THE VENICE & WESTWOOD PARKING LOT WARS INTENSIFY. Yesterday I saw DOINTBIG (story), the joyless, silver-haired Arabian owner of Habib's market, staring into a Mustang parked in the lot behind my mayoral compound, which he also owns. It had been there at least a day, and I'm confident I saw someone sleeping in it at some point, although I can't be sure, since almost every car in that lot has a family of eight living in it. That was yesterday. I took this picture an hour ago. So it's official: this fucking fax machine salesman will harrass my friends when they park there for a few hours, but the homeless are free to set up camp like this was some Rwandan U.N. settlement for weeks on end while Crips slapbox underneath my little sisters' apartment window. For a good example of what a piece of shit this lot is, yesterday a camera crew parked a garbage truck in there and filmed a scene featuring two garbage men. If I had any spine I would boycott Habib's. But then I'd starve.

Shortly after I took this picture, I walked past Casper. Casper is an ese in his early thirties who lives in the halfway house beside my compound. He's about as wide as he is tall, and it's all beer and muscle. I knew I knew him as soon as I laid on eyes on him, but it's my cousin Ben who remembered him from our youth at Emerson Junior High, where he caused a fair amount of terror, jackings and random mouth-mushings. I pass him almost daily these days, but it was only today that I had my good camera on me, and caught him walking toward me from the kind of distance that wouldn't jeopardize shot quality or my chances of not getting beaten about the head and face with fists of fury. So what did I do with this golden opportunity? I kept my camera in my pocket and walked right the fuck past him, that's what. I'm already mildly apprehensive about a woman in her early forties (story) finding out I've been discussing her on the Interwebs without her consent, let alone a man living in a halfway house next door to me who used to call himself Casper. We pass each other so often that I'm sure it's a matter of time before he and I talk, so I'm confident that I'll have Casper-approved shots of Casper at some point. But until then, I guess I will just have to settle for being a punk ass biatch.

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