Big greasy hairy-chested shout-out to DJ Jamshid for weighing in on last week's Ibiza & Redbull episode of The Palms Weekend Radio, my new show which airs Saturdays and Sundays 3pm-4pm PST on soulpublicradio.com before coming to its final resting place right here on the player and download links three to four inches to the right of where you're looking right now, depending on your computer's monitor size. That way, no matter where you are on this fricking fantastic planet, all you need to do when pressed for good music is roll your musty ass on over to your laptop, dial up thepalmsweekend.com, choose an episode to fit your mood, and hit play. The Ibiza & Redbull episode is an instant poolside party-starter, a musical Mediterranean passport that will inspire much summer fucking and subsequent spring babies. You people won't understand what I do for you until I lose hope and start working for Allstate. The burden of genius.

We are psychotically honored to announce that legendary radio personality Bart Aloe has agreed to air a brand new episode of his world-famous show Dedicated To Wu exclusively for The Palms Weekend Radio this weekend. So make sure to tune in, and feel free to tweet us at twitter.com/thepalmsweekend with song requests and dedications to your loved ones and anyone you know who may be incarcerated.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd, WLA. No cover. No non-drinkers. No M.I.A.

Ibiza & Redbull tracklist:

  1. Moein, "Bandari Dance Mix"
  2. The Outhere Brothers, "Boom Boom Boom"
  3. Real To Real and The Mad Stuntman, "I Like To Move It"
  4. Manu Chao, "King Of The Bongo"
  5. George Michael, "Everything She Wants"
  6. Gipsy Kings, "Bambolero"
  7. Kaoma, "Lambada"
  8. Elvis Crespo, "Suavemente"
  9. Amr Diab, "Habiby Arash"
  10. Amr Diab, "Enta Yally"
  11. Dirty Vegas, "Days Go By"
  12. Olive, "You're Not Alone"
  13. Everything But The Girl, "Missing"
  14. Sting, "Desert Rose (techno remix)"
  15. Chris De Burgh, "Lady In Red"


I gather many of you think I'm a big 'ol bigot because I call that Arab market next door "Habib's" although that's not its name. Presumably, anyway; none of us know its official name. I doubt the owners know. But the owners sure know "Habib", as you can plainly see emblazoned on the license plate attached to the cherry red Ferrari all that rotten onion and wilted cilantro supposedly paid for. It must belong to a co-owner, otherwise DOINTBIG would have had it towed faster than you could say "excuse me, but this watermelon is as soft as my left asscheek". We're obviously all in the wrong business.



THAT'S KIIIINDA WHAT I WANT, BUT NOT REALLY. That looks like a pile of clams some fisherman separated from the tires and tin cans in his net and slapped directly on a plate of Top Ramen, although the lone sprig of aging parsley is an admirable effort. I chose this image from the roughly 3,050,000 Google Image results because it was second on the page. But also because those are the size clams I need to satisfy the seafood pasta itch that has seized control of my mind and finances for the last year. And tomatoes. Fat plum tomatoes that explode all over your date when you poke 'em (the tomato, not your date). Basil everywhere - the real shit, straight out the yard. Pieces of garlic. I want it all in a red wine broth - not white wine, not marinara. Nice and runny, and lots of it. I basically want Italian seafood pho.

I want to eat to Frank Sinatra, on a table with a red and white tablecloth at a dimly lit leather booth. I want the waiter wearing a tux that's too tight for him, and I want him to whisper the day's specials into my ear as if he's telling me a secret. I will order with the slightest nod. I want the reddest wine there is. Fuck that. I want black wine. Seafood pasta makes me feel rich, and healthy, and like I might have a revolver under my waistjacket.

Of all the meals I can remember since this obsession set in, Sisley on Pico by Westside Pavilion came closest to giving me the pasta I've seen in cartoons and gangster flicks, absent only the big tomatoes, garlic chunks and the accompanying flavor. Representing Palms, Bamboo's version isn't runny enough and lacks whole tomatoes, but rules nevertheless. Kauai Pasta's clam appetizer had us floating our whole vacation, but without actual pasta I must disqualify. Matteo's on Westwood Blvd. gets high marks for mobster ambience, but its seafood pasta is marinara-based, as was Westwood Novel Cafe's. Michael's Bar & Grill in Burbank gets high marks for the elderly Italian-American waiter who has definitely killed a few men, but their pasta's alfredo. Antonio's on Ventura dumped canned clams on linguine and charged me fifteen bucks.

