THE PALMS WEEKEND

video: MALKOVICH, "PALMS"

2011-09-07T09:43:00.000-07:00

Jesse almost died during the making of this video. I've seen him almost die three times, and only once I wasn't sure he would die cool.The first two strokes he rode out in the driver's seat of that truck like fevers, nodding at me as I walked up and squeezing out choice words through wet lips. The last time he couldn't walk, all he could do is stand in the middle of the lot and cry in his friend's arms while people drove around them trying not to cry too. He told me he wouldn't survive surgery, he was tired of the hospital, he wanted his mother to fly him home. On the way to his cousin's house he forgot both our names and where we were going. But he made sure I stopped by T&D's on Slauson and Keniston to cop his last cigarette. By his fifth cellphone call to St. Louis from his cousin's lawn he was barely breathing. By the time the third fire truck showed up he had to be talked out of walking off down the street. Pride kills him and revives him, every day. He was mad at me for a while for making that call. And I was mad at him for forcing me to make it. When you're really hurting, you handle that alone. You spare your people your burden. His mother sent me a thank you card.

Mrs Brown downstairs passed away a couple of weeks ago. The funeral announcement had the first young photos of her I had ever seen; made me wish I had known her then. Don't get buried at Inglewood Cemetary if you have soft-speaking relatives. The planes overhead will drown out every other heartfelt word of their speeches. Lucile was 80; she had a good run. And even when she had fallen out of her walker, she would wait thirty minutes before shouting my name, and she would apologize until I was gone, happy to help, sad that I couldn't. She knew the rules, too well. Nights I lay sweating atop hardwood and bedbug stains, hours after trying to sleep way too early, 15 feet in either direction from two people dying slow. I wish I had been there more for the people around me. But I always was. Just behind a wall. I hope they could feel me. I definitely felt them.

Larry & Angel sent me a thank you card. Lot of thank you cards this summer.

FOOLS ARE STEALING CAR PARTS NOW

2010-12-17T10:33:00.000-08:00

what's missing?

AND NOT EVEN GOOD PARTS - Lamborghini engines, 24-inch rims, none of that. At some point between 1:30am and 10am yesterday, a team of highly experienced losers stole the tailgate off my sister's Dodge Ram 1500 - parked in the front driveway of my mayoral compound near the corner of Venice Blvd. and Westwood Blvd., just across the street from the strip mall some lady drove into with her Pathfinder the other day (story). According to Officer Silva, who took our police report, the jackery process takes seconds, and LAPD's Pacific Division took seven similar reports of car part theft in the Palms area yesterday, in case anyone tries to sell you a replacement door for your gas cap over the weekend. My first instinct was to ask Jesse The Parking Lot King (story) if he had seen anything, but he wasn't in the lot. My second instinct was to hunt and bludgeon the two young bums who were using the spare parking spot in the back of our building as a soda can storage unit until recently (the one who looks like Tom Sizemore can be seen frolicking in our dumpster in this story here), but luckily logic stepped in for a change. Chances are, they haven't been casing my sister's truck door all these months, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on it and catch the first plane to Cancun with the riches. Some guy from the halfway house next door with a neck tattoo that reads "Beautifully Broken" wandered over for a second in between cigarettes to tell us he didn't see anything. Beija from across the street rode by on a beach cruiser wearing an awful lot of blue. And that was pretty much the end of our investigation. We're waiting to hear back from insurance, and Officer Silva appeared positive about the chances of recovering the door, but I guess that's his job.

At least we didn't get done like Sunday night Saints & Sinners deejay Charlie did the other night. Apparently two guys mugged him at knifepoint. It's getting real '90s around here all of a sudden.

CAR DRIVES INTO STORE ON VENICE BLVD.

2010-12-14T13:17:00.001-08:00

EVER SINCE I FIGURED OUT THERE'S NOTHING COOL ABOUT BEING a borderline alcoholic last month, The Palms Weekend has been pretty quiet. Sure, story ideas crossed my mind: the possible origins of the used condom that sat in our driveway for a week; a recent dream in which I was plunging my toilet; whether Daffy or Donald is the more popular cartoon duck. All faintly amusing literary romps, but I've had bigger tilapia to fry - which, it turns out, is not strictly an L.A. fish, and can be found worldwide. Who knew?

Seems the universe stepped in yesterday to force my hand. First, some lady drove her car through the front door of the Hookah Zone, right across the street next to Habib Market and the 99c store (see "RIP 88c Store"). Luckily, no customers were in the Hookah Zone, as usual. Meanwhile, firemen were clearing up a two-car crash directly in front of the store on Venice Blvd between Glendon (see "Venice & Glendon") and Westwood that left one driver in a stretcher. Check the video for on-the-spot reportage from my intern Nikki E., who quit yesterday.

I can't make this shit up.

new study: SMART KIDS GROW UP TO DRINK MORE, LIVE LONGER, AND GROW BIGGER DONGS

2010-11-11T14:21:00.000-08:00

Bad news for the ladies though.

But seriously, the two articles I just read at English webzine The Week ("Why Do Smart Kids Grow Up To Be Heavier Drinkers?" and "Why Booze Hounds Live Longer") confirm what I've always felt in my gut regarding the relationship between alcohol and health. I won't get into what I felt in my liver. No matter what crackpot theory you're cradling in that dusty skull of yours, there's a study on the Internets to give you that warm fuzzy feeling, and I haven't felt anything this warm and fuzzy since... well... I'll leave that one alone. Children may be reading.

This is a big deal for me. It's not like finding out you're right about something irrelevant, like 'ice cream truck drivers have a high rate of insanity' (it's the music). This is a validation of my whole lifestyle. So obviously I'm subscribing to it, and to this wonderful magazine. Seems I'll be around for a while, so I'm inquiring into some kind of eighty-year discount rate. Stroke my ego.

Staring at the sun is a lot easier with sunglasses, and staring the universe in the eye is a lot easier with a coffee cup full of Vons whiskey. Plus, smart people need good excuses for why they aren't world-famous or filthy rich, and consistently being too drunk to stand up straight is normally an explanation sufficient to quiet down everyone except your mother and yourself. Yes, I'm talking about myself. Luckily, it looks like I may have a little extra time on this planet to make the cover of Time, or start my whistling orchestra, or track down Eddie Murphy's sense of humor. So on that note, please pass the deep fried beer. We're in the long haul now.

HEY INTERNETS! PICTURES OF DOGS!

2010-11-09T13:56:00.000-08:00

A COMPLICATED HIP-HOP HANDSHAKE TO JA-FAR PEEK of East Point, Georgia for sending in these photos of two rossum practicing their Starsky & Hutch routine in a pahked cah in Portland, Maine. Send in any and all photos of dogs behind steering wheels to weare@thepalmsweekend.com the millisecond you snap 'em. If you still don't know how to email a photo from your cellphone, ask your little sister, or, if you don't have one, the next small child you run into. When you see a dog sitting behind a steering wheel like an eight-year-old operating a ferris wheel, I want my hairy face to pop into your funny-shaped head. I just quadrupled my server size with Godaddy for an extra $120 a month, and the top Armenians at Google have been thoroughly forewarned about the flood of hits The Palms Weekend is about to receive, since everyone knows children and dogs rule the Internets.

STOP BEING CRAZY

How much crazy can one city take before everyone has to start wearing clown outfits and talking to each other using their asscheeks like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective? Nutjobs used to be clearly noticeable by the doo-doo smell and the drool string connecting their lip to their left knee. That description has now been broadened to "anyone in slightly rumpled clothing". The balding shlub in velcro sneakers at the Coffee Bean on Motor and Venice, the short-haired lesbian gutter snipe who's always at the Starbucks on Venice and Washington, and the sullen lady with the poodle bangs reading at Borders were all quiet for a nice stretch, but once they snapped, I smacked myself for not seeing the signs sooner, homelessness connoisseur that I am. You're reading, or wasting time on your phone, or just looking at your thighs, and a pair of sad Pacman-ghost eyes loom into the outskirts of your 'preriphreral' vision, accompanied by what an interview with a community college professor might sound like if the interviewer's mic was off. Now I can't even trust slightly dirty-looking people to not disrupt my public time. I don't even think most of you are crazy. You're just attention whores. I understand it's lonely being homeless and/or bananas. It breaks my boiled lime of a heart, every day. But if you want people to give you more than one-word responses to your rants, you have to have a job or clean clothing. One or the other. And if you receive, on average, less than six words for every five thousand you sputter off in a conversation, you need to shut the fuck up for a while, figure out why nobody wants to talk to you, and retool your manner accordingly so you don't end up talking to yourself forever and actually go crazy for real. It's just how this world works. We didn't make the rules. And you repeatedly breaking them is only going to land you in a cardboard box in the back of a dental office off National Blvd.

WHO CARES

Not me. My song with Prince Po is getting good blog lovin'. This morning my neighbor actually paid me back the $350 I loaned her to stay out of jail when her landlord tried to have her locked up last summer. She said she got it by stiffing him on part of this month's rent, since the housing department she's entitled to a break since her husband just moved out. So I may be bailing her out of jail again pretty soon. The other day I smacked a fly dead on my arm. This morning I got a gnat between my hands. I'm in the Matrix, bitches.

download: MALKOVICH (me) | MAWNSTR | PRINCE PO (of organized konfusion) - "THE NEXT EDITION [3 HIPPOS]"

2010-11-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

SO MY BOY MAWNSTR, WHO I HAVEN'T SEEN SINCE everyone was wearing Dickies instead of just me, calls me outta nowhere last month. One of West LA's old guard, he brought terror to the Clinton era on a scale only a few members of my crew could match, and that's saying something. Then we didn't hear from him for a long time, and when he resurfaced he was living in the Bay. That's how you know you're dealing with an Extra Grimey Individual, kids. Kind of like when you see a really hot woman at the bus stop dragging a large suitcase.

Anyway, he invited me to jump on this posse cut alongside him and Prince Po, who hip-hop connoisseurs know as one half of Organized Konfusion, the NYC duo that permanently raised the standard for anyone seriously trying to rap with 1994's Stress: The Extinction Agenda album (check out the video for lead single "Stress"). For those of you who need to hear a familiar name right about now in order to read any further, O.K.'s other member is Pharaohe Monch (the guy who made "Simon Says", a.k.a. 'the rap song with the Godzilla beat that keeps going 'get the fuck up'), and the album featured everyone's favorite gifted, non-threatening rap dude, Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest.

"The Next Edition (Three Hippos)" is the result. Po's first, Mawnstr's next, and I round it out. I'm rapping with a guy I used to hang out with, and another guy I used to listen to while I was hanging out with the other guy. This is the changing of the guard. And it's how I know I'm on the right track. Enjoy.

My star’s rising, I’m in your hard drive
I’m in your thoughts like food and sex
I’m on the ball like insert your favorite player here, throw a 'no homo' in
and watch me take it to the net, slow motioning
when California goes in the ocean I’ma be at Venice Beach lotioning
get my shoulders?
I’m in the Testarossa with Desdemona
Milan is the bomb, word to my leather loafers
you looking extra sober, smelling extra sofa
fighting over extra Stouffers, your shit is hella over
Mawnstr and Prince Po, it's on from the get go
outta nowhere, we're the rap RickRoll
the rap hippos, we run the jungle on the low
and you won't know till you're getting stomped a new asshole
my name's Malkovich, and you spell that
M-A-L-K-O-V-I'm the shit.

my BIG ASS WALK.

2010-11-04T16:53:00.000-07:00

WALLETS AND CAR KEYS. Its been that kind of week. Yesterday I almost blew a blood vessel searching for my wallet, which turned out to be in my cousin's car, despite the fact that I searched my cousin's car for it the previous night, which probably never would have worked out since I was drinking a bottle of rum while I was doing it. And this morning, on the corner of Hollywood and Kingsley by Pandamami's house, I found out the hard way that car clickers do not actually run on some magical inexhaustible energy source, and once they're dead they won't work no matter how many times you press 'unlock' and hope for the best. Since my ignition key, curiously, does not open my car door, I called AAA, at which point I was informed that I had used my free visits for the year. I don't like standing around, so I walked home. I like walking. It helps me think, and I enjoy knowing more about people's neighborhoods than they do. I only totalled six miles today, a little more than half the length of last week's walk which took me from Culver City to Venice Beach to Third Street Promenade to Westwood. But the fact that today's excursion was conducted during a mind-whitening November heatwave evens things out, I think. Here's a play-by-play.

