DOWNTOWN LA vs WISCONSIN: THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.

BEEN DARTING AROUND THE CITY ALL WEEK LIKE MAYOR VILLARAIGOSA chasing a free lunch, so no post yesterday. It's a minor miracle that I post almost daily as it is. I'm not your average homebody blogger who smells a little too much like his own hand. I'm a busy man. Every weekday, I take time from work, meetings, recording, clipping my nails and persuading my girlfriend not to dump me to craft these literary nuggets, which according to Google Analytics, most readers typically skim for an average of thirteen seconds before realizing that Lady Gaga will not be mentioned and leaving. I've shirked my birthright as a rich Middle Eastern to entertain you for Facebook Thumbs. So yeah, fuck this blog. I had my Donald Trump shirt on yesterday and I was downtown, making money. My linens were swinging, I could've beheaded someone with the schoolboy bangs on my Clark Kent 'do, and I imagined my uncles nodding with approval through clouds of hookah smoke at the sight of their idiot boy, finally getting his hands dirty Downtown. But it ain't the Downtown I know.

In the early '90s, when I was a kid working at my uncle's wholesale clothing store on Los Angeles Street and 16th like every other Iranian kid whose fathers didn't take people to court for a living, Downtown L.A. was a necessary evil. You sold as many bundles of irregularly cut fluorescent T-shirts in a day as you could, you kept the back door bolted, and you made sure the store was locked and alarm-enabled and you were on the 10 by 5:45. My uncles were robbed at gunpoint almost routinely, normally somewhere between their stores and their homes, to the extent that I wouldn't even hear about the later instances until months after they happened. Occupational hazard.

Downtown L.A. looks like America now, and I still haven't gotten over it. People with freckles and/or very thin sweaters walk around toodle-loo like they can't get snatched into an alley and pistol-whipped to a whimpering pulp for looking like they might have a wallet. And they probably can't, thanks to to the quintillions of cops and rent-a-cops constantly zipping about the area, presumably to protect LA's new residents from its old ones. Sometimes they meet at the Ralphs buffet, where I saw a disheveled elderly gentleman with a bulbous growth on his forehead, picking his couscous grain by grain with a look of extreme focus. It's still not uncommon to see very homeless people in very upscale stores, although they could be hipsters, as it's hard to tell them apart at times. Only Broadway, Skid Row, Superior Court and everything south of the 10 retains the pungent whiff of Old Downtown. While writing this, I left my laptop unattended in a downtown Starbucks twice to piss.

I would have applauded Downtown LA for fixing its problems. Instead it just moved its problems to the Inland Empire. The city of Corona thanks you.

Bamboo tonight! DJs Gogo and Spye on deck.

BREAKING NEWS: BRASIL FOOTBALL TEAM FINDS BIN LADEN, FIXES BP OIL SPILL

YEAH, 'FOOTBALL'. FOOT + BALL. Duh. What the hell is a socc?

Brasil, I'm done fighting you (see The Brasil Fetish). Somewhere between the Brasilian football team's third and thirty-eighth goal against Chile yesterday, I saw the light - or, the yellow and green. I felt the ground heave as people in Cafe Brasil hugged and chanted and little Chinese men waved Brazilian flags. I heard millions cheer in the distance with every goal. And I realized that there is no force on Earth - much less any mere football team - that can oppose an entity with the world behind it. The evidence speaks for itself:

• They're depressingly healthy, very spiritual looking, wear great colors, and their country hasn't colonized anyone
• They beat the North Korean football team, and still haven't all died in a series of mysterious accidents
• Their 'ole ole ole' chant translates in Farsi to 'towel towel towel'.

I can't imagine athletes fucking the world up faster than politicians are. Give Team Brasil the wheel for a spell. Drop them over Afghanistan and the Gulf Of Mexico. They balance balls, why not the budget? Obama looks like one of their bench players; throw his whole administration in yellow and green outfits and watch how fast things turn around. Or we could all move to Brasil. Everyone on Earth standing side by side could fit in Texas; Brasil's easily four times larger. We could have bananas for breakfast and roast panther for dinner at no cost to the taxpayer. You don't have to be Brazilian to see that Brasil is the truth. I'd love to be Brazilian, if I wasn't Iranian, British and fucking perfect already.

"WILD WILD WEST" f. PUDGE | SUM | E REECE | NEAL RAMES

Most definite, we the most def
and it's a matter of time before you m*&$erf^&*ers get with it
don't worry bout the click, don't talk about the click
our name don't sound right coming out your lips
you say the shit clumsy
my name Malkovich, associate my name with big money
I like my kicks drummy, I like my chicks chunky
or slim and bumpy, perfect for the rumpy pumpy
elbow on the bar, the wood feel good
downing this beer like a f$%^ing cold meal
Beatnuts hooked the beat up
the kind of interlude you figured dudes would have rapped on but never catched on
here, catch the bomb, what happened to your arms
it's BLX, we're the storm before the calm
I perform a song, make you wanna call your mom
and tell her how you wasted your life, oh my god
you start crying, she knows the deal and starts lying
on the speakerphone, had the whole crew dying.

