CALIFORNIA BLOWS, BRO

YOU ALL KNOW I LOVE ME SOME CALIFORNIA. First, I don't take it for granted. L.A. natives roll their eyes and say stuff like, "another ride down Sunset? Like, oh my God" while I'm across town all aflutter, like "Wow. I'm at a DMV... In America." We could have moved to Omaha and it would still have been the coolest thing ever. The fact that my mother moved us to Los fucking Angeles - which was only the center of the universe that smokey summer of 1992 - blew my pimple-ridden thirteen-year-old head off my sunken shoulders and I've been running around the Southland like a decapitated chicken trying to find it ever since. If not for my mother's infinite wisdom, I might be a suave London executive (complete with ladykiller accent) or a rich architect in Iran instead of a 31-year-old unmarried aspiring rapper with a slight drinking problem. Hold on, let me rewind that back.

For real though, when New Yorkers dis L.A., I just wanna shove a dirty sock in their mouth, tie that American Apparel cardigan around their throat and hang them off the balcony like Saddam.

People don't leave Malibu for Manhattan. That's all I know. 

But if you're trying to have a good time, and your idea of a good time is loud music, drinking, smoking and/or wild animals, California is a real pain in the ass, man. Hollywood sells L.A. as some international party mecca, but those parties are only for famous people and the people who suck their dicks, and the music is just the pits. California may be a "liberal" state, but it turns out that rich, white liberals are basically conservatives with a better DVD collection. My cousin just moved into a sexy-ass Marina Del Rey condo a stone's throw from the beach and can't turn the music up after sundown. We can't take the dog on the sand, and it can't come hiking either. We just had the hottest day in Los Angeles history. Think we could get some kind of daytime beach party, like the Vegas hotels do? Not a chance. Just stand in the water and try not to admire the view too loudly. I'm trying to die over here.

Soon you won't even be able to smoke outdoors. Isn't that why the outdoors was fucking invented?

Two of my cousins - girls in their early 20s - are visiting from Iran to see if they wanna move here since they just got green cards, so I'm trying to wow them with L.A. People get jailed and horsewhipped for partying in Iran, and their scene remains, by all accounts, much more exciting than ours. We just got back from Palm Springs, where our family spent the weekend at a house we rented with a beautiful pool. Music outdoors was forbidden. The house rulebook said "earphones are your best bet."

Downtown cops basically barred our buddies at R&R Gallery from ever attempting another event after the opening night of their Bill Murray exhibit was a little too successful. Oh, and they're probably shutting down the Downtown Artwalk, only far and away the biggest draw that area has had since the invention of crack. Broke-ass L.A. is in no position to kill business. Melrose Ave. is a ghosttown of raver pants and rhinestone-studded v-necks. Been to Venice Boardwalk lately? It's not just wack rappers begging for people to buy their shit anymore. Shop owners are right next to them, offering backrubs and free samples. Some middle-aged guy holding a '99c pizza slice' sign called me a cheapskate.

Then again, New York is trying to ban salt. So maybe we're doing alright.

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part II: WE DON'T BEG.

Episode 2 of The Palms Weekend's first documentary The Great Delusion, a series of interviews with homeless WLA writer Jay Brady. Here's episode one if you're late. Please check it out, forgive the sound quality, and forward to anyone who might be interested. Our aim here is to get Jay a book deal. Please contact me at james [at] theunfamiliar dot com if you'd like a copy of the Homeless Sweet Homeless manuscript.

JANET STILL STILL NEEDS A ROOMMATE!

HEY. YEAH YOU. You know you know someone who's looking for a room for rent. Well, here it is. Gets no better. $720 a month for a room on the Westside. You're not getting anything cheaper on this side of town unless you're willing to do the landlord personal favors, if you know what I mean. Check out the video tour of the unit above, read Janet's note below, and email her for more info at janet_dandridge@yahoo.com. Please don't apply if you're a pain in the ass.

Greetings folks...

