A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Category: Fall 2017

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.”