THE BRASIL FETISH

I'm not saying I don't understand.

TOOK A FOUR-HOUR SIESTA FOLLOWING MY POST-GIG ritual of pig debris on tortillas at Cinco De Mayo last night, and made it to Cafe Brasil about 8am to watch Malcolm X vs Uncle Tom, a.k.a. Brasil vs Portugal. Fans of Brasil's soccer team swarm CB anytime it plays, and I'd bet my pebble of a liver half of them have little to no connection to the place, like the throngs that overrun virtually any business that includes the word 'Brasil' in its promotion. The world's Brasil crush isn't new or undeserved; I've never been, but rampant murder, robbery, poverty and racism aside, it seems like a dream of a country and I'm sure my life will only begin once I land. But LA's Brasil fetish is on quite its own level. You could open Brasil Plumbers out here and people would flush babies down toilets for an excuse to throw money at anyone with a lisp and a slightly effeminate speech pattern. Matter of fact, George Brazil Plumbing Services has been in business since 1955, and George looks pretty swarthy in this picture. And I haven't listened into NPR, KCRW or KXLU since the 338th time I tuned in to the sound of some Brasilian guy humming through a hollow tube while a bird chirps in the background.

Pro-Brasil fever only intensifies when they play Portugal, which, as you hopefully know, ruled Brasil for 300 years. You can almost hear Forensics Show: Evil Music play when they step on the field, and the cameramen deliberately catch shots of the players when they're out of breath, so they look as Eeeevil as possible. Everyone wants to see the former slave whoop their old master. But, more than that, girls want to increase their chances of boning a happy-go-lucky capoeirista with ab muscles up to his collarbones, and guys want to double their odds of walking out with a woman whose hips will barely make it through the doorway. And I don't think there are any better reasons to watch sports. So on that note, here's two tips that will triple your chances of having to ask "what's this potato-looking thing" over breakfast sometime in the near future.

1. Pronounce Brasil with an S, and some 'e' in the second syllable.
2. They do NOT speak Spanish. That really pisses them off.

Saints & Sinners tonight! Check out the swanky new flyer I made.

THURSDAYS GET FUNNER STARTING TONIGHT.

'Nuff said.

THIS BLOG IS COOL NOW

CAME HOME LATE LAST NIGHT AFTER SOME CHINESE FOOD I REGRET now to an email announcing that The Palms Weekend has been approved as a member of the Vice Blogging Network. I saw the tidy badge above on my friend Sandra B.'s blog Grimy Goods and became wildly jealous, even more so after she told me Vice approached her about joining VBN, instead of her having to submit a respectful email to info@dontholdyourbreath.com in a listless bid for acceptance, as I did. I dig Vice, and have sent them all my CDs, atop which I'd wager many a staff member has chopped and consequently snorted powdery substances before throwing at a wall because it's their job to crush dreams. While in Brooklyn a few years ago I even dropped in on the nuclear bunker they call an office to try the 'straightforward' approach. All I remember is being deafened by the sound of my feeble hand knocking against a huge urban-looking steel door covered in stickers that never opened. So this is a pleasant surprise. Supposedly this will also get me carte blanche at some hipster events, so who knows, maybe something other than air and my finger will finally be going up my nose. I doubt it though, I told Fuji to shoot me if he ever sees me wearing pink Vans, and I wanna be around at least until 2014 to catch the World Cup in Rio.

In any event, mission accomplished. Well, sort of. I always told myself blogging is for losers, and I would never give my music away. Now I spend precious moments time will never give me back writing pithy posts about how to save three cents on coffee while trying to talk people into listening to my life's work as they read about Angela Simmons' controversial new ankle bracelet on Bossip. The Internet giveth life, and it taketh away. On that note: "Ayatollah Presley" is here to satisfy your "punch you in the face, stab your brain with your nosebone" rap urges. Click to listen and share

Palms Weekend at Bamboo premieres tomorrow night. Come ye hungry, come ye thirsty, come ye of burning feet. It's gonna be sexy.

ANSWERING YOUR ANNOYING QUESTIONS.

Oh yeah, a word about that Laker Parade too.