Since I've been told I'm long-winded, I'll keep this short and sweet: Does anyone know anybody (cool folk only) that is interested in being my roommate starting in September 2010? They must be (amongst other things) cool, fun, financially stable to pay rent and utilities, clean, funny, and sane. Male or female, although I prefer a female. 420 friendly (y'all know me) and optimistic. Creative entrepreneur a plus. Anyhoo, if you have any folks, let me know. Here's the uber important stuff:
2-bedroom, 1 bath
Westwood Blvd. off of Venice Blvd.
15 minutes away from Venice Beach
$720/month
Gas, electric not included
Holla!!
Thanks!
Peace,
Janet.

Palms is the best-kept secret in Los Angeles. It's as affordable as L.A. gets without being too hood. Tucked in the armpit of the 405 and 10 freeways, it's equidistant to LAX, Venice Beach, Westwood, Beverly Hills and L.A. proper. It's probably the most diverse area in the city, and has been working-class for years, sparing its residents the douche avalanche that gentrification has brought so many L.A. neighborhoods. The block where Westwood Blvd. meets Venice is Palms' crown jewel. Banks, the gym, the post office and Saints & Sinners, all walking distance. At the mouth of the block sit Cafe Brasil and Bamboo, sexy restaurants with great food. If your pockets are lean, Tokyo 7-7 does breakfast for $2.60, Coppelia's does whole rotisserie chickens for $6, and Habib's Market will send you home with a week's groceries and change left over from a twenty. Your neighbors are college students, South Americans. and creative types like myself, Sum, Nzinga, and of course, Janet herself. A convenient, cheap neighborhood full of bars and Brazilians. And the palm trees on the block look real cool.

Oh, and Janet's hot too. Doesn't hurt, does it?

MIDDAY GANG STING, VENICE & MIDVALE

A BADLY NEEDED SECOND CUP OF COFFEE I NEVER HAD THIS MORNING slowed my response time, but moments after I eventually noticed that helicopters and sirens were rattling my apartment windows, I was on Venice and Midvale, where cops were walking several cuffed Latin kids into a sea of cop cars while the chopper did donuts overhead. The center of action was the alley behind the Mexican buildings on the southside of Venice, one of which was the site of that hostage standoff that brought the SWAT team out last week.

I wish I had more for you. I don't know a) what happened b) if this incident and last week's are related c) if the kids arrested were gangsters, or kids getting harrassed because they look like gangsters, or d) if this actually was a sting operation. All I know is a) I saw a bunch of Dodger jackets b) I saw a bunch of cop cars c) it smelled like gunpowder, and d) grimy shit's afoot on Midvale block.

THE COFFEE BEAN TROOP SCAM

I REPEAT: PALMS BUMS DON'T BEG. They fix cars. They dumpster-dive. They smoke crack behind lampposts. They stare at their balls. They write novels. But they don't beg. Or, they save their breath with me. I don't donate to anyone who isn't missing at least one arm, and there'd better be a mental home bracelet on the other one, or some monstrous growth, something to suggest you'd still be screwed if you weren't falling-down drunk every time I see you. Everyone's struggling.

Apparently, so is Coffee Bean, which has resorted to pimping soldiers through their Support From Home campaign. Regular readers know I already think Coffee Bean is a crock, and I guess this is the next logical step down their path of chicanery. It's kind of brilliant, actually. Here's what it sounds like on their site:

COFFEE BEAN SUPPORTS OUR DEPLOYED TROOPS. Customers at all Arizona and California locations of The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf® have been invited to support the troops by purchasing a bag of coffee, a tin of tea or retail merchandise for donation at a 10% discount. These donated items are then distributed to deployed military personnel through the Soldiers' Angels troop support organization.

Here's what it looks like on the ground:

you: Hi, I'll have a coffee, please.

CB cashier: (in a slightly louder than speaking voice) You got it. Would you also like to donate a $10 bag of coffee to support our troops overseas today?

you: Um, no thanks.