So my quest continues. Please give me your restaurant recommendations in the comments section, so I can review them for the site. And if you have an Italian grandma who wants to show me a thing or two, I'd be honored to poke her tomatoes.

Westwood Novel Cafe

Michael's Bar & Grill



LAST SUNDAY I STOPPED BY ZABUMBA TO ATTEND THE IMPROMPTU MEMORIAL EVENING for late owner Monica Beresford-Redman, recently murdered in Cancun, most likely by her husband, former Survivor/Pimp My Ride producer Bruce Beresford-Redman (see my previous story on this case for more info). A crowd had marched around Palms earlier that day to spread awareness of the case, which is supposedly still underway although Bruce - the Mexican police's only person of interest - is technically free, albeit without his passport until the investigation is done. As a band played, I spoke with the people running the front door, who said Mexico will soon be under additional pressure from the FBI in Brasil, Monica's native country. In the meantime, Monica's body is slated to be flown to Los Angeles this week in preparation for an official memorial which will be open to the public. Attendees will be required to wear all white. "Monica would not have wanted everyone wearing black," the lady at the door said.

They're convinced Bruce is the killer. Sure looks that way to me. Cheating husband? Wife spending all his money for revenge? Documented arguments around the hotel? Scratches all over Bruce's face? That looney-tunes smile of his in the photo the media is using isn't helping. And apparently he requested that Monica's body be cremated? Is he gonna have to strangle the detective handling the case to get arrested? He sounds so stupid that he just might.

But for some real belly laughs, check out this pdf of his emails to his mistress a.k.a. his former "ride or die" chick, as he called her. One night too many spent hanging out with Xzibit, methinks.



MOLMAN CALLED ME YESTERDAY WITH A TIP THAT cops and yellow tape were surrounding a body on Motor Avenue just south of Venice. An hour later I was there with Franamami and my Blackberry, which does not take amazing pictures, as you can see. Apparently this guy robbed a Radio Shack, presumably the one at Culver Plaza by Bally Total Fitness. Coppers caught up with his turquoise coupe (circled in black above), at which point he supposedly flashed weaponry, hastening his life's unceremonious conclusion in the Donut King parking lot. Got most of this info from the news report above; bystanders I spoke to didn't know much, but one guy on a bicycle told me a great story about a kid he just saw running down the freeway earlier who supposedly caused a few accidents. I wonder if he was riding his bicycle down the freeway when he saw that.

What would anyone rob a Radio Shack for? Remote control cars? Stereo cables? Everyone knows Radio Shack hasn't had money in its registers since 1992.

One positive side-effect of this unfortunate incident is that MolMan has inspired me to set up tips@thepalmsweekend.com. Bum asleep on your car? That big black guy back in the Bally pool wearing his LA Gears? Made a tasty cocktail out of vermouth, vitamin c pills and sardine brine? Wanna contribute to the blog? Get at me.


CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST WEEKEND I PISSED ENTIRELY AWAY LIKE THIS ONE. It began Friday on a celebratory note, as Sum and I unexpectedly received our first "GO MEAT" checks of 2010. Every summer since we spent three hours shouting "GO MEAT" repeatedly into a microphone a few years ago as part of a Hillshire Farms commercial, we have been receiving random checks for amounts that often run into quadruple digits. The meat industry gets no love these days, but if it weren't for your insatiable hunger for slivers of winged lizard I would probably be wearing a Statue of Liberty costume on Sepulveda, or shilling cellphone accessories with my uncles. Had everyone at Saints & Sinners reaching for the cannonball wound ointment that night; murdered it. I know when I suck, and it was not last Friday. The Ibiza and Ecstasy episode of Palms Weekend Radio featuring DJ Jamshid (who you can see turning away a plate of kebab here) aired on soulpublicradio.com at 3pm on Saturday, but by then I was drowning in margarita at Baja Cantina in Marina Del Rey with Franamami, Janet, Harold and my cousin Ben, whose palatial Westwood condo we basked at later until the wee hours, watching Youtube on his flatscreen. Today is shaping to be somewhat more upbeat, as I've already investigated a bloody murder that happened this morning in Palms, and am about to go check out the justice rally for Zabumba owner Monica Beresford-Redman, who was murdered in Cancun earlier this month. Tomorrow's post will explain both events. Serious stuff. I'm joking a lot of the time, but I'm not joking some of the time.