Hollywood Blvd & Taft Ave: I step in wet asphalt with both shoes, granting me an extra quarter inch in height and panoramic views for the rest of the day.

Hollywood Blvd & Bronson Ave: I buy water from a liquor store where the East African cashier is arguing with a Ukrainian man trying to wire money who apparently doesn't know how to spell his own name.

Hollywood Blvd & Vine St: A man is leaning on a lamppost bearing an "I Love Electro" poster, barfing on himself. I know how he feels.

Hollywood Blvd between Cherokee Ave and Highland Ave: Tourists probably run a much smaller chance of getting mutilated for their fannypacks nowadays then they did back in the '90s, but you can still count on Hollyweird for poor, angry pimps, old men who are too insane to do anything but smile, and runaways with terrible haircuts who just want hugs. One walked past me saying "that's no example to teach your children." I'm assuming he was talking to someone else.

Hollywood Blvd & Orange Dr: Saw a bum polishing W.C. Fields' star who looked an awful lot like W.C. Fields.

Sunset Blvd & La Brea Ave: Stopped by Crazy Girls (where I'll be performing soon, details coming) to get what I thought was a rock out of my left shoe. Turned out to be a hole in the sock that was starting to sting.

La Brea Ave & De Longpre Ave: Walked past another of those billboards the AIDS organizations have thrown around town with the big picture of the smiling HIV-positive professional chef, like we're supposed to be happy about that. Shouldn't that be illegal? I cut my finger every time I walk in my kitchen.

La Brea Ave & Fountain Ave: Took my shirt off. Walked past three trannies. Put my shirt on.

La Brea Ave & Santa Monica Blvd: Had the guy at the T-Mobile store recharge my phone. It died as I walked in. Ate at Baja Fresh to kill time. Was reminded how much I hate the word 'zesty'. Left my wallet on the table and almost lost it again. Rotated my socks in the restroom, feeling vaguely like Josh Brolin's character in No Country For Old Men, except he was running from a murderer and my car wouldn't start. Rotating socks didn't help. Bought a ten-pack of socks from Target, put a new pair on. Didn't help either. Grabbed my phone from T-Mobile store.

Melrose Ave & Alta Vista Blvd: Ran into my boy Nir who dropped me off at Venice & La Brea. Felt like a bit of a cheat. His friend showed me how to easily open my car clicker, and asked me why I didn't just replace the battery instead of walking six miles in a heatwave. Felt like a bit of an idiot.

Venice Blvd & Hauser Blvd: Picked up a quiz some kid must have dropped. 89% is respectable by most standards. I just hope this isn't a twelfth-grader. And his teacher obviously had a late night at Acapulco's because George is definitely missing an 'e' in 'Influnce' towards the bottom there.

Venice Blvd & Halm Ave: Was picked up and taken home by my wonderful intern, just in time to begin the work day.

Gotta go. Time to go see if this other clicker works.

I'M DJING TONIGHT at THE THIRSTY CROW in SILVERLAKE

2010-11-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

The Thirsty Crow, 2939 Sunset (near Silverlake)

LAST WEEK I RECEIVED AN UNEXPECTED CALL: an invitation to DJ at The Thirsty Crow in Silverlake. It's the reincarnation of Stinkers, the trucker-themed bar that resided at 2939 Sunset until a few months ago, and the site of one of my most painful sackings (see The Palms Weekend's Greatest Bootings). I bagged the position of Stinkers' resident Saturday night DJ by following five simple rules on my trial night there: nothing new, nothing hippie, nothing glam-rock, nothing funky, nothing sappy (see Stinkers). Stinkers Saturdays were a chest-beatingly good time through spring 2009. The fake smoke blowing out of the skunk asses surrounding the bar enhanced your buzz, and there weren't any real truckers hanging around to blow that buzz either.

Of course, as the Saturdays went by, more and more people approached the DJ booth asking Sum and I to, you know, mix it up a bit. If there's one thing you don't have to ask us twice, it's mix it up a bit. And people seemed to be really into hearing hip-hop, funk, soul and rock 'n roll all in a trucker-styled bar, all the way up until the place turned into a ghost town and we got fired like fake smoke out of a skunk's ass. In our defense, it's not like we were there seven nights a week to fuck things up, and I'd need to drink about eight four-dollar PBRs to be okay with the idea of paying four dollars for a PBR. But I can't shake the memory of this Yelp review where some guy wrote of the Saturday night DJs: "I guess it took two of them to suck so bad." Anyone who complains about loud music - let alone on Yelp - is more catfish than human. But I've been itching to re-christen the place ever since.

The Thirsty Crow has a Prohibition-era theme, and my music collection is probably more big band, blues and jazz then anything else, so I've been inserting casual reminders of my extreme availability on any night of the week in conversations with Crow manager Cooper (of Mad Planet fame), who normally feigns a smile and changes the subject to yachting or bus schedules. So tonight, I will toast to a night I didn't expect, then I will deejay from ten till two. Entry is free, and the drinks are really, really good. It's a bourbon bar, so get a mint julep, or a marmalade martini, or a shot of George T. Stagg so strong that ice cubes don't float in it.

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part VI: SIGNING OFF.

2010-10-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF OUR SERIES OF INTERVIEWS WITH PALMS-AREA homeless writer Jay Brady, who closes us out with a Jerry Springer-style last word. Haven't seen him in a while, but I'm sure he's fine. He has friends with homes who let him crash pretty regularly.

During its creation, I had the idea that this documentary would get his book published and get him off the streets. I'm not sure how I got that idea, but don't worry, it's gone now. Shit, I spend all my days running like the hounds of hell are upon me just to keep these scruffy four walls of mine. That's how most of us avoid living in boxes.

THE BEAST IS DEAD

2010-10-21T08:19:00.000-07:00

THE COUCH IS GONE. Apparently, these bites covering my body are bedbugs after all, but I didn't realize they were in my couch and not my mattress until I noticed them streaming out of my cushions towards my half-naked body while watching Raging Bull the other night. Meanwhile, I ruined my mattress last month scrubbing it down with bleach-flavored Lysol, and no matter how many incense sticks I slide under my bedcase, it still has that faint foot smell, and is probably going to have to see the dumpster like about a third of my possessions have in the last month. I'm basically paying to squat in my own home.

The two guys remodeling Janet's old apartment helped me get the couch out of my place the same way it got in: over my balcony. Thank God all 218 of the Vinyl Junkies were living at my place that week in 2005 when I copped it, because I would never have gotten it over the balcony alone, and it sure wasn't going through the front door. It had a bunch of musty rappers camped out on it within ten seconds of landing in the mayoral compound, and it stayed that way pretty much right up until its unceremonious exit.

Between girlfriends, houseguests, extremely long-term houseguests and small invertebrates, there are an awful lot of individuals, living and dead, who know that couch intimately. Some of them, I wined and dined onto it, and hoped they'd never leave. Some, I welcomed into my home until they were financially ready to venture into the world. Others, I squeezed to death between my fingers until they exploded and left a piney smell. It loved all its occupants, and they loved it right back, no matter what they might tell you. If it really loved you, it left feathers in your hair.

Actually, I had to ask a couple I met at the market last week to wake up and get off the couch just before I threw it out. It was a comfy ass couch, man. It's the kind of couch you dedicate sonnets to. And I did, actually. check it out.

Anyway, it's sitting by the dumpster looking like Saddam's statue after the Iraqis knocked it over. My living room looks like a yoga studio. Anyone got a spare couch?

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part V: GETTIN' LOADED

2010-10-19T20:41:00.000-07:00

HERE'S PART FIVE OF MY INTERVIEW WITH HOMELESS WRITER JAY BRADY, where I 'went in', as the kids say, on Mr Brady somewhat, as it became clear that I was talking to a man whose core problem is alcohol, not homelessness. This documentary was shot in a day, and he's a couple of MGD tall boys in by this point.

Jay says the homeless are trying to kill the pain caused by the fact that they have nothing to do. It seems to me that they have nothing to do precisely because they're wacked out of their brains half their days. I understand that kicking a substance addiction when you're not homeless is hard enough. But lets pinpoint the problem.

99.100% of (relatively) sane, able-bodied homeless people happen to stay as high and/or drunk as possible. Coincidence?

If they were to stop, life would almost certainly get better. How long do you think someone sober and homeless would hang out at the park? Ten minutes? I only visit parks if I'm shitty drunk, or watching someone's baby, in which case I'm almost incoherent. If I was sober I'd probably run outta there screaming louder than the kid.

Intoxication accompanies celebration. If you have no home or money, the party's over. Make kicking your addiction and eating your first and second priorities, in that order, and I think you stand a much better chance of finding a job and your own water supply - two great reasons to pop a bottle or two. I think drugs and drank account for the downfall of just about everyone I know, really. Show me someone who should have been so much more, and I'll show you someone who knows all about drinking at breakfast. That goes for me too. Some of us explode fast; most of us slow burn. Better the latter, if you ask me.

video: GOTHAM GREEN & QUICKIE MART featuring ME, "MALK & GREEN"

2010-10-18T12:11:00.000-07:00

NOW THIS ONE WAS FUN. Shout out to the talented director Jay Ahn, and to Gotham Green & Quickie Mart for having the vision to give a raw-ass hip-hop record the Hollywood treatment. Good looking out to Adam at Originators clothing store on Melrose for letting us use his spot. Download the song free here.

THE GREATEST SONG IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE

2010-10-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

IT MUST SUCK TO NOT BE HIP-HOP. Everyone's a hostage of their upbringing: where you are and who you hang out with in your early teens, when your ears are wide open and you're looking for anything that helps you make some sense of yourself. By the time you leave high school, the die is cast. I was a heavy metal fanatic when I discovered hip-hop at age 14, the year I moved to America. If I had moved even two years later, I would probably still be rocking a ponytail with the sides shaved, my girlfriends would all smell like cigarettes and black makeup, and my neighbors would hear Winger's second album in their nightmares. I would have had no choice in the matter. Instead, I get to hang out with ladies who should be models, my neighbors dance when my stereo plays, and I'm a conscious, participating member of this hip-hop world we all live in. But if you lived somewhere weird during ninth grade, or had an older sibling with something metal hanging off his or her lip, you probably don't even understand hip-hop music. You don't even know how to begin. A goddamn shame.

A good place to start is DJ Kool's "Let Me Clear My Throat", the greatest song in the history of the universe. DJ Kool is a Washington D.C.-based DJ. D.C. is in the heartland of America, where black people invented all Western music that people actually like that isn't classical music. A good hip-hop DJ knows everything about all kinds of music, since hip-hop is made of every kind of music in the world. So I'm not surprised that a D.C. DJ created the greatest song in the history of the universe, or that the greatest song in the universe is a combination of a James Brown loop, some horns lifted off another of the greatest songs in the universe and a bunch of people going completely apeshit while a guy shouts about how he needs to clear his throat.

Many of the greatest songs make people cry. Some make people mosh. I know one that makes people leap ten feet in the air and land dancing like today is twenty birthdays rolled into one within six seconds of dropping the record. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, no matter how many of you there are, no matter how often you've heard it. And I'm nominating it for the title of The Greatest Song In The History Of The Universe.

Cincy Brass Jazz Band cover "Let Me Clear My Throat"
DJ Kool clears his throat during an interview

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part IV: SSI CHECKS

2010-10-13T12:05:00.001-07:00

NO POST LAST MONDAY. The Palms Weekend observes Columbus Day, as the Seafaring Tight-Wearing Mass Murderer and I are both Genovese-born.

Yeah, he killed a lot of people, but so does McDonalds, so wipe the sweet & sour sauce off your mouse and let's move on.

No post yesterday either. I have family visiting from Iran, so I have bequeathed my life to the goddess Itis for October. Unless they leave early, or California runs out of rice.

As you'd better know by now, director Bodhi Filmore and I conducted a series of interviews with local homeless writer Jay Brady, which I've been posting every week. Here's episode four, which covers the point where I deduced that Jay would probably have much less to complain about if he wasn't holding a tall can of MGD six hours a day, and consequently began losing interest in this project. Sure, I'd be way further in life if I wasn't such a boozer, but I'm trying to get that in check right now, and I still have a place to live. I like to think that if I was sleeping in the street, getting drunk would be the last thing on my mind. But what do I know.

