December 2017 – East Hollywood Blues

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?

Thursday night.

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.