thanks Goombah. You’re a stand up guy.
I’d like to thank said Meth Freak for proving once again there is a fine line between Italian and Jew. So I got a Roman nose, what can you do?
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!”