A Diary Of Life Among Millennials

Category: Summer 2017

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.

The New Solon’s


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.

A Stand Up Guy

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?

The Messiah Will Be Clean Shaven


As I was crossing Beverly to get my morning coffee in a gray hoodie, cargo shorts and sunglasses an elderly Latina lady in a white blouse and blue jeans grabbed my elbow and told me I was the Messiah come again to save the world. She kissed my hand then walked down Kenmore Ave followed by two Millennial hipster types with long ZZ Top in ten years auburn beards wearing identical blue and gray shirts.

“He does look like the Messiah, doesn’t he,” he breathlessly agreed with her.

It seems the rules have changed. From now on, the Second Coming in hipster millennial circles will be clean shaven. I guess DeLillo was right. When it comes to facial hair don’t bother. Show them the bland expanse. It is more effective than one would think.

Man Bun and A Line


As I was walking back from the market in the broiling gloaming I saw in the distance a couple arguing on the lawn next to my building. Although I tried to ignore them, I found myself gawking at them surreptitiously. The young lady was wearing a gray A line suit with the skirt hitting just below the knees, a long sleeve jacket and an envelope hat. He was dressed in true bro style: shorts, ripped t-shirts flip flops and a man bun. Not just any man bun but one that was dyed bright pink with the rest of his brown hair frosted at the tips.

I tried to walk past quickly but it was then I heard their voices in this disagreement about something in a language that sounded like English but the words seemed to be in all the wrong places for the standard subject, object, predicate style; these were my neighbors across the driveway, they of the ‘Angry Chair‘ karaoke and the decision that every song needs a hip hop beat behind it. All surreptitiousness left me. I just turned and glared.

“Do you have a problem,” A Line asked me with a true tone of shrill righteous indignation in her voice.

I quickly regained my composure. “I’m loving your outfit. The Maxene Andrews homage? Love it! Truly fabulous.”

“This look is totally my creation. I would never stoop to look like some stupid disco singer from 1979!” With that she turned on the heel of her Spectator pump and jumped into the Lyft that had just arrived for her.

I turned back and Man Bun was standing in a pose that was half run in the house half let me get in your face. “You are so sexist,” he said and marched into the house.

I walked the last 10 feet back to the house confused. I know I had been properly chastised but I’m not quite sure for what.