Speaking of jokes, check out my video recap of our day at the marina, which we spent terrorizing ducks, repeating the phrase "get a job" loudly while passing strangers, and talking to men who wear sandals. Yeah, don't ask me.



SOME OLD LADY BROUGHT HER DOG TO THE BALLY POOL TODAY. What the fuck? I mean, what the fuck? She laid a ratty tartan blanket atop the poolside floor that sees a couple thousand wet, diseased toes daily, and sat her poodle on it. The dog probably has four and a half legs by now, and the blanket can probably talk. This lady bobbed in the loafer's lane for ten minutes, looking at her dog. Just fucking staring at it with this insane smile like she was going to eat it later or something. Never took her eyes off it once. I'm never going anywhere without my camera again.

Anyway, I have a radio show now at soulpublicradio.com. Yes, it's internet radio, not real radio. I'd rather hop in front of a combine harvester than play for three listeners, but apparently people actually listen to this station. That, or program director and old friend X-Ro's (also producer of Sum and my Saints & Sinners ode "Order Another Round") fabled powers of blunted persuasion really are that good. Can't tell him he ain't putting in work though. 11 deejays, 24-hour programming. That ain't easy. The Palms Weekend Radio airs Saturdays and Sundays 3-4pm PST (right before Sum's Robot Romeo show), and they will also all be available for streaming and downloading on thepalmsweekend.com, from the sidebar to the right. I'll also be pressing CDs of certain shows when I feel like it. My show features music from all over, along with commentary from various parts of me. So when you're tired of listening to Brazilian jungle noises or Pharrell playing with his latest keyboard, come to thepalmsweekend.com and click on the player, playa. Nobody has to know. Saints & Sinners tonight!

Show #1 tracklist:

  1. Rare Earth, "Get Ready"
  2. James Brown, radio spot
  3. Gang Starr, "The Planet" (click for story)
  4. Joe Tex, "I'm A Man"
  5. John Lee Hooker, "Mama, You've Got A Daughter"
  6. Cesaria Evora, "Sodade"
  7. Mulatu Astatqe, "Nostalgia"
  8. Miles Davis, "Tasty Pudding"
  9. Fatback Band, "I Like The Girls"
  10. World Famous Dream Team, Cassie
  11. Hector Lavoe & Willie Bobo, "Abuelita"
  12. Timmy Thomas, "Why Can't We Live Together"
  13. Madonna, "La Isla Bonita"
  14. J.C. Lodge, "Activate Me"
  15. The Wailers, "Satisfy My Soul Jah-Jah Dub"
  16. Jay Electronica, "The World Is Yours"
  17. Kankick, instrumental
  18. The Roots f. Bahamadia, "Da Jawn"



Venice and Westwood

'Serious' if you're feeling hoody.

For serious though, the local trash situation has improved. Wasn't but a Republican administration ago that the stretch of sidewalk from Cafe Brasil to my mayoral compound was more Trojan than concrete, and that grass thicket surrounding the electricity box that keeps porn on my desktop housed so much furniture that I briefly considered living there. Somebody hit the wall that separates the lot from our building with their car, which may or may not have been an attempt to kill Janet, whose bedroom lies just beyond. We can't know for sure. In any event, the resulting brick pile, in tandem with the basin formation the ground takes on the way out of the lot towards the Trashly Grass Pile, created a virtual DMZ of mud, refuse, rubble, bodily fluid and children's clothing that most people happily walked into oncoming traffic to avoid. The recent picture above captures the area at the most orderly I've ever seen it. You may actually be looking at someone's closet, although I haven't seen Jesse the Parking Lot King wearing a zebra-striped fur coat. At least, not in a while. So yeah. God knows I didn't clean shit up, but this is my block and I'm taking full credit, in case 'Mother Earth' or 'Uncle Topsoil' is paying attention to what us humans are doing, which I doubt. She's been around for four and a half billion years, folks. I think she'll be ok.