*store falls silent, as the distant sound of weeping soldiers rolls faintly over the hills from the direction of Baghdad*

CB cashier: No problem. Should I carve the swastika in your forehead now or after you've finished your beverage?

you: Thanks, I'll handle it at home.

I don't wanna be the reason some sleepy soldier gets diced up in eleventeen different directions on the battlefield today. But I can't help noticing that COFFEE BEAN KEEPS 90% OF THE PROFIT FROM EACH BAG. They need to turn that slogan backward. Our Deployed Troops Support Coffee Bean.

Besides, I'm not sure troops need coffee most. Notify me when Kevlar has a similar promotion, and I'll gladly donate a bulletproof vest to the cause (as long as it's $10). And finally, look at it this way: the ten bucks I might have donated probably went to Shell or Chevron instead. And they're the guys who sent you to battle. So back off. I support daily. Now gimme my fucking coffee before I call corporate.

introducing JACK LASALLE, PALMS WEEKEND FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

he's the white man who isn't, and would never, wear shorts.

MEET JACK LASALLE, THE REAL-LIFE 'MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD', WHO WOULDN'T USE DOS EQUIS TO SHINE HIS COWBOY BOOTS. LINGUISTICS PROFESSOR, LICENSED ENGLISHMAN, ACCREDITED GEM HUNTER, PEERLESS CONVERSATIONALIST AND MY FATHER. THE PALMS WEEKEND'S NEW FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT (writing here under a pseudonym, lest Her Majesty's agents are PW readers) HAS SCOWLED AT SUB-PAR BARTENDERS FROM SAUDI ARABIA, LIBYA AND ALGERIA TO IRAN, INDONESIA AND AFGHANISTAN. HE WAS PULLED OUT OF A FLAMING CAR WRECK BY A PASSING STREET CLOWN IN BELIZE WITH HIS NOW-PARALYZED BUDDY CAPTAIN ANDY. HE ALMOST DIED AFTER STEPPING ON A STONEFISH IN THE RED SEA. HE ONCE DROVE A MONTE CARLO OFF A FREEWAY OVERPASS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA AND LANDED IN MEXICO. HE HATES ISLANDS. HE HAD A ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER WITH A NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC WRITER IN LAOS. JIMI HENDRIX COMPLIMENTED HIM ON HIS MUSICAL TASTE IN A RECORD STORE (he was buying a Creedence record, Jimi a Nina Simone LP). AND DON'T EVER ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BAR AT HEATHROW AIRPORT. HERE'S HIS FIRST DISPATCH, FROM HIS CURRENT LOCATION: SARAWAK, A STATE ON THE ISLAND OF BORNEO.

I planned to leave Sarawak for Brunei or Indonesia to get a new re-entry visa, but good local chaps (both male and female) showed me how to get a two-month visa extension for a paltry sum. I love corruption and hate Brunei and Pontianak so it all worked out excellently. How great is it learning how to live in a place?

I have been offered a fair amount of work in universities here but have to get back to Dunn House right now. And you know I am not keen on working again in the ivory tower.

Kuching is an intriguing place and I could certainly live and work here. But it is most definitely on an island.

Kuching means cat, and there are statues of cats all over the city. Kuching RFC (Rugby Football Club, my new club) team is called The Catz (unfortunate use of z there I feel). I have to say that nobody I have met at the club looks remotely fit enough to scramble after a wrong-shaped ball in this humidity (or at all, to be honest). The only rugby ball I’ve seen there was being kicked by urchins. In fact when I first turned up I was greeted with:

KRFC member: Welcome Jack. Do you play rugby?
JLS: Certainly not.
KRFC member: Excellent. Come and have a beer.

I knew I had found a club I could call home.

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part I: FALL FROM GRACE.