I ALMOST NEVER MISS ONE OF THE RARE MOMENTS WHEN LOS ANGELES comes together. L.A. isn't built after some little olden village like, say, New York, where everyone has to see each other daily in the town square to get their horseshoes made or whatever. Los Angeles is the city of the future. We don't need each other. So while the rest of you were adjusting your false teeth and trying to come up with plausible excuses not to attend the year's biggest street party, Franky and I were front row, watching people climbing five-storey buildings and girls making out on top of phone booths and counting the number of people with gang tattoos on their skulls. Every American city has its unique brand of thug, but none can match El Lay for the sheer number of individuals who at least seem like they could be moved to put holes in you for looking at them. I wasn't too worried, cops were everywhere. But someone asked a few of them which direction was west, and they didn't know. That worried me.

[See The Michael Jackson Sidewalk Party at my other blog The Unfamiliar for coverage of another historic L.A. street party.]

I also took the opportunity to shoot a music video for a song of mine. In case you don't know, I'm releasing a new song on the web weekly. I also have an internet radio show. Oh, and starting this week, I'm deejaying Thursdays at Bamboo Restaurant in West LA. I've been posting all this news here. If you're a friend, you've received emails and Facebook/Twitter updates about all this too. Strangely, some of you still seem unaware. This confuses me. You're all quite visibly on your email and various social networking sites daily, as opposed to the "just checking once a week" myth that some of you still insist on. I'm going to address a few common questions I receive. And if you asked me a question and I responded only with a link to this post, go ahead and put the L on your forehead now.

YOU: What are you up to these days?

ME: I'm dropping a new song on the Internet every week. Whoever reposts or forwards or retweets each song the most in a week gets their name in next week's song. Here, check the new one out at malkovichmusic.com.

YOU: Oh cool! Are there Brazilian beats on it?

ME: No.

YOU: What about electro-cumbias? I know you have some of that on there.

ME: No, none of that either. I rap.

YOU: Oh. That sucks. Hey, where are you deejaying these days?

ME: Well of course I'm deejaying every Friday night at Saints & Sinners, but starting this week I'm deejaying Thursdays at Bamboo Restaurant, 10835 Venice Blvd. in West LA. You should come. They have great mojitos, excellent food and the spot is real sexy. And we'll be playing plenty of international music.

YOU: Will you be playing any house?

ME: No, I don't do cocaine.

YOU: That's weird. Can you recommend some music for me?

ME: Definitely. Check out my internet radio show The Palms Weekend Radio. New episodes premiere every Saturday and Sunday 3pm-4pm PST at soulpublicradio.com, and you can listen to all the episodes right here on the music player; just move your eyes two or three inches to the right and you should see it. I just uploaded a new episode, actually.

YOU: Awesome! How's your singing career going?

ME: It's rapping, actually.

AYATOLLAH PRESLEY.

Ayatollah Presley, yeah that’s me

thought I told ya, where's ya memory

try to focus, let this be the last time I gotta tell ya ass in history

violas play on my entry

sold out the Hollywood Bowl, had to roll with Wembley

play me in the stadium, people wave and shout

flapping their extremities and yelling obscenities

Ayatollah Presley, highroller, Beverly Hills

steady deals keep my bills heverly

compliments to the chef, the meal was heavenly

a little too much dill but still real cherry

call me Your Majesty, the new king of rap

gave Eric B the presidency

MY SECURITY IS JOE PESCI, SO DON'T TEST ME.

Me and David Niven drinking Blue Ribbon

somewhere offa New Zealand, got a new shipment

that's that truth serum

a man starts talking when he gets a few in him

and that shit right there'll eat through denim

just back from Egypt, me and Hussein working on them new pyramids

bumping my joint sunrise to sunrise

the shit that cause loose ligaments and tooth filaments

the greatest? worn out, you gotta use synonyms

engaging, make the mundane seem amazing

BLX 2010, we taking everything

Goodfellas plane heist, that's my favorite scene

be easy, this block is all Eighteens

riding slow, radio bumping "Maybellene"

Valley to the barrio, Cali to the Calliope

L.A. to Louisiana, yall cats know.

Someone tell Pharrell to put the sneakers down, the art pieces down

stop beating round the bush and go make me some beats now

tell the other dude to come too, you know, Hugo

heard he’s running the show far as tracks go

either way, fucking with yall's a great forum

plus I kill beats better than the dudes that paid for 'em

cats wanna pay me no mind, that's great for 'em

it's Malky, only so many ways to ignore him

I've seen this before man, you're a bit boring

every time I see this scene I'm fast-forwarding

peace to my home team, doing mad forwarding

just let me get on, dog, and we all win

Johnny Doe from Amsterdam, peace

Suzuki Kaioh, what up Torry, slide me them beats

A. Presley, smelling like D&G

and I grind so hard it's like there's fucking three of me.