Gang Starr, "The Planet" [songaday]

EVERY YEAR SINCE I FIRST HEARD THIS, I'll play it repeatedly for a few days, like I did last week. I even included it in my first show for soulpublicradio.com, which you can cop from the sidebar. It reminds me of the East New York section of Brooklyn, the only NYC I knew during my early stays there in the late '90s with my boy The Pessimist. Though his roots were Boston, Guru's heart was in ENY, where he moved to give rap a go. He references Van Siclen Ave. in the second verse, whose train stop we'd pass around 5:14am on weekends on our way back on the A train from Manhattan to the Euclid Ave. stop, from which it was a five-minute walk down sloping sidewalks past Cypress Hills projects (yep), Kennedy Chicken, and hustlers asleep on stoops to Pess's crib on Crescent Ave. just off Pitkin. I hung out with a lot of kids with scary stories and guns in their shoes who probably aren't alive anymore. "The Planet" is Guru's account of his journey through the darkness, toward the light. Being truly successful is hard to achieve. That's why so few people get there. But Guru made it, goddamnit. Rest in peace.

Read my Guru dedication at http://www.rimemagazine.com/article/1283/how_guru_raised_me

Boom bash dash, I had to break I had to get away
Packed my bags to leave for good, it was a Monday
Kissed my mother, gave my pops a pound
Then he hugged me, and then he turned around
I threw the duffelbag over my shoulder
It was time to get props kid, cause now I'm older
Time to fend for myself jack
So I'ma go for mine, and maybe never come back
Stopped at the lye spot before I hit the train station
Needed some boom for the mental relaxation
It took the last of my loot to make this move, troop
But I ain't even tryin to work in a suit
Plus my aunt's got a room that's for rent
As long as there's no hoes and I don't come home bent
So fuck the bullshit I'm audi
I'm on a mission, cause if I stay I'll go crazy
I'm gonna make it god damnit
Out in B-R-double-O-K-Lyn, The Planet
They never fake it just slam it
Out in B-R-O-O-K-Lyn, The Planet

Crash boom bang, I used to hang at Four Corners
And all the spots in Beantown where niggaz carry burners
But I was more turned on by the microphone
So one cold morning, I left home
Next I'm smokin blunts on Van Siclen
Or workin in a mail room uptown, feelin sick and
Tired, of payin all these fucked up dues
I wasn't tryin to lose -- I refused
Had a chick uptown, one in Queens and one in Jersey
Sometimes all you need to get by is a girlie
But yo I still wasn't happy
I seen a lot of ill shit on my block, happen nightly
East New York is no joke kid
And peace to my man Hass doin his bid
I went to Flatbush to buy incense and weed
Stopped at the bookstands for something to read
That shit was rough cause my pockets was bare
and like the sayin goes, sometimes life ain't fair
But in my heart there ain't no quittin
So I stayed up late, to write some rhymes to some rhythms
Seconds away from just flippinBut fuckit I'll maintain, one day I'll be hittin
See I'ma make it god damnit
Out in B-R-double-O-K-Lyn, The Planet
I'll never fake it just slam it
There in B-R-O-O-K-Lyn, The Planet

And you can, walk the walk talk the talk but don't flaunt
Cause little shorty's scheming on your rings and fronts
but don't sweat it, cause that's the life out here
A lot of niggaz be livin real trife out here
I got my own place in Bed-Stuy
Known to many others as Do or Die
Malcolm X Boulevard and Gates Avenue
Smokin up the fat trey bags with the crew
Me and the niggaz Troy and Squeaky
Used to twist Dutch Masters, we got nice weekly
I used to build with the brothers by the spot
They had to hustle but they still knew a lot
To get my haircut had to go to Fort Greene
on Myrtle Ave, to get a fade with the sides clean
Then to Fulton just to look around
Just to roam around, and find a chick to go uptown
and check a movie or some shit like that
I couldn't spend much but yo my game was fat
I remember this one chick, she brought me a beeper
Then one week later, she got me some sneakers
But then I stepped, cause I found out about her rep
And I ain't goin out bein no bitch's pet
But anyway I used to lay up in the crib
Listening to Red and Marley, wishin I was on, kid
Saved my dough, stayed on the down low
Lounged and drank 40's with Tommy, Hill and Gunsmoke
And Lil' Dap used to come by strapped
Nice off a L cause we stayed like that
Sometimes I used to miss my moms
Gunshots in the twilight, people fightin every night
But I'ma be aight still
Cause I'ma keep writin shit and perfectin my skills
I'm gonna make it god damnit
Here in B-R-double-O-K-Lyn, The Planet
I never fake it just slam it
Here in B-R-O-O-K-Lyn, The Planet.