I MET JAY SEVERAL YEARS AGO AT THE COFFEE BEAN ON VENICE AND MOTOR (more on that place later this week) while working on a piece about homelessness in America for my then employer Rime Magazine, where I still hold a column, The Unfamiliar. I ended up interviewing him for the piece (see "Jay Brady: Writer On The Brink"), and gaining a friend. Palms bums don't beg. Hell, he might even sport your coffee. He's got stories for days, which can all be found in his still-unpublished autobiography Homeless Sweet Homeless. His eyewitness account of the 2003 Farmer's Market tragedy in Santa Monica where an old man lost control of his car and killed nine people. The ritualistic murder of 13-year-old runaway Shevawn Geoghagan in a deserted mental institution. Some happy stories too, but I forget those.

The video above is the first of several episodes that comprise a documentary about Jay, directed by my buddy Bodhi Filmore, and produced by me for the princely sum of six MGD tall boys. Please check it out, forgive the sound quality, and forward to anyone who might be interested. Our aim here is to get Jay a book deal. Please contact me if you'd like a copy of the Homeless Sweet Homeless manuscript.

answer: MORGAN FREEMAN LOOKS LIKE THE CAT IN THE HAT.

RAFIKI FROM THE LION KING? YOSHI FROM SUPER MARIO BROS? Scrooge fucking McDuck? Really?

I guess it's good nobody guessed correctly, because Sum would have had to buy the winner's prize drinks - he's filling in for me tonight at Saints & Sinners while I deejay a party in San Diego for the company that converted the Shrek movies to 3D - and I'm not sure he's even aware of the competition. I've a good mind to push the idea of a Cat In The Hat movie starring Freeman to the designers at the Shrek party. At the very least I should be able to get a free lunch out of it. Something with capers.

Turns out Freeman's in the news today - he's getting divorced - so that should get this story a few extra hits. I can't imagine him getting divorced. Actually, I can't imagine him doing anything but smiling knowingly and taking pleasant walks. Maybe that's why his wife divorced him. Sounds cute for the first ten years.

Man. No need to shell out duckets on a prize. I get to pitch my movie to a big-time animation company. Freeman's family life falls apart on the same day I post a story about him. Things are really working out!

quiz: WHICH FICTIONAL ANIMAL DOES MORGAN FREEMAN MOST RESEMBLE?

This one had been on the tip of my tongue (pause) for almost a day when it hit me like a weird smell from under the fridge, and I remained pathetically happy about my epiphany until I noticed one of my favorite people had posted a Drake video on his Facebook page.

You think you know someone.

In an age where health websites will claim obesity promotes better eyesight if it'll send a few chubby fingers fumbling for 'refresh', it's almost impossible to be plain old right anymore. Gone are the days when only white people made up facts. Everyone's got their own now. Shortly after someone I met in a bar tried to argue that the Twin Towers never fell, I decided to stop trying to be right and settle for funny. I've pretty much sworn off conversations in general, unless they're about things that can't be argued about, in which case there's no point talking about them. People love to ask me who's to blame for the Israel/Palestine conflict since I look like I'm wearing a badger on my head, to which I say "it's war", shrug, and order another Anchor Steam. What do I know about the Israel/Palestine conflict? I live in Culver City.

I haven't been this right about something since I said that gladiator sandals make women look like ancient Greek philosophers, so I'm understandably chuffed about my Morgan Freeman revelation. When MGM gets wind of this they're going to instantly start work on the movie starring Freeman as said fictional animal, and I'm going to instantly sue for as many zeroes as they can fit on a check. I'm posting the answer tomorrow. Post guesses in the comment section; the winner gets two free drinks this Friday at Saints & Sinners. Generic liquor and pronounceable beers only.