THE BLOCK IS (about to get) HOT(ter)

I HAVE A HISTORY OF JINXING SUMMER BY CALLING IT EARLY. It's like a fucking raindance: I can usually squeeze out "summer's" no problem, but "here" is invariably drowned out by thunder and lightning. But this year, Palms called it for me. I'm just the messenger. World Cup season - a.k.a. watch Brasil kick ass all over the world - in a neighborhood full of Brazilians. Add yesterday's double whammy - Mexico's trouncing of France and the Lakers barfing on Boston - and L.A. is in a pretty damn good mood right now, and nowhere more than Westwood Block, home to me, my administrative staff, Cafe Brasil, and Bamboo Restaurant, which I will now be deejaying at every Thursday night. It's these instances of divine coincidence that almost make me believe there really is a bearded white man in the sky. You now have two invitations to come experience one of Los Angeles' most vibrant corridors. Below is a handy-dandy map for your convenience.

Most days this week went something like this:

7AM: Wake up to vuvuzelas, Jesse the Parking Lot King's Seal tape, catch the soccer party at Cafe Brasil [story]
11AM: If it's a Brasil or Mexico game, celebrate their inevitable win with a sidewalk dance party and cacasa/passionfruit juice at Cafe Brasil
1PM: Retire home around lunchtime, attempt to work while Cafe Brasil manager Rodrigo sleeps it off in the office
6PM: Mojitos at Bamboo [video], shots at Saints & Sinners, or rap songs at the compound studio [listen]

I've signed up for the 2014 Brasil trip with Josh and the Cafe Brasil squad to catch the next World Cup. I had to, or my balls would have disappeared. I'm not a sports guy, but the World Cup/NBA fever is kinda contagious. It's always gratifying to see the Lakers sock L.A. haters in the mouth, especially when half of them are talking shit while tanning at Venice Beach. And I welcome any excuse to see eses throwing up LA signs backwards on TV. I don't know about the Lakers kissing the trophy after Magic Johnson's HIV hands have been all over it, though. I know he looks healthy and all. Soccer ultimately beats basketball in my book, first because it's kind of like World War, and secondly because you have to watch the entire game or you might miss something. You can turn on a basketball game ten minutes before it's over and catch the climax, because you know that the previous three-and-a-half quarters went like this:

TEAM A SCORES.
TEAM B SCORES.
TEAM A SCORES.
FOUL. THREE THROW.
TEAM B SCORES. [repeat for game's duration]

Excitemente, as the French would say. Just before they lost.

Saints & Sinners tonight! I'm testing my one-drink-per-hour rule in hopes that it'll keep me off the bathroom floor tomorrow morning. Beers I can do every 30 minutes though. And if I have two glasses of water after every mixed drink I may allow myself the next drink 45 minutes thereafter. My rules have rules. And check out soulpublicradio.com Saturday and Sunday 3pm-4pm PST for the newest installment of The Palms Weekend Radio, recorded live at Saints a few Fridays ago. It's shuffle in a perfect world.

starting next Thursday: the PALMS WEEKEND comes to BAMBOO RESTAURANT.

WAS WORKING ON THIS POST shirtless just before lunch when the clear, beautiful sound of a horn cut through the grunts and yowls of the semi-retarded Mexican kids downstairs (more on that soon). Seconds later I was filming at Bamboo, as a mariachi band played, sugar cane became mojitos, and locals rejoiced over plates of mango chicken and seafood paella as Mexico's soccer team handed France its pasty ass 2-0. Let Brazil serve former overseer Portugal and it's gonna be a banner year for the colonies, since everyone knows the World Cup is the closest thing to a World War today. Half the Iranian soccer team gets beheaded when they lose. Europe ran Earth 200 years ago. Now they can't balance a soccer ball, let alone their economies. How the mighty fall.

I'll expand on Bamboo Thursdays in the coming posts. For now, check the flyer and the video, which takes you into Bamboo Restaurant, the newest addition to the Palms Weekend roster. And see you next Thursday night. Be excited.

THE DAY THAT ALMOST HAPPENED

TODAY BEGAN TRENDING WAYWARD this morning outside Starbucks on Overland and Washington, where I returned to earth from thoughts of hustledom just in time to catch the conclusion of a spectacular rant from a ponytailed white man dressed like he's either a) too rich to give a shit about his appearance or b) dog-licking mad. I moved for my camera's video function too late to catch him loudly repeating phrases like "my rent went up four hundred DOLLAAAARRRSSS" before being carted off in a minivan by his visibly embarrassed family. Actually, maybe he's not that crazy.

Walking home, I caught the old hunchbacked white guy with the glasses and cane who hangs around the laundromat, hobbling across Venice and Glendon [story] at two miles a year while smoking a cigarette. And I still managed to fumble the shot. I have a lot on my mind this week. Half a block later I saw a sullen Oaxacan pimp dressed like those g'ed-up bulldogs on those t-shirts they sold on Crenshaw in the '90s, muttering at a scabby 50-year-old Courtney Love stand-in. A shot of this exchange alone would have sent thepalmsweekend.com's ranking through the roof, but I caught the distinct feeling that I might get my shit punched in, and forfeited the shot. Then I ran into Jorge, the deejay who got fired from Saints & Sinners for partying too hard (repeat that out loud for effect) on his way to the bus stop, and somehow couldn't get him to commit to attending a drunken blowout I'm promoting next Thursday (more on that tomorrow). If Palms was Japan, I would have committed hari-kiri on the spot.