This episode does raise the interesting catch-22 homeless people face regarding SSI (Supplemental Security Income) checks. Apparently, the application process is a real pain in the ass which you'll have to repeat if/when an employer cans you, since only the unemployed are eligible. So many homeless people opt not to jeopardize the only check they can count on, and don't bother looking for jobs.

However, this episode does include another local named Sippy (on the bicycle), sporadically homeless until recently. He now has a daughter with his wife, who recently got a job at a spa. Good for you guys.

review: WALL STREET: MONEY NEVER SLEEPS

2010-10-07T11:31:00.000-07:00

MICHAEL DOUGLAS IS A FAMILIAR FACE FROM MY CHILDHOOD. I don't mean Michael Douglas and I were childhood friends; I would have to have been in elementary in 1953 to manage that. More like, Michael Douglas was a star back when I was a kid in the hell-yeah'ing, God-loving Eighties. He was my kind of star. Knew his way around a suit and a mini-bar. Seemed like he had a firm handshake. Stately grizzle; like, sure he had a hangover most mornings, but he wasn't gonna be a dick about it. Remember Romancing The Stone and Jewel Of The Nile? The Indiana Jones rip-offs with Danny DeVito and Kathleen Turner before she got fat? Indy was far and away the fattest gangsta on my screen back in the day, but Dougy did his thing in those flicks. Indy would have won drinking games, but Mike would have slayed him on the slopes, if you know what I mean.

His dad is double-triple O.G. Kirk Douglas, who ruled in Paths Of Glory, one of Stanley Kubrick's first and finest movies. His wife is Catherine Zeta Jones, who managed to become one of the hottest women ever despite the considerable handicap of being Welsh. And he was the lead in one of the best movies about Los Angeles ever, Falling Down.

Also, not for nothing, I just realized I'm currently rocking Michael's default haircut. Actually, I'm pretty sure I've been biting his whole style for about three years now. Everything except the throat cancer.

So when nobody showed the slightest interest in checking out Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, I gladly took myself out for dinner and a movie. I'm tired of most of you anyway. But this is not a good movie, guys. Uninspired. Confusing. The dialog reminds me of my nephew staging a conversation between two action figures. The lead is Shia LeBeouf, whose dramatic range, as this clip demonstrates, consists of him saying "no no no" a lot. Douglas is obviously the high point, but even he phones it in. If reading from a teleprompter while raising your eyebrows a lot is acting, then I'm the next Michael Douglas. Money Never Sleeps misses so many golden opportunities, the biggest being the chance to have become the defining movie of a critical point in American economic history, as the original was for the Eighties. And all because, well, it sucks. I mean, it's just not good.

Can't wait for Wall Street III.

IT'S FALL

2010-10-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

New Orleans, August 29 2005: the view from my boy DJ Real's hotel room

YOU KNOW THE END IS NEAR WHEN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA DECIDES TO HAVE SEASONS. We went from the hottest day in recorded history to the rainiest day in recorded history in six days or less. It's the Mercedes Benz of climates.

Janet didn't find a roommate. She's moving out of the mayoral compound this weekend into an apartment down the street, which I'm told has a great washer/dryer. As the Palms Weekend goes to press, Pudge is clearing his stuff from my closets for his flight today back to New York, where his girlfriend awaits in an apartment they will share. I took the opportunity to de-clutter my place, but stopped after I realized my pad could pass for a strategically arranged indoor junkyard, and I'd be sitting on the floor of an empty apartment if I kept going. Me and these dreams; that's all it'd be.

Marcus' younger cousin is moving in across the way. Got into a cross-balcony shouting match with his buddy the other night after he parked his car precisely in the middle of the driveway. Didn't get a good look at him, but caught a Luniz vibe: short, and not happy about it. I love hood folk who wait until they hit the Westside to start threatening people's lives. They're always so surprised when the cops show up. Fuck the code of the streets. I'm a rapper, and I will summon police officers on you.

Never liked fall. Not sure why, it just puts a lump in my throat.

Pause.

RETURN OF THE RUMSFELD

2010-10-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

LIFE IS A TRADE. RICH COUNTRIES TRADED PHYSICAL LABOR for desk jobs, and manly afflictions like gout and steel beams through the chest for dainty conditions like tender fingertips and screaming jolts of pain that shoot through your neck when you check your email. Yes, you are one of a select group of history's biggest pussies if sitting down and typing hurts, but this isn't the Bible. Guilt isn't going to fix this.

Allow me to suggest the standing desk. Donald Rumsfeld reportedly used one during his time as Dubya's defense secretary, presumably to relieve any back and shoulder stress incurred from sending thousands of kids to get their heads blown off. Neck pain prompted me to follow suit earlier this year until a month's worth of twelve-hour deskwork stints as a result of all-out war with my web hosting company GoDaddy forced me to bring the desk back down to earth temporarily. You can blow rent on a shmancy adjustable desk, or you can heighten your current desk by perching it atop some of the unused crap cluttering your home, which in my case is a few boxes full of CD copies of my two albums that haven't quite flown off the racks yet. My music may not support me yet, at least it supports my desk.

I traded neck problems for insomnia a few years ago. Turns out sleeping on your stomach with your head at a ninety-degree turn for several hours nightly wasn't much good for my neck, but it's the only way I get any sleep. Now I've traded carpal tunnel syndrome for achy feet. Fair trade? Who knows. But I'll bet most of us would make just as much money with construction jobs, and we wouldn't need the back therapy or gym membership.

our documentary on Palms homeless writer JAY BRADY. Part III: SURVIVING VEGAS.

2010-10-04T12:22:00.001-07:00

Episode 3 of The Palms Weekend's first documentary The Great Delusion, a series of interviews I took with homeless WLA writer Jay Brady. In this episode Jay talks about his short-lived marriage. Here's episode one and two if you're late. Jay has written a book called Homeless Sweet Homeless, which we're trying to get published. Please contact me at james [at] theunfamiliar dot com if you'd like a copy of the Homeless Sweet Homeless manuscript.

R.I.P. '88 CENT & MORE' STORE, VENICE & WESTWOOD

2010-10-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

Director, Sum wife and Westwood Block resident Nzinga Kadalie wrote what lazy writers call a ‘scathing diatribe’ of our neighborhood 88 Cents & More store where nothing is 88 cents. Palms Weekend (food) critic Janet Dandridge also chimed in with her 88c experience with the story, slated for print today. However, at some point this year while we were cracking blunts and overcooking pasta, the ‘88’ was apparently renamed the ’99 Cents And Up’, as a cursory glance at the store wall revealed this morning. Here’s the story, with Janet’s pre-99c rant preserved because it’s funny.

NZINGA SAYS: Whether you like it or not, it used to be if you live on the Westwood block, the 88 Cents & More store is not only a necessity but an experience. Even down to the name -- everything in the store is definitely worth almost exactly 88 cents, but best believe you pay MORE, as the store’s title once implied. I used to think of it surcharge for the experience. But now, they've actually decided to be realistic...and change the friggin' sign to actually reflect what we've known for years, but what they apparently just found out that the shit is 99 cents and UP.

SO..in light of them getting with the program and being frank with their clientele... This is in memoriam of the store we, the Westwood Block dwellers, once knew as The 88. Let’s journey back in time to a couple of weeks ago when the 99 & Up Store was the still The 88....

We casually stroll past the candy machines that dispense aluminum Barbie handcuffs in plastic bubbles and spools of vinyl table wrap with floral indentations that I’d imagine house ancient braille prophecies, into the back of the store. To your right: dusty plastic brooms. To your left: crusty plastic sunflowers with imitation water droplets. Ah, you’ve just officially entered The 88.

Depending on if we’re there on a Wednesday or a Sunday, you’re either gonna be greeted by the trashy yet pleasant Pakistani man who projects slight spittle while simultaneously catcalling to chicks and screaming in Urdu to his homie, who lives on the other end of a phone (understand this dude is going to have get his cordless phone surgically removed from his ear). He is truly gifted. Or, you get the LADY, who looks like the missing Indian South Park character. She really is the missing link to the show. Someone should tell her, so she doesn’t have to follow us around the store with her eyes. Please note, although they sell hundreds of different kinds of calling cards, neither of these people can tell you which one you can buy to call Trinidad.

We greet them with a smile or evil stare - whichever is appropriate - and keep moving, toward the reason I wanted to share this experience in the first place...

We bear left, and there, directly in front of you, is one of the best-kept secrets of Palms: the best fragrancing options this side of Overland. Incense. Champa of all varieties. YOGA champa. NIRVANA champa. MONEY champa. And my favorite of all...DRAGON'S BLOOD champa. Super cheap. This, for people who appreciate smells, is a dream come true. Right here on the block. For those who don't really do incense, this part of the experience doesn't really pertain to you. Vons has tropical varieties of Febreze on sale right now. That's the best I can do for you. But for those of you who do... Usually, whatever Champa you're in the mood for, the 88 Cents & More Store had it, surprisingly. I wouldn’t have recommended the 88 experience for many things, i.e. sponges or baby wipes or perfume, but admittedly The 88 Cents & More Store had been fragrancing my apartment since 2007. But now I guess the 99 Cents & Up store will have to do.

JANET SAYS: For real, the store is great, yet full of shit. I'm saying, seriously, enough people lie to me already about what they can and can not do, what is true and what is not true, and then these folks at that store just rub it in my face! So many businesses advertise falsely to get people in their store and get away with it! If you say that everything in your store is 88 freakin' cents, then why is the cheapest item 99 cents? Come on, for real??!! They know that they can get away with it because it's within walking distance to folks who really need to get stuff out of the cheap store.

Look, if I need a toothbrush, I go there. If I need panty liners, I go there. If I need fabric softener sheets, I go there. If I need some caffeine, I go there. If I need shoelaces, I go there. If I need a board to write ‘Car Wash’ on, I go there. They literally have everything you need, even though the items are off-brand and usually don't have as much longevity as stuff in other stores. It's very convenient for many things - but still, "you ain't got to lie Craig!" (I have no idea where that quote is from, but it seems appropriate) And then what makes it a lil' more bothersome is that the dude who's at the counter always says, "Hey baby," and in my head, I'm always like, "OMG, if this dude says that ish to me one more time, I am going to hurt him." But really after saying that in my head a few times, I actually translated it to him like this, "What up fool (ha ha ha - like it was a joke, but I was serious)," with a big smile on my face. Now he only uses that "hey baby" line every one in a while - I guess when he's feeling the spirit.

Moving on to that lady in the store - me and her weren't getting along too well because she just disregards you the entire time you're in the store. One day, I said hello really loud with a huge smile on my face. I think the impact of the hello and the big smile made her think I might be crazy because from that day to present, she is oh so pleasant to me. She even puts my change in my hand! All in all, the 99 cents store - oh, my bad - the 88 cents store is a necessity for the block, and I appreciate them. I just wish they wouldn't lie to me yo, fo' real.

CALIFORNIA BLOWS, BRO

2010-09-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-27T09:46:00.001-07:00

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!

2010-09-24T11:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-23T12:29:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-22T11:01:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-21T12:28:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-09-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-17T09:48:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-09-16T12:08:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-09-15T11:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-14T10:59:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-09T14:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-02T09:20:00.000-07:00

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.

I GOT SCAMMED || SAINTS & SINNERS TONIGHT!

2010-08-20T14:05:00.001-07:00

HAVEN'T BEEN SCAMMED IN A FEW YEARS. A crackhead posing as a high school gym teacher in a Brooklyn liquor store greased five bucks off me for some dead kid's funeral, stole a rose on his way out and jumped in a cab like he was late for a flight to Mauritius.

In my defense, I was two hours into four mushroom caps, and he was holding a clipboard.

So I guess I was due for the bamboozling I received at the hands of a blowhard ex-Navy SEAL with an arm cast that I met at the bar on the Amtrak train I caught Wednesday to "A Whale's Vagina" a.k.a. Sandy Aygo. For the full account, check the movie above, recorded from the San Diego-Coronado Island Ferry which we were already sitting on when we realized we'd been made. Sound quality improves about thirty seconds in, so turn your volume up and stop crying.

In my defense, he said there'd be free beer.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd, corner of Kelton. No cover. Good music. You know, the music you're humming while you're listening to crappy music. Tomorrow night I'm at The Central S.A.P.C. a.k.a. 14 Below for the new millennium. Santa Monica Blvd. at the corner of 14th. Read all about it here. Also no cover. Also good music. Coincidence?