NIKIYA SHOUTED AT ME RECENTLY FOR TAKING my seatbelt off upon entering a lot, instead of waiting until we were parked. She has a point. I have a shabby commitment to safety. Potential accidents loom perpetually overhead, too numerous to name. After ten seconds of research, I have concluded that the safest place in the world is in a parked car with your seatbelt on. This would also be a good argument for not getting out of bed in the morning, except most mattresses don't have seatbelts, and this is California. So, here's a snappy instructional video on how to stay safe in these trying times. Hello from Lot 7 (yellow).



SO I'M DJING AT 14 BELOW LAST NIGHT when this gargantuan white man walks up to me and Orthoe with a grin so wide it's pushing his ears back, and a tie so long I was worried he would step on it and kill himself before making it across the room. Early 50s, and again, large; not disproportionate or fat or overly muscly, just a regular guy, only 30% bigger. His suit jacket could be a U.N. tent. He asked me to play Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, some "shredders", so I obliged, and he and his boo, a fetching middle-aged dirty-blond in an airtight blue dress, caroused to the music in each other's arms for thirty good minutes like they were filming Dirty Dancing: Santa Monica Nights. He came back to thank me, shook my arm with his yeti hand, and asked my name like a man laying a trap. My name barely escaped my mouth when he said "I'M TIMOTHY LEARY. EVER SEEN A CHAMPIONSHIP RING?" We were still laughing at the idea of this manimal having the same name as the famed psychedelics guru when he wrenched a chunky ring off his finger bearing the Dodgers insignia and 'LEARY' on the side. Turns out he was pitcher when they won the 1988 World Series. He went back to dancing, and I continued churning out the shredders for Timmy, giddy with visions of a $500 tip at the end of the night and becoming official DJ of Daryl Strawberry's coke parties. Then they left, and some gangly chick with an annoying voice started whining about all the old music, and the world was back to normal. I just feel fortunate to have met what might well be the happiest person in the world. He's a tall, rich white guy with all his hair and a championship ring. And nobody's picking a fight with a seven-foot pitcher. I'd be smiling too.



Initially I thought he was dropping the kids off, but his pants weren't quite that low, although I guess that isn't a dealbreaker. He was wearing what looks to me like a metal brace around his torso. Perhaps he has some kind of government spleen, or welfare pancreas that needed adjusting. Whatever he was doing, it took him about ten minutes. I could have called a film crew down there and he still wouldn't have noticed me. Tell us what you think he's doing in the comments section. Pudge thinks the brace is "a brown bag in his ass where he keeps his liquor". Nikiya thinks "he's watching TV on his belt."


Church-Goer Or Crack-Hoer?

So there i was, Strolling to Motor and Venice to the Check Cashing(yes I still use them occassionally) And i happened upon a Woman standing suspiciously close to the telephone pole. After a few moments of intense gawking, i realized she was “beaming up to Scotty“(Like in New Jack City). Broad Daylight, and she was at least 3 times the width of the pole, which did not deter her from attempting to dissapear behind said pole for a few good minutes. Not until i was walking back(on the other side of Venice for fear of running into the crackpole lady- post crack hit). I saw her mumbling about, and then noticed the kicker...the pole , the lady , and the crack use, all took place in front of a Church. Not to mention the fact that Venice is busy as all (insert busy reference here) @ 645pm on a Friday, but isnt anything sacred anymore?
She couldnt go to the side?

Im Jus Sayin.