I arrived too late/early to the Top Chef exhibition in the Culver Plaza parking lot to catch free lunch from Saints personality, head Yard chef and former TC contestant CJ Jacobson. I'm probably posting this article way too late to get a significant number of views. And I have a sinking feeling that neither of my two important appointments this evening are going to happen. Today wasn't/isn't bad. It just wasn't/isn't.


Oh, and I emailed my latest political rant "Air Iran" (click to listen) to NPR about thirteen minutes ago, and still have yet to receive a fawning, exclamation-mark-laden response. Does anyone have a connection over there? That station gives hours of airtime to anyone with an accent, a beret and an unpronounceable musical instrument. How about some political rap that actually makes half a fuck's worth of sense?

CAN YOU FIND THE SALAD IN THIS PICTURE? A story by Janet Dandridge.

Since I was a kid, folks have known that Janet enjoys fine cuisine.  I enjoy food that is prepared with love and respect and various tasty seasonings.  You may ask, how can food be prepared with respect?  I answer, by giving a person what they asked for and not misleading them to think that they’ll be getting one thing, when they are really getting another.  And when you are a food fanatic, it’s even more disrespectful to try and fool that connoisseur.  I am very picky about what I put into my body and for that reason I ask legitimate questions when ordering food if necessary.  If a menu states that you will receive a salad, egg roll, and entrée for $8.50, I’m expecting an egg roll – I’ll ask if it’s vegetarian and/or poultry – an entrée, and an actual salad – not a block of iceberg lettuce.  Even the dictionary states that a salad consists of vegetables and salad dressing.  All I’m saying is, just don’t play with my food yo! 

So, can you find the salad in the picture above?  I ask because I do not know what that lettuce situation is, but apparently the waiter called it a salad.  I’m confused because I do not understand how a restaurant could stay in business trying to bamboozle their customers.  If you say that with the lunch deal you get a salad, then give me a real salad – not partially withered iceberg lettuce with some sesame juice on it.  Nah, that doesn’t cut it.  For me, a salad is an array of colorful vegetables (and fruit sometimes) that you place on a plate, in a bowl, or in a Tupperware container, mixed together with a little bit of good salad dressing to get the most nutrients as possible.  There’s red onions, yellow peppers, jalapenos, peppercinis, cucumbers, carrots, mushrooms, avocado, and red tomatoes, with a little bit of Balsamic Vinaigrette.  Give me my real salad damn it!!  Needless to say, I will not be returning to that restaurant which is located in Brentwood, California.  Exactly, Brentwood.  Of all the places in Los Angeles, I thought that Brentwooders would have said something about this ridiculous, pitiful excuse for a salad!  But keeping in mind all of the more important things in the world, I guess it’s not a big deal.  But when we keep in mind what’s going on in the world and how lots of folks’ pockets have more lint balls than cash in it, don’t play around with me, my money, and my food.  If you say that I am going to get a salad with my meal, then give me what I’m paying for.  But I guess that’s what I paid for, a “salad” that was created using the awesome imagination of a restaurant owner who obviously cares more about stuffing his pockets with cash than giving people what they deserve for their hard-earned money.  Thank you capitalism, for your uber moral and ethical standards.  And thank you readers, for listening to me vent (well, reading my venting). 

Janet’s Tasty Tip: Remember that your cash can go a long way at the right place.  You just have to take a moment and find the deals – they’re definitely out there.

Places to go where you can get a real good food deal:

The Vegan Joint – 10438 National, WLA [site]

Chipotle – although it’s owned by McDonald’s, they’re pretty healthy if you don’t ask for a Burro Burrito [site]

Almaza – 8905 Venice, WLA [yelp]

Your own kitchen – wherever you live

Swingers – 802 Broadway, Santa Monica [site] (service is usually not great, but there’s always a diamond in the rough, and they stay open late during the week)

download: MALKOVICH (aka me) "AIR IRAN"

THE FIRST SONG FROM THE AYATOLLAH PRESLEY MIXTAPE. A new song recorded and released every Monday at malkovichmusic.com. The two people to retweet/repost/forward the link the most gets their name in next week's song.

s’been a long Time coming ain’t it
had to happen some time man
it’s all a circle, it’s way overdue
I’ma speak in your language
and if you still need it translated, rewind it back’s the best I can do