I'M DJING THIS SATURDAY AT THE CENTRAL (a.k.a. 14 Below), SANTA MONICA

2010-08-17T14:48:00.001-07:00

The Central Social And Pleasure Club, 1348 14th St. (website)

DURING ITS FINAL DECADE, 14 BELOW may have been best known as the bar people enter thinking it's The Room, one door over. Every few minutes after nightfall, a gaggle of gift-wrapped Montana transplants lucky to find their way off the UCLA campus would stumble through the front door and almost faint - first at the sight of a dive bar that an interior decorator had nothing to do with, second at the smell - before the bartender would direct them toward the velvet ropes across the parking lot. Two plusses to the joint were the location and the stage and sound system, and now that it's under new management as The Central Social And Pleasure Club, I may be sleeping in my Aurora off 14th and Santa Monica somewhat regularly from here on. Great car, but the seatbelt latch digs in your ribs all night.

The Central S.A.P.C. is under the auspices of Colleen Ford, Saints & Sinners' newish bartender with the big... smile and the limp pouring wrist, and she's shooting for a New Orleans vibe, which is where my "deejay" "career" began, in case you ever wondered where I got all this funk from. So of course she called me up to christen the place officially this Saturday. $5 is the magic number for carbombs and well drinks all night, and Robert Wilson of The Gap Band died today, so don't request "Bizarre Love Triangle" unless you want your foot stepped on. I met The Happiest Person In The World the last time I dj'ed there, and I don't think venue endorsements get better than that. Palms residents: the Oldsmobile departs at 8pm; book your spot early.

"HOT WOMEN/BAD RAPPERS" f. CHRIS CLARKE | SUM

2010-08-14T09:48:00.001-07:00

Hot women, I'm a friend to them
when they come by they got my attention and
can't front like I'm not into them
I'm trying to work, please stop mentioning em
I ain't with the hollering and whistling
I just talk sense with em, do a little listening
then it's a short walk to the crib and figure how to drop some of this Dr Spock into them
I can't win with them, there's no end to them
there's no break man, there's no interim
then again, this is LA, we invented em
and that’s the shit right there, who the fuck is Edison
back in the day I was one of the minutemen
ate em like M&Ms, stroked their hair and singed to them
now I got stamina, I might injure them
isn’t my intention but I flip over them hot women.

Women are my gasoline, the only reason I keep my fucking house clean
the only reason I’m wearing these corny ass jeans
the only reason I do damn near anything
I think about me and three chicks
I feel like Martin Luther King on some 'I have a dream' shit
I ain’t tryna make it a habit
but if I can’t try the shit once pass me a casket
that’s one of them rapper perks
I ain't in this to battle you outta work rapper jerks
do it for the love, right
yeah I do it for the love alright.
I do it for the love of bossy chicks with glossy lips
toe rings and nose rings and those are the only rings
sorry I was late but I saw this girl, oooohwee
my pants got dewy so I busted a U-ie.

Thinking we in back of you?
actually, we just about to lap you
feel that tap on your shoulder, that’s a rap soldier
we put the little hat on ya like it’s Passover, class over
in Cali that’s called smashola
I stay there while yall stay on that cola
that’s how you cats roll, skinny jeans itchy assholes you got next? where you at though?
fuck's new about you?
you chronic 2001 without the guns
you wannabe Mannie Fresh but your panties too wet, about to cum
pushy like you never had pussy, calm down some
and you underground cats, check your ultrasound
you’re stillborn, still running round yellin "Buck Em Down"
get this through your fucking crown, we ain’t you
that goes for you clown writers too
this ain’t Facebook so don’t tag me, it’s tacky
I rhyme over "Apache" live in downtown Karachi
box me in if you got a coffin to drop me in
otherwise fuck you guys, right on the chin.

JANET DANDRIDGE and THE QUEST for the HOLY TURKEYBURGER.

2010-08-10T12:13:00.000-07:00

IF I HAD A PENNY FOR EVERY TIME JANET DANDRIDGE HAS SAID THE WORD "TURKEYBURGER", I WOULD OWN EVERY TURKEY IN THE WORLD. IF I HAD A NICKEL FOR EVERY TIME JANET HAS SAID THE WORD "TURKEYBURGER", I WOULD OWN THE COPYRIGHTS TO THE WORD "TURKEYBURGER". IF I HAD A QUARTER FOR EVERY TIME JANET HAS SAID THE WORD "TURKEYBURGER", I WOULD OWN THE RIGHTS TO THE DNA GENOME SEQUENCE OF THE COMMON TURKEY. AND IF YOU HAD A DOLLAR FOR EVERY TIME I JUST WROTE THE WORD "TURKEYBURGER", YOU WOULD HAVE ENOUGH MONEY FOR HALF A TURKEYBURGER AT GOLDEN STATE. CHECK JANET'S PHOTO WORK OUT AT janetedandridge.com.

Not quite turkey burger heaven, but dang-gone close

Mmmm mmmm delicious. Good ol' hand-made turkey burgers and jalapeno cole slaw -- awwww yeah!! First I must ask, do you know how good a turkey burger is? I do.

Turkey

burgers for me are like a party in my mouth after a long week of work for the man – they make me feel soooo good. Turkey burgers are like receiving your Ph.D., you just wanna party when it's all over. Turkey burgers are God's gift to those folks who can not eat the other meat. I think that if everyone had a turkey burger at least once a month, the world would be a better place -- okay, okay, a little extreme, but I'm sayin' tho. It's great that burgers are a staple in Los Angeles, it's one of the reasons why I enjoy residing in this crazy place – the number of choices I have to find and savor the flavor of the best turkey burger.

So, my quest to find the best turkey burger ever led me to West Los Angeles, near Fairfax High School. I had the pleasure of eating my lunch the other day at a cute, eclectic, and hip little space on Fairfax Blvd below Melrose called Golden State. My friend Harold introduced me to this spot, and to Harold, I say thank you! When we were walking down the street to find Golden State, we almost passed it because there isn't a good visible sign on the front door/window, it looks more like a storefront if anything, but do not let the outside fool you! As soon as you actually locate the spot and step thru the front door, the aroma of good food smacks you in the face, in addition to the modern art along the walls, and open kitchen -- I always like it when I can see people cooking my food, it just makes the entire experience better. So, I go up to the front and check out the menu. Immediately, I see that I can order a turkey burger, and then as I read down the page, I see something new that I haven't ever seen before, jalapeno slaw. At first I thought it wasn't a good look, burning my tongue would not leave me capable of tasting the wonderful flavors of American cuisine. So, I asked the dude at the counter (whom I found out later was the owner) what he preferred, and he said exactly what I was thinking - the jalapeno slaw. So, I ordered my turkey burger, jalapeno slaw, and water. Harold and I took our number and sat at the table patiently waiting for the experience to begin. When we got the food, I just looked it over and knew that it was going to be good. My fork dipped into the slaw and I slipped a little bit of it into my mouth just to see what kind of flavor I was getting. . Awesome! I dislike mayonnaise with a passion, and at Golden State, I didn’t taste any mayonnaise in the slaw, they use some type of vinegar, lemon, and season blend that proved to be great! Then there was the turkey burger -- even though it tasted like a regular well-seasoned burger with fixins, it went perfectly with the jalapeno slaw. The turkey burger was hand-crafted for goodness sake...OMG! I ate my meal in like 15 minutes! If it wouldn't have been insane for me to order another burger (or if I wasn't dining with someone else), I would have. Unfortunately, the experience had to come to an end when I saw that my actual plate was clean, but I knew that I would be coming back there sooner than later to get something else. On a scale from 1 - 10, 10 being best, I give this place an 8. So try some Golden State, you might just like it.

JANET'S TASTY TIP: Go to Golden State for lunch: 429 N. Fairfax, Los Angeles. The burgers are $10 and good! But if you feel like $10 is too much for a burger, just go to the grocery store, buy some meat and seasonings, and make it an awesome mid-week lunch. You'll save money and enjoy your homemade cuisine. But still, go to Golden State to treat yourself at some point.

Golden State: thegoldenstatecafe.com
Whole Foods: wholefoodsmarket.com
Trader Joe's: traderjoes.com

ONLY STAY WITH ME AWHILE.

2010-08-07T13:39:00.000-07:00

Westwood Blvd between Charnock and Venice

LOCAL DRUNK FALLS, DIES || SAINTS & SINNERS TONIGHT!

2010-08-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

NO, I DIDN'T DIE.

from the LA Times Homicide Blog via Cindy "Kneecaps" Morales:

Martin Garcia, 43
Died July 30, 2010

10817 Venice Blvd. Martin Garcia, a 43-year-old Latino, died Friday, July 30, two days after he sustained blunt force trauma in the 10000 block of Venice Boulevard in Palms, according to Los Angeles County coroner's records. [For the record: The coroner's office said they initially believed Garcia's death was a homicide; however, during the investigation it was revealed to have been accidental.] On July 28, the Fire Department found Garcia on the sidewalk with trauma to his head, said LAPD Pacific Det. Mark Morgan, who handled the investigation. Garcia was taken to a hospital where it was discovered he had a fracture to the skull. He died two days later, Morgan said. Investigators went to the scene where Garcia was found to get more information about his injuries. While interviewing witnesses, it was revealed Garcia was intoxicated when he fell to the ground and hit his head.

That was on The Block (map/story) across from Bamboo, nowhere near the corner in the picture above, a photo I took of a homeless man sleeping downtown, used here for the man-on-concrete visual. This reminds me of the guy who decided to fall asleep on Glendon Ave. a couple years back. I can relate; I love lying in the street. I took a stretch in the middle of Hauser Blvd. off Jefferson the other night during Franky's birthday bonfire at Juan's place, which, fortunately for me, has scant traffic around midnight. You just have to be careful about how fast you lie down. Rest in peace, Mr Garcia.

I'm just glad it wasn't a homicide after all. Been hearing gunshots around here lately.

On that note, a hearty rest in peace to Bootsy's brother Catfish Collins, rhythm guitarist for numerous classics by James Brown and Parliament/Funkadelic a.k.a. the soundtrack to my life. He passed today from ill health. Here's a clip of him performing under James Brown for the very first time, x hours before he got the call from the King himself, and looking about as happy as I've ever seen a human being.

Saints & Sinners tonight, and you can probably guess what direction the playlist is going. Yep: the same direction it goes every fucking Friday, with or without the death of a funk legend. I'm on at ten. Come on down. I'm in a mood.

PS: Was set to write a scathing attack on the butch Starbucks cashier who never exchanges niceties with me, but today she wants to get all talkative. "Must be hot out there; you never get iced coffee." Cute. You could have started rocking the "speak loudly, I'm hearing impaired" apron a little earlier. Just saying.

SLOE POKE/SPYE tonite at BAMBOO.. and some other stuff.

2010-08-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

HERE'S A SITE REDESIGN FOR THOSE OF YOU CONSTANTLY BLEATING "your site's so hard too read". I fear, however, that anyone who finds white text on black backgrounds hard to read is in for a rocky life, so I hope, for your sakes, that you were just being persnickety. Actually, the real reason I redesigned is because I got tired of every blog but mine having those damn Facebook 'like' buttons, and some code in my old template was stymieing installation. So there is now a 'like' button under each post, and it only took August 4, 2010, a long chat conversation with a desparate Indian web developer and a temporary case of carpal tunnel syndrome. So click those buttons until your wrist feels like mine, and your little brother might accidentally stumble on here for a few seconds around Christmas. I'm an Internet attention whore and I'm standing up.

You'll also notice the background is now a list of Westside street names, instead of the list of musicians it used to be. Well, that's assuming you noticed that the background was a list of musicians back when it was a list of musicians, which is probably not something I should bet on. In any case, I intentionally misspelled one street name, and there's a prize for the first person who's not Janet Dandridge who brought it to my attention who can find it. I don't know what that prize is yet. But it shouldn't be too contagious. Morton's Neuroma isn't airborne, according to my uncle. I chipped a tooth the other day, but that was from trying to pry the head off that ginseng vial. My wisdom teeth keep clamping on my cheek flesh this week though. Happens one week a year. I can't call it. But some kind of insect has bitten me head to toe, and Franamami hasn't been bitten once. So your prize will probably be a swig from my new metal flask that's been saving me $200 a week, and there's no reason to worry.