PALMS...Where the sidewalks are cushioned.

by DR. PUDGE GUAPNER

9/14/10... I turned the corner of Venice back onto Westwood after a lil stroll and happened upon a picture worthy moment if I ever did see one. This man, who appears to be in his late 20s to early 30s and didn't appear vagabondish enough to be homeless, is sprawled out on the sidewalk outside of the lil mini-strip-less-than-a-mall thing that we have here. As I strolled by the first time, I was a bit baffled. I couldn't tell if he was knocked out, or had just given up on the day. He was gripping the base of the street sign as if he were preventing the all-too-popular "bum drag"* (I'm not sure who this is popular for, but I'm sure somewhere, some young scraps are indulging in this this dangerous sport). Now, back to "Prince Sprawl" - or "Sprawl Wall" if you will. I went in the apartment, and had to come back out to get a pic. Upon second glance, I deduced (that's a polite assumption) that he was doing laundry and was not fond of the wooden benches in our neighborhood spot. Either way... he looks free. Very free. Free of a shirt, free of worries of residual dog-poo/pee, free of sanity, I assume. More power to him.

Sidenote: it was pretty hot mid-day and the next time I went back he looked like he needed to be turned over (pause).

The Moral Of The Story ...DoWhatChuLike (Digital Undergound)

*Bum Drag: A sport introduced to the world by the Bum-Fights DVD series in which an unsuspecting street-person/vagrant/bum is surprisingly relocated from... wherever he was, normally by grabbing whichever limb looks cleanest, holding tight, and running off like you're trying to catch a bus. It's kinda foul, but it makes u laugh for about 35 seconds.

WHEN LANDLORDS TAKE YOU FOR $350, PT. II

THIS IS WHAT LANDLORDS DO. It's an art. See, they want you out. This is a rent control area, and they could be getting five times your rent from some Norwegian exchange students who pay before the 1st and have no friends and do nothing but homework in there, maybe a glass of red wine after ten and they get the giggles for half an hour and knock out. No moron children who slam doors as a hobby; no suddenly single mothers of three begging to not be booted into oncoming traffic even though they spent the last few years cursing the landlord's name because he's a piece of shit, plain as day. So they gnaw at you. Three-day notice on your door, just in case. Picking fights. Your phone voice is too loud. That isn't a regulation flowerpot. Bullshit. Parking their car, directly in front of your front door. Loud drilling, directly in front of your front door. Following you around. Little comments. Refusing to fix that huge crack in your living room wall until you call the housing department. And best believe he's going to stand on your couch with those dirty ass boots while he does it. Fuck your couch.

Mysterious water pipe explosions that completely ruin everything in your storage unit, at which point you explode too and cuss him out, or push him, or in this case, throw his cellphone, and with that we finally enter phase two, which is the part where the cops arrest you, because you don't have the $350 to pay for the $40 flip phone you just busted. Pushing tenants until they incriminate themselves. It's an art.

No installments, he said. She pays me now or you lock her up. In front of her kids. So I paid. It took ten minutes to get $360 from the ATM; the cops told me to hurry. She's just lucky I had the money. She never cared for me ever since I accidentally blocked her car in a few years ago. She thanked me like she was passing a gallstone. I've only seen her twice since then, and she lives fifty feet away from me. She said she'd pay me back as soon as she could, but she doesn't work at Ralphs anymore, and I don't see her husband around much nowadays. Old Man Julio shook my hand profusely and told me he'd pay me on her behalf, but I've seen him three times since and I'm not sure he remembers who I am anymore.

Am I wrong because I want my money back?

WHEN LANDLORDS ATTACK, PT. I

LOTS HAPPENED WHILE WE WERE ON HIATUS. A neighbor shot his dad. Amelia Earhart and Mrs Brown from downstairs were both hospitalized. Venice/Westwood lot owner DOINTBIG installed a fence dividing his property and Cafe Brasil's because he's a loser with nothing better to do. And The Wizard, also known as the dirty Pakistani man with one short leg who may or may not be the landlord of the building facing my mayoral compound (yes, they have different owners) officially went to war with the Mexican family across the way with the two daughters and a son who repeatedly opens and slams their front door while yelling "I WANNA FUCK" whenever the parents are out. Jessica is the eldest, a lovely girl who worked at Best Buy across Venice until she got a used Acura from her boyfriend, a Cuban kid who was in the army until Iraq put three bullets in his left calf. He had words with the Wizard regarding a pushing match he apparently had with Jessica the other day, and since the BF was technically parked in my building's lot, the Wizard called our building manager Lesley to come have him towed. Yeah. Add that up if you can.