Flight from Iran, bags carry-on
customs just waves me through, carry on
rappers say they got the bomb, I am the bomb

yo Kanye, shoot some beats my way
been in the game a minute, it’s time I got paid
on behalf of my crew - boma-ye
the fight just started, that’s what I say
people in Cali still trippin on prop 8
and Israel still got that Gaza blockade
they just hit Turkey in a pre-dawn raid
and America’s on its way out like Pompeii
into all this steps first name Elvis
walking straight offa your island like Ellis
apellate courts upheld it so I’m bailing
like a criminal evading Principal Belding
I ain’t pushing pallets - I ain’t pushing pellets
I’m pushing everything I got to get legit
we ain’t kids - and we got brains, shit
gotta be a better way to play this
gotta be a better way to make chips
without ending up in jail or making your brain sick
two hells I don’t want no parts of
in a country in some bullshit I wasn’t a cause of
my American dream ain’t far off, I can taste it
cats died to get here, I won’t waste it
yall fucked our country up
so now we on a permanent vacation and don’t need no invitation

Flight from Iran, bags carry-on
customs just waves me through, carry on
rappers say they got the bomb, I am the bomb

and fuck yall for even asking for explanations
circular conversations, I lose patience
oil’s worth more than water, ask BP
worth more than blood, ask the ex-VP
more than anything, ask George W.B.
the shit is like WB, so cue the dancing frog
but the frog is dead, floating in the Gulf
so don’t play dumb, it’s a fucking insult
now what happen when everything we had is yours
we grab the oars, row boats, land on your shores
all good, it’s the rules of war
but yall hicks picked a hell of a time to get sore
now yall wanna hide behind law
can’t hide behind guns no more, that’s what the camera’s for
Youtube, a round of applause
for giving you crooked motherfuckers pause

Flight from Iran, bags carry-on
customs just waves me through, carry on
rappers say they got the bomb, I am the bomb.

GOOOOOAAAALLLLLL

OF COURSE MY CAMERA BATTERY WAS DEAD, SO EXCUSE THE SHITTY Blackberry photos. But that's definitely Cafe Brasil manager Rodrigo pouring tequila down his throat via an airhorn at 7am this morning during a soccer party for the Mexico/South Africa match, which ended in a 1-1 tie. Cafe Breezy takes soccer as serious as Jesse the Parking Lot King takes his Seal cassette, so today should be the first of many mornings that my eyes open to the sounds of bullhorns booming over "Kiss From A Rose". Today was Latino Palms exclusive: the CB crew, a few local waitresses, some round-the-way older gents, my neighbor Josh, the Santa Monica Seafood deliveryman with his truck double-parked. One taquero stood duty as another paced around on his cellphone, speculating on taco futures in the wake of a possible Mexico win. Rodrigo poured tequila in my coffee, and a charming young lady yelling "SI SE PUEDE" passed me a napkin after I coughed the bottle's plastic seal up. Lovely people.

As I write this, I'm eavesdropping on an argument in the lot between lot owner DOINTBIG, who is repeating the terms "trash", "nine years" and "trespassing", and Jesse, who is sticking admirably to "I don't give a" and "fuck". DOINTnotsoBIG just walked off. If Darth Vader bitchslaps the emperor, doesn't that make him the emperor?

Saints & Sinners tonight! The soccer party was over before 9am, two hours before Cafe Brasil even opened. So I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go. Tonight must make it right. 10899 Venice Blvd. I'm on ten till two. Come watch me put my head in summer's mouth.

STOP SHOUTING AT MY BALCONY YOU BASTARDS

THERE SEEMS TO BE SOMETHING ABOUT THE VIEW OF MY APARTMENT BALCONY from the driveway that sends half my loved ones shouting my name like one of their legs is on fire. I'll be at my improvised standing desk (thanks Donald Rumsfeld) by the window, wondering why so many gay people lisp, when the sound of my own name will shred the chill, and turn me instantly from a light-hearted mama's boy marvelling quietly to himself at the world's wondrousness to the kind of man who understands suicide bombers. Trembling, I wait twenty or so seconds. If I hear my name even once more, I won't shout back, I won't walk to the balcony, and I may not even answer the door. Every insouciant (look it up, it's perfect) shout from you is a concurrent life sentence in the echo chamber, where all you hear is the sound of my name reverberating around your cold, lonely ass as I eat, drink and make merry upstairs with visitors who somehow mustered up the necessary calf strength to clamber the 18 steps to my door and knock like a fucking human. If you're too idle to even shout my name more than once, I listen for the sounds of movement to indicate that you're walking upstairs, or away. In their absence, I assume your motor skills have failed completely and you're laying in a pile in the middle of my driveway, and I pour another drink. I suggest you make friends with the Pakistani family downstairs before I fly out the window and Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon you into the concrete. Or go by Janet's; she loves shouting.