Speaking of insects, dead roaches and crickets are turning up in my apartment. I see them and assume Panther Stance, reaching airily for a flat object, but they're already dead, like lying-on-their-back-legs-upturned-like-in-cartoons dead. What does this mean?

Speaking of Franamami, she tried repeatedly and failed to get me to say the word "nig" this morning. She had spewed a nasty racialist epithet at me moments earlier and invited my revenge. But the n-bomb is like cocaine: you never ever go anywhere near it under any circumstances whatsoever, no matter what anyone tries to tell you. 'Niggardly' ("grudgingly mean about spending or granting") is fair game, but try using it loudly in a sentence at Starbucks and see how fast the world mutes.

Oh, about tonight. Sloe Poke of Root Down/Resident Friday/Sonido fame is spinning alongside Club Feng Shui's DJ Spye, and if Bamboo's owner keeps his word, it'll be the last night he allows dancing, as Bamboo has no dancing license and he's getting cold feet (ha) about it. Starting next week we're going loungey: cheap drinks, top-notch food served late, chill vibe. So tonight marks the end of an era: a rather short, dimly lit era, but an era nonetheless. So come break a leg with us one last time so Sloe Poke won't have to come over and break them for you.

Apologies for slipping on the daily updates. Roughly a third of my life's work got erased when I moved servers last week, so I'm in the trenches. I even quit my voiceover class. I'm in no mood to pay $500 to drive to Burbank so an insurance salesman can show me their Mickey Mouse impersonation.

I wonder if this new bright blog design will make my writing happier.

download: "SLUMDOGS" f. P.U.D.G.E. | ALI BABA ABNORMAL | prod by JON WAYNE

2010-08-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

<a href="http://malkovichmusic.bandcamp.com/track/slumdogs-f-p-u-d-g-e-ali-baba-abnormal">Slumdogs f. P.U.D.G.E., Ali Baba Abnormal by Malkovich Music</a>

the eighth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY
recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

Also featured on P.U.D.G.E.’s I Didn’t Even Know You Rap mixtape, dropping 8/10/2010 at pudge222.bandcamp.com

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK’S SONG.

Malkovich, I’m bout this shit

out to get them won’t fit in your motherfucking trouser chips

throw my mixtape in your whip and blow your speakers just to see how loud it get

you talking turn it down, a bit stop talking like a bitch ten buck, buy my shit, gimme cash, gimme credit card

fuck it, wire it, fuck the environment

you talking bout trees, I’m talking bout me

so kick a panda in the knee and buy my fucking CD.

I get boisterous off poisonous beverages, ah yes

I’m banging the Pointer Sisters, I ain’t talking about their records

your only choice is us, me and my boys are plush

I bring the news like Reuters and my voice is a plus

De Niro in your earhole ’cause the world needs a hero

I’m virile, better she share a ten than deal with them zeroes

you make music for Euros, music for eight-year-olds

fucking with the bureau, they gon put you on a mural

west coast, west los, put this in your next post

internet rap mufukas is in their death throes

my tactic, flood the market with gutter hard shit

cold as the Arctic, long as my fucking heart tick.

THEY'RE HERE

2010-07-30T14:11:00.001-07:00

Have you ever seen a sexier doorhanger? Sure you haven't. This is a revolution, folks. If your rusty doorknob receives the honor of having one of these beauties hanging from it, you should immediately frame and place it beside the family portraits. These belong in the Hall of Fame for marketing, and hanging off Oscar De La Renta's front door for sheer style. And as a pre-emptive 'pause', I only know who he is because I was in the waiting room yesterday at my uncle's orthopedic practice and picked up a copy of Latina Magazine with this model named Arlenis Sosa on the front. Holy cow. Then Unc injected hydrocortizone an inch into my left foot. Something called Morton's Neuroma. Franamami says it sounds like a Martin Scorsese movie. Being Persian comes in handy in general, but especially when you have no health insurance. It would be nice if he wasn't just a bone doctor though. He wasn't much help with my flu.

Anyway, I just got back from picking up a thousand of these puppies from NextDayFlyers.com, located in Rancho Dominguez, a.k.a. the section of Compton the corporations bought and renamed so Becky and Brad wouldn't know they were on their way to The Hood until they were driving by rusting car wrecks and swerving to avoid pugnacious inner-city roosters. I tried my hardest not to, but am ashamed to report that I rapped Ice Cube's "Straight Outta Compton" verse from the freeway offramp to NextDayFlyers. I did, of course, vocally bleep out the n-bombs. I promise.

The doorhangers come courtesy of Bamboo Restaurant, the site of our new Thursday night gig which last night was composed of maybe four guys and a bunch of girls dancing with each other, as usual. Again, it would behoove (ding!) you fellas to stop sucking each other off just long enough to come through on a Thursday and get a piece of this. Assuming you like women. Which is apparently not such a safe assumption these days. I figure 1,000 will be enough to plaster the neighborhood and then some, so any of you who's been waiting for the right time to jump on the Palms Weekend bandwagon and write for the site - you know, after I've built a brand and done all the legwork with this nerve-damaged foot of mine - now is your time.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd. I'm on at ten, and my left foot is just starting to realize that a piece of metal went into it yesterday, so I may need a few drinks.

Does JetBlue fly out of Compton Airport?

This Just In: Sum Doesn't Miss Douchebags At Saints

2010-07-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

The spirit of Marc Mark Marque

Sum here.

I really don’t know who that guy is, but when you do an image search for “Real Live Douchebag”, his picture comes up. That fool looks like an ashy ketchup packet.

I’m googling real live douchebags because it’s fun to do at work. But also, because I was looking for an image that would capture the spirit of a dickhead named Mark (or Marque, or Marc) that haunts Saints and Sinners on the occasional Friday night. This is a man in his late 40s who works in the music industry in various capacities and claims to know everyone who has ever made music. When I was DJing there regularly, he’d do all kinds of strange shit like tell me he could put me in the studio with some German producer with millions of dollars. He’d request really fucked up songs, then tip me with a rolled up $10 bill coated in fresh cocaine crumblings. He’d stand behind me in the DJ booth and mimic my movements. If I breathed in deep, he’d breath in really deep and loud. If I scratched my beard, he’d stroke his chin. He was always drunk as hell, and his breath smelled like a flaming roach nest.

Namedropping is his main thing.

Couple weekends ago, I covered for Malkajames, who continues to take lightly my ‘how to avoid a hangover’ advice. Of course Mark Marque Marc is there, standing next to the booth ready to rub my shoulder, nod off-beat to 'some of the hip-hop' and other douchebaggery. About an hour into my set, he requests that I play a CD of his artist. His pitch is that I’ll be the first DJ in LA to play her shit. My pitch is that I’m not a DJ, so I could care less. He moves on to then tell me for the next five songs that he “worked on this song”. Pet Shop Boys, David Bowie, and a bunch of other classic 80s shit. “Oh yeh, I worked on West End Girls.” After a light investigation, turns out buddy was like an 80s key grip and Bowie’s woodshop intern.

Saints, I love you. But I’m glad I aint DJing there every week no more. My tolerance for Mark Marque Marc types is almost non-existent.

See you Friday…on the other side of the laptop.

"FLOSSY" f. IAMOMNI | SUM | P.U.D.G.E. | FELIX (produced by GRAZZHOPPA)

2010-07-27T12:24:00.000-07:00

<a href="http://malkovichmusic.bandcamp.com/track/flossy-f-iamomni-sum-p-u-d-g-e-felix">Flossy f. IamOmni | Sum | P.U.D.G.E. | Felix by Malkovich Music</a>

the seventh song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY
recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:

The new @MalkovichMusic joint "FLOSSY" f. @iamomni @dj_pudgemcee @iamsumkid Felix and @DJGrazzhoppa at http://ht.ly/2hoqE. RT RT RT

The power's out, and I smell sauerkraut
why you so confused, bro? carry on usual
do something, you know, make yourself useful
cats blowing up my phone, stay off the Dudesicle.
the chick I brought home last night saw it in the light and said it looked like a huge missile.
this is the part where I should shout my girl out
it's just rapper talk baby, don't take it too literal
the lawyer of rap, and my hours all billable
the Beatles of rap, taking over like Liverpool
you left yourself open to ridicule
now we smacking yall with the towel like this was school
this is cool, somebody find a hipster
Grazzhoppa threw us the beat, quite a pitcher
big Malkovich, I paint quite a picture
like a penthouse suite with an island vista.

BREAKFAST ON THE PALMS RIVIERA

2010-07-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

IT'S BEEN A WEEK OF EPIPHANIES FOR ME. The kind that have been obvious forever but you refuse to act on them until your own stupidity has you pinned to the floor, knee on throat. You know. My most recent: capitalism is the new slavery and I'm unshackling myself, starting with cutting down the money I spend on restaurants and bars. If I save more, I can work less and rap more and get rich faster then I'm buying you all tiger steaks. I say we do 80% of all this eating out at restaurants because we have nothing better to do with our time, our money, or each other. Eff that. I got dreams that extend beyond a $30 plate of pasta. I'll be in the lot with the metal flask. See you inside in a few.

To that end, we took our asses to Habib's Market instead of the breakfast joint yesterday. We laughed with our butcher. We squeezed avocadoes. We exchanged pleasantries with Ali the cashier. I won't bore you with the details of what we made, but there was feta cheese and mixed olives and pickled garlic and we ate on the balcony to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack then had siesta and it all felt very Euro. And that's what the Palms Weekend is: life as vacation. Foreigners everywhere, rattan balconies, ramshackle housing, sparse use of deodorant. Pinch me.

MALKY 1, HANGOVER 76,853,765

2010-07-23T13:24:00.001-07:00

THIS IS THE LABEL TO A 1-LITER BOTTLE of Monopolowa potato vodka. It's definitely not the "two to three airplane bottles of mid-shelf vodka" I [almost laughed as I] promised to confine myself to last night at Bamboo. But it is $10.96 after tax after Trader Joes. As of Friday 1:52pm, there's half left (not counting the Revenge Shot I just had after Janet showed me a Prohibition-era photo of cops busting a winery), and I have no hangover. So take a cue from a wise Asian of yore (or lore, whatever you like) who once said: stiff trees break against the wind. Supple trees bend with it. Principles are all well and good, but flexibility is survival. and nothing gets you flexible like a coffee mug of peppermint schnapps before lunch.

The men-to-women ratio last night was insane, by the way. Pudge, Excite, Gogo, Tha Conclusion, Mantron and I were basically the only men in the joint. And Bamboo was not empty by any stretch. So I don't know what you dirks were doing with your Thursday night, but if you like alcohol, music and attractive members of the opposite sex, you may wanna keep Thursday nights at Bamboo Restaurant on your radar. Just a thought.

Saints & Sinners tonight, and I got a real chip on my shoulder. Lotta new songs, a reinvigorated liver, and I did a bunch of push-ups yesterday so I'm gonna look mildly buff until at least Saturday afternoon. I'm on at 10.

PUDGE TO SPIN AT BAMBOO TONIGHT, MALKY'S LIVER CRINGES IN FEAR

2010-07-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

THE HANGOVER I INCURRED FROM LAST THURSDAY'S BAMBOO SHINDIG seemed unremarkable when a car alarm woke me the following morning, like it always does. Alarm clocks don't sell well in Palms. My head was thumping, but my stomach felt fine, and my hangover headaches tend to be short. So a curious rotation of moans of pain and curses of disbelief could be heard from my bedroom as sunset came and went and my hangover did nothing of the sort, hence my absence from the Saints & Sinners DJ booth that night. At one point I thought I would be smart and take the opportunity to pen a masterful description of hangover agony, one that would be quoted one day alongside Emerson and Dickens. Here's what I came up with before I started crying.

my head feels like a head-sized thimble
my head feels like someone injected gasoline in it
my head feels like i've been reading for a year straight

Tonight I return to the scene of my dishonor for this week's Bamboo installment featuring deejays Spye, Excite, and the birthday boy Pudge, who will no longer be spinning at Bamboo next week since he just booked a flight to NYC. I'll save you the empty pledges we all often spew after a Big One (see A New Understanding) and skip to the Solutions section of this rant. Tonight I shall be equipped with two to three airplane bottles of mid-shelf vodka, and you are to strike me without warning if you see me drinking any liquid you can't see through. We're on at ten.