THE SUN SETS ON ANOTHER WEEK IN PALMS. And you know what that means. Not that there's much distinction between my weekdays and weekends. I popped in The Thirsty Crow a.k.a. Stinkers Redux yesterday afternoon to look around, and ended up barbacking for my first time, because I'm a sucker for new experiences. After the fact, I don't know if barbacking qualifies; turns out I've washed plenty of dishes before. But the drinks there are no joke: tasty and strong. Bad combo. Had a shot of George T. Stagg whisky, which is so strong that ice will not float in it. Its effect on me was kind of what I imagine yellow fever feels like. Saints & Sinners tonight and I'm coming on a horse, as usual. Tomorrow night I dj at the also newly revamped 14 Below (1348 14th St., Santa Monica). Ten to two, $7 JD shot/beer special all night. Then Saturday at 3pm, the first installment of The Palms Weekend radio show airs on www.soulpublicradio.com, where you can also hear shows from Sum, Pudge, X-Man and the rest of the cliqa. It will air a second time Sunday 3pm. I'll shut my yap now. See ya on the flip.



Didn't feel like going to Starbucks fifteen times this week, so I hit Coppelia's Bakery & Cafe on Venice just off Westwood this morning. (I once dated a girl who almost broke it off because I saw no problem patronizing evil corporate Starbucks. My new boo Franamami practically sleeps in one. Ah life.) The bakery's owner is a Cuban woman named Anita whom I call Anita Baker for reasons I will never point out. We have been in love for many years. She often tosses a couple of beef empanadas into the Mayor's orders gratis. Even if she didn't, I'd still drag people to Coppelia's for three reasons. 1) Their bolio bread 2) their quatro, cinco and seis leches cake 3) their rotisserie chicken which is the best I can remember, and is five dollars ninety-five cents. Without their chicken I'd probably be a few inches shorter, and I'd have to give up my standing desk, which rumor has it Donald Rumsfeld invented, much like Al Gore invented the Internet. We will do an in-depth chicken review next time we have $5.95. For now understand, there are few better deals in the City Of Angels.

I got cafe con leche and a couple empanadas. We talked about how banks screw America (so much so that Anita had to raise the rotisserie chicken price to $7.95 for a few months last year), then I ambushed her with my camera, which she got nice and red for. When I wrote down the site address for her, she told me she's a natural lefty too but her parents forced her to write with her right. Which brings me to reason #4 to do Coppelia's: Anita Baker. Love ya.

Coppelia's Bakery & Cafe, 10825 Venice Bl. (corner Westwood) [Yelp]



JESSE MANAGES THE PARKING LOT THAT BORDERS MY MAYORAL COMPOUND. At least, I can't see how he doesn't. The owner is a white-haired loser of Arabic descent who you never see until he's jumping out of his silver Benz (license plate DOINTBIG) to berate you for parking in one of the 412 empty spaces gathering dust in his lot, which over the years has played host to everything from gang inititations to soccer matches to open-air fucking. Maybe, just maybe he's unaware of the extracurricular nighttime activities his lot is privy to, but I refuse to believe that he doesn't know a man has been living there for the last five years. That, plus the fact that Jesse sometimes fixes things at Habib's Market, which this jerk also owns, and I'll bet they have some kind of agreement.

The several people living in that freight truck (behind Jesse in the picture) a few years ago were starting to get a little out of hand around the time Jesse started becoming a familiar face, and I'm pretty sure they left soon after that because Jesse ran 'em outta there. That's just one of the examples of the order he brings to the lot, and the block in general - not the least being his automotive repair skills - so I'm glad he's around. Sometimes he wilds out, albeit a lot less often after my old Crip landlord Fuji leaned out of his window one night with a BB gun and shot Jesse in the 40-ounce for being too loud. It's not uncommon for me to go to sleep or wake up to the sound of Jesse cussing someone out, or playing his Seal cassette. But you can't move to the desert and complain about sand. Well, you can, but you'd be an asshole. Jesse sometimes warns me when the owner's coming and a friend's car is in the lot. He's hardworking, smarter than most of you, and has only asked me for money once. I gave him three bucks.

PS: Franky noticed him having a mild heart attack in his truck a couple of months ago. When does Obamacare actually kick in?



MY SISTERS LOVE THE FACT THAT YOU CAN PARK ON both sides of Westwood Block now. More places to park now; yeah, I get that. My only gripe with this new law, which the city snuck in sometime last year while we were all hung over, is that I now have a near-death experience every time I pull out of my driveway, since I cannot see any approaching cars until just before the moment they raise my insurance ten points.