IMAGINE HOLD MUSIC

Sherman Way near Whitsett

NO STORY TODAY; I'M IN NORTH HOLLYWOOD WRITING FOR A LIVING. See you tomorrow after I've digested this Crazy Chicken breast and I'm back on the West. That reminds me: I need a chicken, gorilla, or some kind of animal suit for a Summer BBQ Rap Video we're shooting in North Hollywood for Quickie Mart & Gotham Green this Saturday afternoon. Please email tips@thepalmsweekend.com if you can help, or if you're free that day and you wanna come eat and drink and get famous with us. In the meantime, here's a song I did with them a few months ago. A manana.

CINDY WILL HAVE YOUR KNEES BROKE

DON'T LET THE QUAINT PICTURE FOOL YOU. The cock of the head; the earnest smile; pattycake palm inviting the world for a high-five. My camera wasn't even back in my pocket when that same hand grabbed me by the shirt and held me two feet off the ground like my legs were laundry in the wind while she warned me not to talk shit about her on here. Thatha, our mutual South African neighbor, would be the first person to visit me, she said with a steely calm that crushed my eardrums to a fine, silvery dust. Thatha is a lovely woman, but she doesn't look like she couldn't put me through a plate-glass window. Using her free hand, she pointed to a nearby wall upon which her young daughter sat beside several local youths who look like they spend a fair amount of time in the counselor's office. "We call that the 'what the fuck' wall," Cindy said. "'Cause that's what you'll be screaming after them boys run your head into it a few times." She said she'd show the locals what I've been writing about them - Jesse the parking lot king, Julio the drug-dealing octogenarian, Nilella the female Highlander - and send them to my mayoral compound furnished with lead pipes ripped out from my own building's gas lines. Even lies aren't beneath her; she said she'd tell Amelia Earhart I called her The Clown Lady, then tell Casper and the rest of the guys at the halfway house next door that I said drugs are for pussies. Then she dropped me to the floor, laughing like Ving Rhames, and kicked me in the ass as I ran off.

"AND my dog pissed all over that mattress you were posing on last weekend."

THE MONDAYS.

roadkill off Venice and Westwood, a.k.a. me today.

NOT SURE WHY MY HEART WAS THUMPING LIKE A LAB RAT'S in bed last night. Might have been post-recording adrenalin. Might have been the wine, sugar and eight garlic cloves in my pasta sauce. It might also have been the usual mild panic attack I experience most nights when I imagine a quake bringing my apartment's charming 'frosty look' ceiling down on my face. So I had to laugh when that quake shook me out of bed around 2:15am. Supposedly the older you get, the less you sleep. Perhaps last night marked my coming of age, like the day you learn Hennessy is not a high-grade liquor.

Steve Driver, the porn actor who used a machete to kill fellow 'swordsman' Tom Dong in a DVD warehouse they lived in last week (see Tards 'N Things), threw himself off a San Fernando cliff during a police standoff, as you can see in the video below. Survivor/Pimp My Ride producer Bruce Beresford-Redman is back in his L.A. mansion, despite having his passport confiscated by Mexican authorities last month after his wife, Zabumba owner Monica Beresford-Redman, turned up strangled in Cancun during their family vacation (see story). Though this is now common knowledge, Mexican law requires that the authorities there search Mexico thoroughly for him before asking America to extradite him. Oh, and for you smokers, Los Angeles is closing down three-quarters of the city's weed clinics today.

L.A.'s a weird place. Or maybe I just need more sleep. Or some Hennessy.

SIDEWALK SALE

ANOTHER SIDEWALK SALE TODAY ON THE CORNER OF Venice & Glendon. Not sure if it's courtesy of the same individual who has a few on the same corner the last couple of summers (see Venice & Glendon), but this is his second in two weeks. Says he's not sure when he's having another, so you'll just have to be patient if you're in the market for a VHS tape rewinder, or two apples, or a CD of the Borat soundtrack. He hadn't heard of The Palms Weekend, but he said he thought it's "a good idea", so I took his email address and forwarded him the URL on the spot, then rushed home to write this post so he could see how bout it bout it I am when he logs on and checks this out sometime in 2011.

SUMMER IN THE CITY

AFTER A COUPLE WEEKS OF RELATIVE CHILL (see Palms Takes Earth Day Seriously), THE CORNER IS BACK TO TRASHY. And I told you I'd make a living room out of it next time. Now, wi-fi...

poll: GLADIATOR SANDALS - YAY OR NAY?