MY NEW NEIGHBORS ARE DEFINITELY SPORTS FANS.

2010-07-21T15:18:00.001-07:00

TO CLARIFY, MY NEW NEIGHBORS ARE THE COOLEST OCCUPANTS of the adjacent three-bedroom unit since our ex-Crip ex-landlord Fuji, and a quintillion miles cooler than the flinty lesbians that just moved outta there. Beer and pizza has been consumed in the name of neighborly love, and they threw a housewarming party that sounded like a rager from my bathroom floor, where I spent Friday night thanks to Bamboo's sugary drinks, in case any of you were(n't) wondering how I managed to transform into a black man named Sum for last week's Saints & Sinners set. You're not a Westwood Block resident until you've been shatten on at The Palms Weekend, so if you guys are reading this, take this as a sign that you're part of the gang now. And you'd better be reading this, because I only mentioned my blog like three times to you guys in three conversations. Then again, the more times people ask me to check their work out, the more determined I become to never even acknowledge its existence. So hopefully you're nothing like me.

You guys aren't half as bad as the Mexican kid who plays on his father's car horn all day. Or the fat lady across the driveway who hacks like she inhaled a tennis shoe. Or LeafBlowerMan, who's so small and old that I sometimes entertain wrestling the leaf blower from him and blowing him away and keeping the leaves. I understand you guys are from Chicago, which is to sport what Afghanistan is to terrorism. Pudge got stabbed last year, and never once looked a sliver as angry as your brother did the other week after that Dutch soccer player flubbed that kick in the Finals. And the non-stop clapping and yelping can be almost invigorating at times; makes me want to rip my shirt off my chest with one hand and peel off an Alp-shaking yodel. That, or I'm trying to look on the bright side so I don't get jumped by a bunch of sports fans. So yeah, keep up the noise, and Go, Team. Throw the cylindrical object with vigor. Beat the opponent soundly.

PS: an extra special thank you to Peter for the acting tips. This time next year I'll be in the background of all kinds of doomed sitcoms. If I'm lucky.

"WTF" produced by DIBIA$E

2010-07-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

<a href="http://malkovichmusic.bandcamp.com/track/wtf">WTF by Malkovich Music</a>

the sixth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY

recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

Instrumental originally released on Dibia$e & P.U.D.G.E.'s All City Series 10" vinyl.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:

The new @MalkovichMusic joint "WTF" prod by @DaRealDibiase is up on his site for d/l. Get it at www.malkovichmusic.com

It’s the kickoff
now girl don't say no silly shit unless you like your dick soft
I hit the Shaw in a rickshaw
two chicks at the bit, strong jaws
I’m slovenly as a matter of policy
my style shows up in your piss test like poppyseed
the emperor, just back from Denver with Deborah
her daddy wrote my citizenship letter and he got cheddar
trendsetter, wailing on mics like Eddie Vedder
for yall cats who think yall can do any better
ten herbs outta ten hate what I make, I take that as a compliment
your voice got a lotta pomp in it but bottom line is, you incompetent
kick back, cop a drink, network, politic
play the rear, we gon take it from here
your boy got rhymes for years and they shine like De Beers
let's switch gears, kaleidoscope, tightrope, blindfold, mind control
my flow, hyper soul, fly in the biodome
Malkovich, Indiana Jones on microphones
swore on a bible that I wasn't George Michael
just a greasy middle easty mufuka with style
turn the dial for a while or a minute, spontanaeity my core tenet
just name it and I'm in it, like George Tenet and corn syrup
in your area like malaria or the Bay Area
I born lyrics and yall fortunate
so raw with it yall don't even wanna put a fork in it
fireside chats, driverside raps, makin it crack like cyanide caps, bite that
one of them "I'm dope like this and like that" raps.
DJ Empty and my girl Kat, work that
Fresh Jive, get live, Malky got a verse for that
shit is fly as a bluejay
so catch it Tuesday on Blu-Ray, it's Malkovich Movies.

CEE BROWN & GOGO tonight at BAMBOO.

2010-07-15T13:21:00.001-07:00

AS USUAL, I JINXED SUMMER IN LATE MAY (see Hey Summer), but it sure did step on us real hard yesterday. Standing here with my shirt off holding a pear, it seems like it might keep its foot on us for a while to make sure we're dead, like when you step on an extra tough cricket. I always say summer doesn't start until mid-July in conversations anyway, so I was wrong even according to myself. I was so loved as a child; what happened? Anyway, instead of blogging about the disgusting hacking sounds my fat new neighbor makes all day (more on that soon), I hit the pool, then had the pork plate at Versailles, which has lifted the preposterous $6 split plate charge it was running with last year until the owners came back from vacation in Havana to find their restaurant empty. Self-employment: your bank activity graph may look like a kid playing with a yo-yo, but that's the price of freedom.

Cee Brown and Gogo deejay tonight at Bamboo in West LA as we get into our second month running Thursdays there. Cee Brown (of the Bodega crew rocking this Sunday at the Far Bar in Little Tokyo) is such a great deejay that I gave him his own story (see CEE BROWN, The Most Slept-On DJ In LA). Gogo is one of the old school homeys, and a hardworking deejay who killed it at Bamboo a couple of weeks back. We got an outdoor patio that feels like a Colombian holiday without the $1000 plane ticket. We got a full bar and the best mojitos in the west. We have a full-service kitchen serving the best Latin-fusion food around. Party starts at 10, and it's free. Come bask.

how to make PALMBO.

2010-07-13T14:16:00.000-07:00

WE BACHELORS ALL HAVE OUR OWN NAMES FOR THE MEAL WE end up with when we throw all the old food in our fridge into a frying pan before it has the chance to maim loved ones. I call mine 'palmbo', a hybrid of 'Palms' and 'gumbo', which, like palmbo, is soupy and fishy. Plus, I had gumbo file in the spice cabinet. You don't need my ingredients; the glory of palmbo is all in the application. But here they are for posterity:

salt (2 mm of blood pressure's worth)

potatoes (I dunno, a couple)

tomato (1)

spinach (some)

tinned herrings (1)

garlic (tons)

olive oil

chicken broth

turmeric

chili flakes

gumbo file

limes (a few)

sun-dried tomatoes

bella mushrooms (according to Pudge, they're supposed to look old and nasty. Not sure if they're supposed to be partially uncovered for three days though)

alcohol (to keep the cook entertained, and in case the palmbo disappoints)

Bung the potatoes in a pot of water and throw it on high. Get on Facebook.
When you start to feel pathetic, log off and check the potatoes, which are nowhere near done. Crush the garlic. Now it's not a wasted trip.
Actually, go ahead and get all your ingredients out of the fridge and ready to cook now, because by the time those potatoes are ready you're going to be grandma-stabbingly hungry and every second will count.
Wash the mushrooms. Look at them, squinting suspiciously. Wash them again.
Throw the mushrooms in a pan with the crushed garlic and some olive oil on high. Meanwhile, cut the tomato in half and throw under the stove in the broiler pan with some olive oil on it, since your sister Franky used all your tin foil. Turn the heat high on the broiler and pan until you realize they're both gonna be ready way before those FACKING potatoes at this rate, then turn both off.
When you're confident the potatoes are soft enough for consumption, or when you don't care anymore, turn the pan back on and add the spinach. Meanwhile, open the tin of herrings. Don't bother trying to dodge the herring water that will get all over your clothes when you open the tin. Nobody ever has and you won't be the first. Add herrings and herring water to the pan.
Say fuck it (out loud, not just in your head) and throw everything else in the pan, then season to taste. Don't be shy with the chicken broth. Any problem, just throw salt, limes, and garlic at it.
Take a shower or have your current outfit dry cleaned, depending on angle and severity of herring water runoff.

"WIPEOUT" produced by ABCDEFG

2010-07-12T00:15:00.000-07:00

<a href="http://malkovichmusic.bandcamp.com/track/wipeout">Wipeout by Malkovich Music</a>

the fifth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY
recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:

The new @MalkovichMusic joint "Wipeout" is up on his site for d/l. Get it at www.malkovichmusic.com and thank me later

CATCH ME RAPPING ON THE WAKE UP SHOW (POWER 106) THIS SUNDAY AT 11PM PST WITH ABNORMAL AND HOMEBOY SANDMAN... BIG UPS KING TECH...

Malkovich in this bitch
on some James Brown shit, my shit gets The Big Playback
saw some freaks in the line, where they at
saw my peeps in the line, where they at
west LA’s on the map like a coffeestain
we got writers, what up Kofie
we got emcees, what up Omni
we got crew, BLX posse
then you got me, networking, the dress shirt king, I’m bossy
permanently cracking, how my spots be
my flyer is fire, hit ‘em with the glossy
New York, I’m running with Mazzi
scheming on that green like Ponzi
stealing on these paunchy-ass Chauncey mufukas, we see ya
we slicker, we leaner, you know the demeanor

And I’m one of a kind
producers, I’ll tell you when I’m done with my rhyme
youngsters, fashion is fine
but skills are still kind of a big deal, you’ll find
old cats, you’re only old in the mind
fresh off 30 and I’m in my prime
Ice-T didn’t drop OG till 29
now his watch so rocked up he can’t tell the time
read the signs or get reassigned
your flow is sleepytime and it’s only three to nine
yall cheese and wine cats, recline back
we in the house, squeeze a lime that, rewind that
malkovich music dot com, redesigned
so log ya ass on and prepare to be surprised
be advised, stepping to me and mines
you’ll be waiting so long you're gonna have to pee in line

310 prefix, we passing out leaflets
Cali gladiators, the word of the day is major
old school, rocked a pager till '02
straight drinker like who the fuck drinks O'Doul’s? Old dudes.
and what the fuck is soju? No clue, just pour me another one
act like you knew, I'm back like the flu
better get you some tissue
off trees and tabacky my frees is nasty
unforgettable like the theme from Taxi
incredible like the weed in Cali
so now chicks rush my shows like Santee Alley
three pair, ten dollar, Malky got that good shit
inshallah, hot shit, holla
Los Ankheles - from where your accent is
grown man griz – watch ya man get biz.

I LOVE FRIED CHICKEN & BLACK COFFEE.

2010-07-09T12:51:00.001-07:00

Coffee company name strategically greyed out. I don't wanna give anyone free advertising. Especially Coffee Bean.

WOKE UP BRAINDEAD THANKS TO LAST NIGHT'S MOJITO OVERLOAD at Bamboo and hadn't a clue what to write about, so I went out for fried chicken and black coffee instead. Now I know what to write about. My more sage-burninger Facebook friends might say that's an example of Letting Life Guide Me. I just hope Life isn't Guiding Me to a triple artery bypass. Then again, that would make for an interesting post. I wonder if the surgeons will let me use my Blackberry during the operation.

Fried chicken and black coffee first met in my mouth last year, when the smell from the Ralphs deli overpowered me during one of my morning trips to the Coffee Bean that used to be inside the Culver Plaza branch across Venice (see Coffee Up). FC&BC signify the elusive union of crunchy and soupy, my two favorite food adjectives. They fill you up without the food coma, and I always welcome even one less battle with the Norse god of Itis, my mortal enemy since childhood. Countless are the nights I laid in bed as a lad, pale and naked, gasping for consciousness as kebab meat engorged my very soul. Fried chicken and coffee is my Renaissance. Plus, it's cheap as hell.

Ralphs chicken is a little wet for my taste. Popeyes in New Orleans is high cuisine, but my last piece of chicken at Popeyes on Hollywood and Cahuenga tasted like a deep fried wallet. Pioneer Chicken gave me the only meal I've thrown away in my entire life. KFC is fashionable to poo-poo nowadays but I'll take an extra crunchy two-piece over most gourmet dinners. Plus, my mom's boyfriend looks kind of like Colonel Sanders. I'm a thigh man - more crevices, more crunch. Starbucks coffee is a little tarter than most, which compliments the salt. Take a bite of chicken, hold it in your mouth while you sip some coffee, swoosh it around in your mouth like you're in Napa Valley, then try not to fall to your knees as starbursts of taste sensations dazzle your eyesight with each furtive chewing motion. Then definitely go brush your tongue.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd., between Overland and Sepulveda. I'm on ten pee em to one forty-five ay em. No cover. Strong drinks. Good music. Good people. Come get human again.

