A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Author: Buck (Page 4 of 5)

Jews: The Brand

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.

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.

Rememberence Of Things Past Without Any Rythym

There is no more Mexican Polka in the building across the alley. No more being woken up at 6:05am with the music ending at 6:38am. No. Now there is a 23 year old Millennial/hipster complete with ironic Merle Olsen beard using a typewriter, IBM Selectric or so it sounds, to write his memoirs between 1:30am and whenever the fuck he realizes he is an uninteresting prick – usually around 5am.

Where is Proust when you need him to do wet work for you?

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.

A Lousy Negotiator

A local red hatted Meth freak who differs from the local green hatted meth freak in hat color alone stops me 10 feet from the corner of Berendo and Beverly and asks me if I want to buy a great used but perfect condition mountain bike that just fell off a post for $50.

He pushes said bike toward me as I walk away. By the time I’ve walked to the corner 10 feet away he’s dropped the price to $12. As I step into the intersection he says ok man for you $10.

Moral of the story: Meth makes you a goyish negotiator – and stupid.

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.”

Bad Tweed Dude

My pal Josh pulls up to the corner as I cross the street and says “I brake for you.” As he drives off I yell back at him “thanks for braking for the old guy.” I turn on my heel and skip left to avoid a miserable looking Millennial/hipster gal walking home. I get 10 feet down the sidewalk and this Jack Jeebs (from Men In Black) looking Millenial/hipster type with a close cropped beard, John Lennon specs, a flag tweed brown vest and mismatched gray tweed sport coat with arm patches, holding four plastic gallons of water and a Von’s reusable grocery bag says “what did you say to my girl?”

 Me: I was talking to my friend in the Camaro.

I keep walking along. He steps behind me.

 Bad Tweed Dude: I said what did you say to my girl.

 Me: Nothing.

 Bad Tweed Dude: Listen man watch it. I’ve got plastic water bottles.

 Me: Look tough guy go inside and play video games.

 I keep walking because if I turn around I will drop him on his about to win a Darwin Award tuches but he needs the last word.

 Bad Tweed Guy: How did you know what I was going to do.

 I hope I validated his feelings.

The Original Drinker

The SRO next to my apartment is trying to keep up with the times. Thus whenever a unit is vacated, the owner goes in, renovates the space and rents it out to a Millennial to make sure they are part of the great Los Angeles Gentrification of the 21st Century ’10’s.

A few days ago as the Mexican Polka blared at exactly 6:09am a guitar player in a unit not far from the one occupied by my Nortenõ loving neighbor started to play an uneasy, out of tune version of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Dancing Days Are Here Again’ complete with slide guitar so woozy the Mascara Snake was envious.

The competing tunes formed a White Noise experiment somewhere between LaMont Young and Charles Ives. I might have even attempted to record the horrible noise and release it on iTunes had it not been 6:17 in the fucking morning and it’s enough trouble to try and sleep with the endless LAPD Blackhawk sorties but this is almost too much to bear.

After three days of this No Wave one upsmanship, I grabbed a 12 pack of the cheapest Mexican Beer I could find at the local Korean and a bottle of Cuervo Gold, I walked over to the SRO’s stoop to engage the services of the OD.

The OD (Original Drinker) who never offers me the same name twice, has lived in the SRO for 35 years. Any drinking activity that is done in the SRO must be cleared through him. read: give him and his two running buddies Toothless Tommy and Smiling Sammy a beer and whatever is wrong shall be righted at the SRO.

He was sitting on the stoop listening to some sort of music dressed in his usual 1982 Army Fatigue jacket as he shaved his head bald when I approached.

“This has got to stop,” I said.

“What the Mexican music? I thought we made you brown,” he said.

“No the scumbag with the guitar.”

“Yeah the 23 year old kid with the beard and tattoos, he sucks,” he said.

“Tell him to knock it off. Outside of the fact he can’t fucking play I can’t stand Led fucking Zeppelin,” I said.

“Relax,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” I handed him the booze and managed to enjoy the next three days of only Mexican polka for exactly 33 minutes every morning.

Day Four.

The Mexican polka ends at exactly 6:42am. Three minutes later the slide guitar breaks in, out of tune and woozy attempting to play the lead parts to ‘Free Bird.’

Suddenly I wonder if I’m somehow Doc reincarnated.

The 7-11 In The ‘Hood

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.

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