The sound of Lesley calling the Wizard a "crazy old fool" at approximately the top of her lungs for having her drive across town to settle a dispute he had with one of his own tenants sent me diving for the camera. The Wizard called the cops then tried to drive off before they arrived, an exit strategy that proved unmanageable after the BF blocked the Wizard's car in with his own. Thankfully, Lesley decided to wear shoes for a change, as po-po showed up soon thereafter. The footage forfeits some precious details: Marcus clipping his nails while being interviewed by the cops; Jessica's boyfriend driving off with his sister sitting in front and his girlfriend in the back seat; the Wizard's car accidentally blocking the driveway, minutes after he had the cops scold the BF for blocking the driveway. The Wizard's wife - a sheet-clad, dead-eyed mute who looks like she's taken apart some AK-47s in her day - was having trouble moving the car; I think she's more used to horses. The glare she shot me after I laughed out loud had me staring at my shoes and talking under my breath for 20 minutes. It was the look reserved for traitors, as if I'm supposed to side with them because I'm Middle Eastern too, as opposed to siding against them because they're assholes who complicate life for the people that put money in their pockets for no good reason, just like DOINTBIG and most of the other Middle Eastern landlords and property owners in this neighborhood that give our kind a bad reputation.

On the downside, they're probably not going to let me borrow their hose anymore.

SWAT on Midvale & Venice

BY EMILUCHA.

While making some excellent apricot/garlic/rosemary roasted chicken last night at around 7:45, The fiance walked in the door and announced that Venice was shut down from Overland to Sepulveda and cops in paramilitary gear were marching the block. We quickly ran over to neighbor Mikey's pad (my old pad) to get a better view of the action. It was like being in a cross between A Dog's Day Afternoon and The Hurt Locker. The popo were focusing in on the second apartment building (the green one) east of Girard on the south side of Venice. When we first started our long evening of lookylooism, there were a bunch of Culver City cops and the Sheriff's Department was just pulling up. They'd set up a perimeter and were evacuating surrounding apartments. Not much seemed to be happening, so we went home to eat drumsticks.

After dinner, we noticed that a huge crowd had gathered on our corner, so we popped back over to Mikey's to see what we could see. Two SWAT trucks had pulled up onto Venice. There were two more with their lights out on Girard. . The Venice ones were in front of the green building. One started creeping up onto the sidewalk with four SWAT dudes hiding behind it with weapons drawn. At around 9:15, the sunroof (obviously not what it was) on the SWAT truck still on Venice popped up and a sniper climbed out of it and got into position. You gotta realize the view we had. We could see directly into the courtyard of the building and directly into the back of both SWAT trucks. We think the cops never noticed us because everyone else on the whole block (both sides of Venice) had been evacuated but us. So, while the sniper was in position on top of the one truck, three SWAT dudes jumped up onto the top of other truck (the one on the sidewalk) and climbed onto the roof. With weapons drawn. On Venice. In front of my face. They proceeded to creep up the roof to the second story apartment on the west side of the building. Two of them kept watch while the other one popped the screen out of a window and jumped inside. A minute later, he started helping three little girls (oldest was prolly 8) out of the window. Then came a woman on crutches and another dude. They were escorted off the roof and onto the top of the sidewalk SWAT truck. We thought they were hostages at that point (we couldn't tell which apartment the drama was coming from), but they just turned out to be neighbors who couldn't come downstairs because that's where the drama was.