BAR REVIEW: THE CORK

2010-07-08T10:20:00.000-07:00

The Cork, 4771 W. Adams Blvd., L.A. [Yelp]

BLACK GUYS DON'T SING ALONG TO OLDIES AT THE BAR ANYMORE. At least, not right away. They sing Robin Thicke songs into their drinks with the passion of twelve-year-old girls, and grimace through Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield like dogshit's in the air until they throw a couple more back, realize it's a Saturday afternoon and there are only two hot girls here, and embrace their inner Pendergrass. If you're a jukebox addict, this adds up to about seven bucks of your money in the Cork's digital jukebox, which you're better off spending at once instead of a dollar at a time, lest your drink get warm and your company get cold while you spend twenty minutes looking through 20,000 albums to find your forty favorite songs of all time. Options: the joy and the agony.

The Cork's jukebox ain't cheap either: two songs for a buck. Actually, for a hood bar, not much about the Cork is cheap. Their menu's price section is a vast column of four-digit numbers. A banner on the back wall proudly announces tacos for $8 each at happy hour. I've heard of monkeys that drive cars with their feet. I've never heard of an $8 taco. But Modelo Especials were five, and the friendly Midwestern bartender with the jewfro gave us a couple of free tequila shots. A nice old white lady named Colleen told me I look like Burt Reynolds, which is not unprecedented (see Burt Reynolds Vs My Dad), but I was still so chuffed I still haven't trimmed my beard. The Cork is like a strip club without poles, which of course made me feel instantly at home. And we just stayed away from the jailhouse patio, which a patron supposedly squeezed a few bullets off in last month, according to Yelp. So no harm, no foul. The real reason The Cork is so pricey is not so much because of the prices, but more because you'll probably have such a good time that you'll drink way more than is necessary on a Saturday afternoon. That, or any hospital bills you may incur on the patio.

BAMBOO TONIGHT. DJs Spye and Yoshe on the tables. 10835 Venice Blvd., next to Cafe Brasil in Palms. Mojitos, full bar, best food on the West. I'm on ten to eleven-ish while the superstars settle in. Until then, I'll be at home trying to get Abba's "Dancing Queen" out of my head. Two weeks and counting.

FUMIGATION, THE SEQUEL

2010-07-06T14:12:00.000-07:00

I LOVE EMAILS WHERE PEOPLE TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING REALLY annoying in like three words flat with no punctuation or capitalization, like the one I got this morning from our building manager Lesley regarding today's exterminator visit.

"9-12 clear the kitchen"

Last week she told me this was a gel job. If you're now telling me I have to move half my house ten feet to the left in the next eight minutes before noxious fumes coat every surface in my home, it would be nice if those chubby fingers tapped out a few extra words to soften the blow before grasping for your third piece of coffee cake.

I also love it when people call you and instantly launch into a long monologue, then get huffy if you try to turn it into a two-way conversation with a point and a duration that allows you to swiftly get back to what you were doing before you unwittingly assumed the role of agony aunt. Janet has commandeered building management to fix, among other things, the shininess of her bathtub and the angle of her kitchen counter. Plus, she's known as a particularly particular person by most standards. So I think I can be forgiven for harboring the idea that she may have been overreacting when she ordered the entire building fumigated last month (see Fumigation Day At The Mayoral Compound), a job brazen in its naked half-assedness. I had never seen more than a handful of roaches (imagine that) in my unit until we were fumigated. Now they're everywhere. And from the facial expression on the Mexican Mafia member with the spray gun who I left in my home this morning, today's round of poison shouldn't do much more than give my place that Cellular Holocaust smell that makes a home so inviting. So Janet, I love you like that Persian dish with the boiled limes, but I don't feel like hearing the person who sent roaches to my home complain about the roaches in her home. I'm a pawn in a chess game between two sociopaths: one who doesn't talk enough, and another who talks too much.

Sorry if I'm grumpy. I just had to move my kitchen for a bunch of roaches that will be back next week. Plus I just heard famous atheist Christopher Hitchens has throat cancer, which doesn't bode well for atheism.

Getting some love on my new song with Gotham Green. Check it out at ChinkyeyedLA. "I got some farmland in Turkey that keeps my mama's back furry."

Spye and Yoshe doing the honors this Thursday at our new weekly at Bamboo Restaurant. Mojitos and ceviche, whaddayant.

"MALK & GREEN" f. GOTHAM GREEN

2010-07-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

<a href="http://malkovichmusic.bandcamp.com/track/malk-green-f-gotham-green">Malk & Green f. Gotham Green by Malkovich Music</a>

the fourth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY

recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

If you like this song:

retweet the link on Twitter

post the link on Facebook

send this email to your friends

then show me your retweets/posts/forwards

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK’S SONG.

Wanna marry me, better have that thousand G dowry
I show up to the altar with my shirt all flowery
my best man strapped with his nose all floury
better tell ‘em bout me G
—
In the winter I’m a winner
in the summer I’m a stunner
fall and I’ma spring on your spot, governor
chasing chips is cold as London
yall fish for them chips, I’m going for lump sums
conundrums, best laid plans come undone
the wind blows in and death becomes them
my uncle washed my mouth out, I was used to crumbs
fresh kicks and guest list, guess it’s juice to some
—
my work ethic’s ethnic, keep the threads silky
bread filthy, all for the family
throw a few Gs overseas
I got some farmland in Turkey that keeps my mama’s back furry
—
Malky, holla at me
bills get stacky and I get dollar-happy
Big Brother come knocking, watch me get all Iraqi
in the foreign account go all the Os
and the loose bills in my daughter’s clothes
keep the door closed
through the ages my life been through various stages
now times are serious so it’s about the papers.

DOWNTOWN LA vs WISCONSIN: THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.

2010-06-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-29T10:25:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-27T20:55:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-25T09:35:00.001-07:00

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.

Pronounce Brasil with an S, and some 'e' in the second syllable.
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.

2010-06-24T10:58:00.001-07:00

'Nuff said.

THIS BLOG IS COOL NOW

2010-06-23T12:55:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-06-22T11:10:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-06-21T00:55:00.001-07:00

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)

2010-06-17T22:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-16T16:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-15T13:51:00.000-07:00

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"

2010-06-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-11T10:50:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T13:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-09T16:11:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-08T09:14:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-06-06T23:01:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-06T19:55:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-05T11:44:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-06-04T12:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T08:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

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]

HEY SUMMER

2010-05-29T13:50:00.001-07:00

AAAAAND IT'S ON. Or, I jinxed it and weather will suck tomorrow. Whatevs. Bottle opener please!

MAD PLANET arrives.

2010-05-28T09:58:00.000-07:00

DO I HAVE "JACK ME" ON MY FOREHEAD? Yesterday the Coffee Bean cashier tried twice to sell me a muffin before taking my order, then threw my five cents change in the tip jar, three and a half inches from my open palm, which a lesser man might have not wasted on her face. Maybe she read Coffee Bean Is A Crock. Later that day at the 88-cent store where nothing is 88 cents, I gave the Pakistani (Bangladeshi?) guy a buck and a dime for a $1.07 purchase, and he slammed the register shut and looked at me with the kind of expression that usually marks the end of a transaction. Now I know why I started a Facebook fan group for Exact Change, although the reason why it languishes in obscurity with 20 fans while groups like The First Time I had A McFlurry, I Thought The Spoon Was Also A Straw have fans in the hundreds of thousands remains uncertain.

Any damn way, last night I caught Mad Planet's release party for their new album All Elephants. Mad Planet is a duo comprised of longtime Saints & Sinners bartender and current Thirsty Crow manager Cooper on bass guitar and vocals, and her boyfriend Greg on drums. The Portishead whiff was a tad overpowering last time I saw them live. What a difference a year makes. The Mad Planet sound trashes all but the essentials, turns them up to 13, and uses repetition and catchiness to engulf and melt you down like you're an ice cube in a drink. Greg captivates. Cooper captains songs effortlessly without trying to outshine them. They puke chemistry. Ditto the venue, Three Clubs on Santa Monica and Vine, a very dark, very loud bar that I may have to commandeer for a release party too.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice, near Sepulveda in West LA. I deejay ten till two. No cover, no non-drinkers, no Pitchfork. I'll have CD copies of the Saints episode of The Palms Weekend Radio on me. And surprisingly, I'm in a drinking mood, so lets barter.

Mad Planet | site | facebook | twitter | myspace

Three Clubs, 1123 Vine St. [yelp]

Exact Change Facebook group

LOST & FOUND: MORE COCKTAILS THAN DANCING

2010-05-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

WE WERE HEADING TO THE BAR IN THE MAR VISTA LANES BOWLING ALLEY LAST NIGHT when Franamami besmirched my worldly stature by intimating that I should try more new things, since I attempted earlier to rent ace British gangster movie The Krays (starring the two guys from Spandau Ballet of "True"/PM Dawn fame), which I've seen not a few times. So to punish her, I immediately changed course toward Lost & Found on Barrington and National, which I had heard was real divey, and not in an endearing way. My mental Mini-Me rubbed his hands with glee before the saloon doors swung behind us. From the triple-chinned hillbillies clustered beside the jukebox stuffed with country albums, to the people by the restrooms blowing cigarette smoke which still didn't mask the hot foot stench, Frana's eyes begged departure. I almost felt bad leaving a black girl with dreadlocks in a redneck dive bar when I popped out to find an ATM (cash only) until I saw a cash machine by the jukebox upon returning, and realized the joke was on me. As if that wasn't already shit on my dress shirt, minutes later she was having a ball chatting it up with Phyllis, an L&F regular sat next to a Fred Durst lookalike. Fortunately my thwarted attempt at satisfaction was assuaged by all the TWO DOLLAR BEERS and TWO DOLLAR SHOTS. At those prices, the place can smell like tyrannosaurus burps for all I care. Phyllis got hugs and kisses and "hi Mom"s from young guys who definitely weren't her sons. She told us about the owner, an 81-year old dead ringer for Mr Burns who makes a mean corned beef & cabbage for customers on holidays. I noticed the immaculate part in the elderly yet sprightly bartender's hair. And thoughts of revenge began to drift away as I ordered another MGD. Think I'll be back. Phyllis says Mr Burns is cooking on Memorial Day.

Lost & Found, 11700 National [yelp]

THE NEIGHBORHOOD IDIOT. A story by Francesca Dunn.

2010-05-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

And no, I’m not referring to myself. The person, or rather the thing, I speak of is my dog, who most of you know as Zoggie - or Bamboo, as Janet likes to call her - and is occasionally seen being walked around the neighborhood by none other than our good neighbor Josh (post soon to come [it fucking better - Ed.]). Now, you may be wondering - or, you may not - why she is nicknamed The Neighborhood Idiot. Well, first let me run through a few names she’s picked up over the last two years.

BAMBOO. The day this little ten-pound chi-weagle was laid off on me and my sister, the easiest way to pick a name was to look out of our bedroom window. And what did we see but… Bamboo Restaurant (story).
JESSIE. After Bamboo wore off, we decided she actually looks like a Jessie, and used the name of a dog my mom, dad, and brother had in England before I existed. After choosing this name, it was time for her first vet visit, so now, two years later, the vet still calls her Jessie.
LINDA. We eventually decided against Jessie (for reasons unknown) and began calling her Linda (also for reasons unknown).
GLENDA. One sunny afternoon, the Westwood Block was blessed with the prescence of neighborhood favorite Nikiya, who mistook the name Linda for Glenda after stating that the dog looked like the goon from The Neverending Story. So Glenda stuck for a while.
MANGO. After having her from somewhere between eight months and a year and becoming fully attached, we decided that she is as sweet as a mango, and wanted everyone to know.
MINGU. Calling out “Mango” repeatedly gets boring after 30 calls, so that name got molded into this one.
TANDORI PINGU. Josh came up with this one after spending countless hours bathing, training and grooming her over the last two years and deciding she looks like a little tandoori chicken... and Pingu comes from same reason as name 6.
SCHMEIGEL. One of my personal favorites. What other name is so perfect for a dumb little schmeigel?
ZOGGIE. This name came about by saying different variations of the word “doggie”, and finally deciding that Zoggie flys off the tongue well and is easy for my Persian relatives to pronounce, since “Zogghee” means happiness in Farsi. And seems to be most people’s favorite.
IGGIE. same reason as number 6, but now using the name Zoggie.