On the occasions I try explaining this to them, their beady eyes glaze over and they gaze longingly at the nearest exit, probably because, being little girls, they of course drive enormous firebreathing trucks and therefore have no problem seeing over parked cars as they pull out. So I'm happy to see that a body of people agree with me enough to actually go door to door about this, which is how I received the leaflet above (excuse the whisky stains). I don't remember ever hearing of an instance when activism worked, but we are here to do the undoable, so I call on all proponents of the above measure to convene this Friday night at Saints & Sinners to show solidarity. Now there's a block that needs more parking for good reason. Half of the negative reviews on Yelp are crying about a lack of parking in the area. One person even complained about the "cracked and decaying sidewalks." That's gayer than Jorge, and he's the gayest person I know.



MY BIRTHDAY PARTY WAS AN ALL-CITY AFFAIR. But last night's party for Rojeanne and Brick's visit to L.A. was strictly for the double-triple oh jeez. Moms showed up looking like the woman Jackie Onassis was trying to be half of. Brick's mom Rumi came through for the afternoon shift turning heads like always. Franamami's sister Bianca came through in a lovely red jacket and politely didn't slap me in the face as I gave her love advice (the nerve). Franky made sangria, (I'm pretty sure) the Koreans next door made banana pudding, and I tortured serenaded everyone by flipping through 1000 songs in like three hours, although I couldn't hope to respectably follow DJ Affy's set which had everyone talking. And R&B even got a custom-made flyer courtesy of Juan, who is Mexican and therefore can make Mexican jokes.


rest in peace MONICA BERESFORD-REDMAN, Zabumba owner.

I WAS WALKING PAST ZABUMBA yesterday morning with my camera on a coffee run, and tried to take a picture of the place for a story I was planning to write on here about how Palms has so many Brazilian businesses but so few Brazilians. My camera battery was dead so I decided to leave the story for next week, but I noticed a few news crews milling around the front. Later that evening my boy Chris Clarke called me and told me why they were there. Now I'm just glad I didn't write that story. For once, technology failed me right on time.

I spoke to Monica a couple of times on the phone over the years about throwing events at Zabumba, and she was behind the bar here and there during the handful of times I've dipped my head in there. I didn't know Monica, and I really don't know Zabumba. Ever since I moved into this neighborhood I've had a note on my phone that reads "take free salsa lessons at Zabumba". I guess it's a classic case of not knowing what you've got till it's gone. Hopefully it will have a life after its owner's passing, but that's for another day. For now, I'll just dedicate my set tonight at Saints & Sinners to Monica Beresford-Redman, the late owner of Zabumba, a Palms nightclub that got this neighborhood popping way before half of us could even find it on a map.



REGULAR TRAVELERS OF THE VENICE BLVD HIGHWAY a.k.a. "the renters' Olympic" may be familiar with the crop of soylent green shacks that occupy the block between Midway and Westwood. If you live within a block's radius, you may know it better as "the place where that Mexican guy with the long hair lives who plays weirdly relaxing Deep Purple riffs all day". And if I have my way, you will soon know it as the Mayor's homely seat. Negotiations are currently underway to have my mayoral compound moved from its current location to the Soylent Homes. along with my staff members (Franky, Lea, Rose, Janet, Josh, Denice, Mrs Brown from downstairs, and Marcus and Dijon from across the way). Proceedings are stalling however, since the location's current tenants are understandably reluctant to relinquish their $77 monthly rent fees. Besides, that would set me a few hundred feet further away from Habib's Market. But my father, currently residing at the Dunn House (for real) in West Penang, Malaysia is in plum, dumb love with these homes, and it's everyone's dream to finally buy their parents a mansion for all their years of toil and sacrifice. Even if you could punch a hole through one of its walls if you got drunk enough.



"irony". not to be confused with "bronzey" or "silvery".

NEW ORLEANS WAS GOOD TO YA BOY. Wasn't chased home by a hurricane this time, unfortunately. Red Cross makes a mean gumbo. Got some sexy $7.99 sunglasses on the steamboat Natchez, and won an Amtrak T-shirt during Train Trivia somewhere near San Antonio on day two, both of which you can expect to see me in this Friday at Saints. The hotel cleaning lady threw out a box of perfectly good catfish leftovers while we were out, which kinda got my dander up. But hey, who knows.. she might have saved my life. Many more highlights, but I won't rub it in. Time waits for no man, and neither does L.A. See yall in about 24.

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