GLADIATOR SANDALS:
	are hella sexy
	are whatever
	make my dick die
pollcode.com free polls

I'M GONNA PULL AN EMINEM OUT THE GATE. This is coming from a guy who still thinks Hawaiian shirts are cool (hint: they are). A guy who has bought more Dickies than half of East LA combined. A guy who puts on a dress shirt and slacks like he works at Kinko's and calls it 'dressing up'. I also understand women often don't care whether men find their clothing attractive. If you're hot, you're hot. You could walk around in two buckets of horse shit strapped to your ankles for all we care. And lastly, I'm biased: I think feet as a rule are wretched, and none more than my own. That's why you only see me in sandals at the beach, and even then, it's with shame in my eyes.

This is purely an empirical endeavor to see how other men feel about the gladiator sandals that are so popular with der vomens nowadays. I guess you can vote if you're a woman too, although I think the ladies may benefit from an accurate reading of the male outlook here. This also applies to the gladiator sandals' close cousin, the half-shoe/half-sandal. I would have posted a picture of those as well, but in a boldfaced attempt to impede science, Franamami says she doesn't know their name, despite owning several pairs. For clarity, here's a picture of some gladiator sandals, but keep in mind that this poll also pertains to the ankle-high variety.

To preserve the poll's impartiality, I won't get into my feelings on gladiator sandals, except to say that, to me, most women who wear them don't look a million miles away from this:

Vote early and vote often.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd., between Overland and Sepulveda. My beautiful girlfriend may punish me for this post by not showing up tonight, so come keep your boy company.

UPDATE: Frana promptly divulged the name of the half-shoe/half-sandal upon publishing, presumably under the impression that blogs can't be updated. They are Bandals. And this is war.

TARDS 'N THINGS

THANKS TO KRISTINA A. OF PALMS FOR CONTRIBUTING THIS 'URBAN BUCOLIC' PHOTOGRAPH of a woman who apparently made a day of a payphone conversation. If you happened to give a homeless woman near Venice and Overland change last weekend, now you know where it went. Of course, she could be calling people just long enough for her payphone's number to appear on the other person's caller ID, then hanging up before her quarter disappears and waiting for a call back. But chances are she's talking to another homeless person - presumably also sat in a chair off a major intersection - who I assume would also be loathe to pay for the conversation. Maybe homeless people really do make hundreds of dollars a day and don't give a shit about no stinking quarter. I see them refuse food all the time. I've never refused food in my life.

In regional news, a porn actor living in the Ultima DVD warehouse in Van Nuys stabbed three co-workers (whatever that means) with a sword, killing one. Oh, and an Orange County actor is in custody for killing two people for sixty grand and spreading their body parts throughout Long Beach parks. Seems the recession is finally hitting Hollywood proper. As if it isn't bad enough that L.A. gang violence is back on the uptick, we may soon have to contend with rampaging packs of out-of-work actors intent on killing you in the most dramatic way possible, in case James Cameron happens to be driving past. I fear for the children.

In world news, Israeli soldiers killed nine Turks on a Gaza aid ship. Muslims blame the Jews, and Jews blame the Muslims. BP's latest attempt to cap the Gulf Of Mexico oil spill failed. Republicans blame the Democrats, and Democrats blame the Republicans. As this issue of The Palms Weekend goes to press, the possibility that the Muslim, Jewish, Democratic and Republican movements are all bumbling tard factories fucking the world up one disaster at a time has not yet been slated for discussion. Oh, and I saw the MGD truck again, in the Trader Joes parking lot this morning. Could it be following me?

I just can't believe it's Wednesday.

PUNK-ASS BEES, ANDY KOPPEL

Ted Koppel and some bitch-ass bees

WAS RETURNING FROM HABIB ROW THIS MORNING HOLDING toilet paper, toothpaste, a cup of coffee, a bunch of parsley (meaning one orderly bunch, not a whole lot of it) and my camera when a beehive fell out of the tree towering over Cafe Brasil, sending bees swarming across the area furiously. Actually, they didn't swarm at all, and surely did nothing furiously; several buzzed around dazedly while the rest laid where they landed doing a whole lot of nothing while cars drove over them. I was surprised at their glaring lack of swarming. For shame, animal kingdom. Of course, a passing homeless woman cussed the bees out. At least some of us haven't lost our sense of purpose. The Bangladeshi (Pakistani) guy at the 88-cent store where not a damn thing is 88 cents asked me what the camera's for, so he may be reading the site soon. Just remember, I love you and your store and it's all a joke. Yokes!

In other news, Ted Koppel's 42-year-old son Andy died yesterday from drinking whisky all day on an empty stomach? If this is true, I'm fucked. Drinking whisky on an empty stomach is one of my favorite things to do in this and many other worlds. I believe strongly in separating church and state. Food has no place in a drunken bender, unless you're about to pass out and you're trying to make a week out of it. My fingers are crossed for the appearance of hard drugs in the toxicology reports. And you know they're coming. Sorry Ted.

read: Koppel's Son Found Dead In Apartment [msnbc]