Surprisingly, all have stuck in one way or another. At least a handful of five people know her by each name. Now that you know the names of the idiot in question, let me tell you why an idiot is what she is.

1. Napkins are her favorite food.
2. She spends her nights (and probably most days) chewing on her own foot.
3. She sniffs the house that she has lived in for two-plus years over a hundred times daily, and treats every sniff as if it’s her first.
4. She fails to recognize (and be comfortable around) people she has seen every day since her birth two years ago.
5. She is afraid of most things such as brooms, cups, spoons, wind, forks, utensils in general, shoes, and some string.
6. She huffs and puffs quietly to herself when she sees other dogs and only barks in their direction once they are gone.
7. She greets me excitedly every time I enter the house, regardless of if I’ve just returned from a two-week vacation or from a 30-second trip to the trash can.
8. She nervously licks her lips every time (without failure) Malky holds her snout shut for longer than one second.
9. Despite her size, she continues to think she can push people of +100 pounds away from her while trying to wiggle her way out of their forced grasp.
10. She nervously waits by the front door of people’s homes where she feels uncomfortable, anxiously waiting to leave, as if her tiny brain has the capacity to make rational decisions.

Despite all of these things, somehow it is easy to love her, as we all do. As much as we - and when I say we I really mean I - hate her, I just don’t remember what I ever did before March 2008 without her. So who is the actual idiot: me or her?

BABY DOG JUSTIN BIEBER LOST

2010-05-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

I HATE WASTING TIME MORE THAN MOST THINGS. Longtime Palms Weekend readers may recall all my stories about being drunk before lunch on weekdays and doubt the veracity of this statement, but freeform time is vital to my process. Hemingway I'm not; half a beer and I can't write for shit. But ideas fall out the sky, which I jot down to revisit back on Earth. It's obviously also arguable that I need to stop coming up with more ideas I don't have, and start taking the ones I do have somewhere special. So, before I spend the next year continuing to post blogs and cross my fingers as a marketing strategy, lets see if we can't ramp up traffic to this here Palms Weekend some.

Taking advice from one of those Compuserve-era how-to sites featuring stars twinkling in the background and spelling mistakes only Russians make, I spent a couple of hours submitting the Palms Weekend to Google, Yahoo, and a bunch of cut-rate search engines with names like Burf and BufuList until I imagined one of my web programmer friends smacking me in the back of the head for wasting my fucking time. Thereafter, I came across a program boasting a $29.95 price tag that supposedly submits each post across the web automatically, which I then stole on Demonoid. I'm going to guinea-pig the program with this post, which I have cunningly laden with references to the most popular search phrases of the day (Justin Bieber and "Lost"), and, of course, the undisputed kings of the Internet: dogs and babies. I've also submitted my blog to blog rank site Technorati, which requires me to post a code for site verification. So, here it is. YNX8E6NM7ADN

Until now, commenters received my rapt attention. Now you'll be lucky if I even notice your puny comment amongst the deluge of replies from sexually frustrated Indian men, spambots and 800-lb women trapped in their homes. My post picture is a dog dressed as a baby, goddamnit. I hope Blogspot's servers are strong.

The Palms Weekend Radio presents THE SAINTS & SINNERS FRIDAY NITE LIVE MIX.

2010-05-24T12:09:00.000-07:00

I WAS BORN FOR MANY REASONS. To change rap. To have pretty babies. To keep the Bushmills Distillery in business. And I was born to deejay Saints & Sinners on Friday nights.

Saints & Sinners is in Palms, one of the mostly densely populated and ethnically diverse neighborhoods in Los Angeles, one of the most ethnically diverse cities in America, easily the most ethnically diverse country in the world. So it's my job to titillate the ears of one of the most mixed-up collections of people you will find in any bar anywhere - rockers, hip-hoppers, old schoolers, latins, and so on - in one night. My dad raised me on the blues. My mother's family raised me on Persian music. Living in England put me front row center for the '80s U.K. pop explosion. Moving to Los Angeles in 1992, the year of The Chronic and the riots, put me front row center for the '90s hip-hop explosion. And tracing those rap records back to their old school source samples opened me up to galaxies of music of all genres. After three years on the decks, a decent amount of local music lovers know that if you come to Saints & Sinners on a Friday night you're gonna hear it all. At once.

Click to episode 4 on the music player to your right to hear me in the mix at Saints & Sinners.You can also download it from the link below the player. We recorded the full four-hour set, then condensed it to my favorite segments. I kick off with an old school flurry, dip into reggae for a spell (which is normally the part where I point at the dancing women before eating the note Kate just handed me saying "no more reggae please"), tagteam hip-hop with some originals (props to QZR for hitting me with that Asha Puthli/Biggie record), turn '70s disco-rock into '80s R&B pop-cheese, and then go out diamond in the back, sun roof top style. Expect more Saints & Sinners mixes on subsequent episodes of The Palms Weekend Radio, which will premiere every Saturday and Sunday on soulpublicradio.com from 3 to 4pm, and live on forever here on the player at thepalmsweekend.com, the site that solves your music problems with one click.

And remember, if you're complaining about my mixing skills, you're not drunk enough.

Show #4 tracklist:

Bruce Springsteen, "Born To Run"/Parliament, "Flash Light"
Albert King, "Born Under A Bad Sign"
Little Richard, "Lucille"
Bootsy Collins, "I'd Rather Be With You"
Tonto Irie, "It A Ring"
Barrington Levy, "Teach The Youth"
Ini Kamoze, "World Of Music"
Alton Ellis, "I'm Still In Love With You"
Bob Marley, "Could You Be Loved"
The Heptones/N.W.A./Charles Wright & The 103rd Street Rhythm Band, "Express Yourself"
Asha Puthli, "Space Talk"/Notorious B.I.G., "The World Is Filled..."
Nas, "Street Dreams"/Tupac, "All Eyez On Me"
Mos Def, "Life Is Real"
Barry White, "Never Gonna Give You Up"
The Clipse, "Ride Around Shining"
U.G.K., "Good Stuff"/Jay-Z, "Hard Knock Life"
Fab 5 Freddy, "Down By Law"
Kiss, "I Was Made For Loving You"
Rod Stewart, "If You Think I'm Sexy"
Jermaine Stewart, "We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off"
Pebbles, "Girlfriend"
Janet Jackson, "What Have You Done For Me Lately"/"When I Think Of You"
Aaliyah, "One In A Million"
Prince, "Kiss"
Hall & Oates, "I Can't Go For That (instrumental)"
Isaac Hayes/Al Green, "Lets Stay Together"
William Devaughn, "Be Thankful For What You've Got"

BAMBOO: GREAT FOOD, BUT THEY'LL STEAL YOUR WEED.

2010-05-21T12:48:00.000-07:00

Bamboo, 10835 Venice Blvd., WLA [yelp]

I TRY TO CELEBRATE AS MANY NEW CHECKS AS MY FINANCES PERMIT AT BAMBOO. $20 plates make it the most expensive restaurant in the neighborhood. The waitresses are all pretty Latin girls. The seafood pasta and the paella put my seafood itch in the ground every time. The bar has Bushmills whisky, a sugar cane press for mojitos and makes me want to book a flight somewhere Catholic, as does the tropical patio. This all means that the mere sight of Bamboo makes me feel broke, turned on, hungry as Dom Deluise, and thirsty as Dean Martin all at once. And since it's across The Parking Lot (story) from my mayoral compound, it's a feeling I know intimately. So blowing a week's grocery money on sea cockroaches and sugary drinks is a relatively easy way for me to feel more like the wealthy jetsetter I try to convince myself I am. Who cares if the older waiter seems to think a caipirinha is a mojito without mint, and always looks at me like he wants to pummel me with a straw chair? So what if that one waitress who I tried (and failed) to holler at on the block a few years ago won't stop trying to upsell us, and wouldn't credit Nikiya's debit card back for a month after overcharging her by $40? What's it to me if I ask the new waiter for a spoon and he gives me a knife? It's Bamboo. You want customer service? Go to an Apple Store. I want prawns.

Now, what you don't do is steal someone's half a joint. Even if it was hidden in a pack of Dentyne that I left on the table when we walked out last night. They even had the balls to give it back to me the moment I came back for it ten minutes later. He didn't even dig around in the trash or anything.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice, WLA. Down the block from Bamboo, actually. I deejay ten to two. No cover. No AA members. No Evanescence. And if you can't make it, tune into soulpublicradio.com tomorrow and Sunday 3pm-4pm PST for the next best thing: a recorded broadcast of me deejaying at Saints in all my triple-distilled, oak-aged glory.

COFFEE BEAN IS A CROCK

2010-05-20T13:27:00.001-07:00

Venice & Overland

CAUGHT THIS ON THE WAY BACK FROM COFFEE BEAN THIS MORNING. Marcy Wino-Grad wants homes before banks, eh? I bet. How about whisky before breakfast?

On that note, if pennies are important to you, don't go to Coffee Bean if you only want coffee. Everyone knows CB thrashes Starbucks on the shmancy drinks front: lattes, ice blendeds, tea. But when it comes to straight joe, Starbucks rules. This is common knowledge, so where does Coffee Bean get off charging twenty cents more ($1.70) than Starbucks ($1.50) for a small coffee? Another CB tip: tell the cashier you want your drink 'to go', or they'll charge you some silly seventeen-cent tax. This might sound trifling, but if you're the type of person who drives twenty extra blocks to save 68 cents on gasoline, you have no excuse to ignore this.

The 'Bean' gets points for liquid sweetener though.

Oh, and for a free latte, just unscrew the tops off the chocolate and vanilla powder jars at the creamer station and apply to taste. The manager will get visibly angry, but there's nothing he/she can do about it.

I'M A PUNK ASS BIATCH

2010-05-19T11:45:00.000-07:00

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.

NILELLA

2010-05-18T12:45:00.000-07:00

AT LEAST SIX TIMES OUT OF TEN WHEN I'M CROSSING VENICE AT GLENDON (story) on my way to or from Culver Plaza, that nearby wonderland of food, finance, exercise and high-end bongs, I'll walk past Nilella. I'm certain that's not her name, as we've never spoken so I wouldn't know. Moreover, a cursory googling of "nilella" yields approximately 4,350 results, mostly for horses and Sri Lankan estates. Actually, she could pass for Sri Lankan. Or, I could pass for blind and daft. Nevertheless, I call her Nilella because she reminds me of our buddy Niles (story), who, to my knowledge, is no more related to Nilella than I am to Quincy Jones, but, as you'll see from the picture I've hyperlinked his name to, could pass as a distant relative, at least if you ask me. Which you didn't.

She's tall and pretty, but seems melancholy. Heavy Gothic vibe; sunglasses, dark, functional clothing and a Trenchcoat Mafia jacket that flaps behind her like a superhero's cape. But every now and then she'll do it up, as the photo above illustrates: a flowing print dress, earrings, necklace, buoyant amble. She was even swinging her keys around on her keychain when I spotted her like a gazelle in the wild, fumbled as surreptitiously as possible for my camera and feigned a sudden uncontrollable urge to take a picture of a nearby electricity pole. I half thought she might pick me up by my throat and fling me against the Habib Market wall. That's not to say she won't crush my head like a macaroon if and when she finds out I've been writing about her on the Internet, not to mention what Niles may do when he learns that I've insinuated some kind of family connection between them. Two extremely tall people after me, one of whom is a three-hundred-and-twelfth degree multiple mauve belt karate master. Not bad for twenty minutes of writing.

I FOUND AMELIA EARHART

2010-05-17T09:52:00.001-07:00

WAS WALKING BACK FROM ROBEK'S WITH JANET LAST SATURDAY when I ran into my neighbor, catching some rays on the sidewalk. She lives in the same apartment building as the guy who had a custom vinyl poster reading 'NO PLAYING ON THE LAWN' draped across his balcony until recently. I'm sad he took it down; Sum and I had big plans to stage a football game there. She's been around here for years, but it was our first (short) conversation. I thought she'd be hesitant to have her picture taken, as most people wearing dark sunglasses, umbrellas and heavy makeup tend to be, but she was all for it. Maybe she's cautious of skin cancer. Or maybe she's the Lindbergh baby.

GLADIATOR SANDALS:
	are hella sexy
	are whatever
	make my dick die

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