A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Month: March 2018

They’re So Cute

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.

Sovereignty Is A Porn Star Name

I found myself sitting next to two lovely 23 year old ladies on the train this morning dressed in their skinny jean best with matching black boots that would make Eddie Egan drool.  They were going to the latest I’m Enraged At Something protests downtown.

“Do you like my sign,” the one closest to me dressed in enough thermal wear to make you believe it was below zero outside instead of a 68 degree balmy day in So Cal  asked.

Said sign read Illegals are human beings too.

“It’s very nice,” I said, flashing on an old story told to me long ago by a teacher at NYU about a Hippie who had a generic sign that read “I’m Outraged!” From 1967-1969 he missed nary a protest and met many women which may have been the impetus to go to these things in the first place until the cleaving of the decade when all the people at the protests stopped talking to him because he was at everyone with the same sign.  They thought he worked for the FBI.  Somewhere, Terry Southern is laughing his ass off.

“Do you agree with it,” she demanded, breaking my reverie shoving said sign over the page of the book I was pretending to read.

“Yes and no. I have empathy for the plight of the illegals but you have to understand immigration laws were designed to protect our sovereignty,” I explained.

She and her friend stood up as the train pulled into the Wilshire/Vermont station.

“How dare you call me by a porn star name,” she said. They exited the train discussing how creepy I was.

So much for my firm belief in the Rule of Law, I thought.

Quick note to self: find out if there is a porn star using sovereignty as a name.

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.

How To Order Like A Millennial

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.