This was getting gooooood! I ran back to grab my camera, but I never found it (LAME). There wasn't much action after the roof family for about an hour. Neighbor Mikey went downstairs to see if the news wanted to film out of his room. They were going to, but they couldn't run a cable up our stairs far enough for the camera. Too bad, because the shot Live From Mikey's Room was effing raw. I have never seen so many cops with huge (I mean HUGE) guns before. Did I mention the bomb dog? Yeah.

Not much happened for the next hour except for my knees starting to hurt from my position kneeling halfway out the window. We all took a smoke break and came back to our perches just in time to see the SWAT dudes start to pull some crazy-huge cases out of the back of the truck. They began to assemble something large and scary looking while the sniper kept his spot. We could see that it was some sort of weapon that looked an awful lot like a grenade launcher. That sh*t was HUGE. While they finished setting up the weapon of mass defucktion up, the world's worst crisis negotiator got on the loudspeaker. "RODNEY WILSON, WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. CAN YOU PLEASE COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND YOUR SHIRT OFF. WE AREN'T LEAVING TIL YOU COME OUT." (duh) this was repeated in various forms while ol' Rodney screamed back at them inaudibly. "RODNEY, I HEAR YOU YELLING BUT I CAN'T HEAR WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. WE PUT A PHONE AT YOUR BACK DOOR. CAN YOU GO GET IT SO WE CAN TALK TO YOU PLEASE?" And then we made out Rodney yelling "HELL NAW FOOL". Negotiator dude was being waaay too polite in my humble opinion. So they were doing the loudspeaker shuffle for about 45 minutes. It was obviously going nowhere (but it was super dramatic and exciting to listen to), so they pulled out the big guns... literally. We see three of the SWAT dudes holding this huge weapon and then seven loud shots (not bullets... tear gas). The gas was working but our pal Rodney still didn't want to come out. He was screaming about the gas and the negotiator told him more was coming if he didn't surrender. A few minutes later, Rodney came out his door and was tackled by about five SWAT guys.

We had been assuming that Rod (nicknames are awesome) had killed his dad, but after they cuffed him to the sounds of neighbors yelling choruses of "It's about fucking time, Rodney!", no paramedics rushed into the house. According to the LA Times blurb that Malky sent me this morning, the cops had been called and heard a bunch of shots when they arrived and then the dad ran out yelling that his son was trying to kill him.

This morning, I went to the liquor store to grab one of those Starbucks in a bottle coffee thingies that I'm completely addicted to. I was talking to the chick that works there about what had happened and some more bananas shit happened. I could see this super- cracky neighbor woman walking perfectly calmly across Venice Blvd (not at the intersection) towards the liquor store- cool as a cucumber. As soon as she crossed the threshold of the store her hands shot up above her head, she stared moaning and - no joke- running around the store screaming "They got my baby! They got my baby!" and telling the liquor store clerk and I that she had been at the grocery store when it went down and that her son was innocent and that they almost killed him. Then she took a breath, bought a tall can of Bud and walked out like nothing happened. She said she was supposed to be staying at a hotel because of the tear gas, but she just wanted to drink her beer in peace at home. Dude, she was full of crap. I understand that it was her son and this was all probably incredibly traumatic, but Rodney walked out of his house unhurt and totally coherent. I don't love cops, but I watched for hours as they did everything they could have to NOT hurt anyone- and they succeeded.

Everything is back to normal around here and there's no evidence of what occurred last night, but it goes to show that you never really know what's going on behind your neighbors' walls. And that's all I have to say about that.

IMAGINE HOLD MUSIC

HERE'S A SHOT OF SOME NEW GRAFFITI ON THE MAYORAL COMPOUND beneath my sisters' apartment's bathroom window to entertain you while I stitch my broken life back together after Hurricane GoDaddy and bedbugs stole my summer. I'll be writing again soon, starting this Monday or the next, depending on how fast my neighbor pays back the $350 I loaned her to get out of those handcuffs last week. More on that later. Meantime, please follow the Palms Weekend's brand new Facebook page, and our Twitter feed. You were always a good kid.