I'M A PUNK ASS BIATCH

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

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

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.

PEOPLE I'D HURT: Man In Gym Shower.

Pause on this post. Actually, pause on this blog, just to be safe.


I'M RARELY MOVED TO VIOLENCE. It just doesn't seem to help much. If someone hits your girlfriend, and you like her, you'd better swing back, or move to another state. If someone hits you in front of your girlfriend, you'd better swing back, or get a new girlfriend who doesn't know your old girlfriend, which is another reason to move to another state. In those situations, fine. Otherwise, it seems to me like the only thing worse than being disrespected is being disrespected AND catching a black eye, or a lawsuit, or a knife in your head. But last week I met someone who I'd conceivably punch in a real way - not just if he was being held down, and Obama said I could, and I didn't think I'd break my wrist.

Now that excessive running has fucked my left foot up, I swim at Bally. If you don't shower immediately afterward, you will smell like old people for a day and a half, so I do so, in one of the eight stalls in the men's room. I always walk in murmuring "gooo corner shower... gooo corner shower...", hoping the one stall nobody can see into is available. It never is, and wasn't last week, when I noticed from my 'periphrerals', to quote The 40-Year-Old Virgin, the eyes of a middle-aged Asian man in the opposite shower repeatedly wandering in my direction. I understand we all zone out sometimes, and when we come to, we're staring at something we shouldn't be, like the time I almost got murdered on Melrose for staring at a carload of heavily armed 18th Street gangsters. But this guy's eyes would routinely dart away and return to check me out like a guy checks a girl out, except I'm a motherfucking man in the motherfucking shower.

What to do? Shout at him? He'll deny it, and you'll look crazy. Tell staff? You can't prove shit. Fight him? I'm not going to get into the logistics of having a naked standoff with another man in a public shower area. Suffice to say, it's a terrible, horrifically awful idea. But I haven't felt that close to punching someone in the face in a long time. It's actually good to know I can come up with that kind of rage, in case I take my future family camping one day and my unborn children should need protection from bears or other wild animals.

I ended up finishing my shower pressed up against the stall wall where he couldn't see me, like an action hero on the side of a building. This swordswallower is not gonna stop me from getting my Bally membership's worth; believe that. So it's not inconceivable that I will punch an old-ass man directly in the mouth sometime in the next couple of months. But I will definitely dry off and dress first. And wait until he does the same.

Um, Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice. Ten to two.

WE'RE FLYING TO VEGAS TOMORROW FOR $10

read: Travel Deals - $10 JetBlue Flights [New York Times]

$80 AFTER FEES, ACTUALLY.

When I first heard about about JetBlue's preposterous 48-hour sale about 40 minutes ago - all remaining seats, anywhere, "$10" each - I immediately looked into a week in Bogota, but here's the catch: you must leave AND return between the 11th and 12th for discounts on both legs. And Frana didn't wanna neglect her babies, so Vegas it is - two hours in the air, 15 hours in Sin City. Frana and I leave tomorrow at lunchtime and we're back the following morning in time for her to teach a classroom of tenth-graders the meaning of "hung over". Carry-on bags only, straight out the airport into a cab driven by my boy Frojoe, who will shuttle us to Palace Station for lunch at the hotel's Oyster Bar (yelp), where they cook your gumbo, pan roast or bouillabaisse in front of you. Vegas' best-kept secret. Maybe some poolside sloth, then off to see how much (more) we can drink before my hair goes up in flames like cheap curtains. Really, all I can think about is the Oyster Bar. I've always said that place is worth a Vegas trip alone, and now I'm about to prove it. And one night is really all anyone wants to spend in Vegas. The trip will seem like a dream by Thursday, and I won't come home smelling like the Marlboro Man either. So if you have a Ben Franklin or two and 24 hours to spare, go to jetblue.com now, and maybe we'll run into each other in a jacuzzi or something.

COME TO SAINTS & SINNERS TONIGHT! then shut up.

A gnat that drowned in a shot glass of Bacardi, a.k.a. me tonight at Saints & Sinners.

TONIGHT AT SAINTS & SINNERS WILL BE SPECIAL. First, because I'll be there. Second, because for the first time I'll be recording my set, which you'll be able to hear next weekend on The Palms Weekend Radio at soulpublicradio.com, provided the mixer at Saints is in a good mood.

On that note, a word. Usually, I love it when people hang out with me in the deejay booth. Now that Sum no longer deejays with me, I cherish a little company, unless you're asking me to play "something good", and/or your breath smells like you've been eating out of ashtrays. But times arise when deejaying requires my focus. A throng of shiny-shirted tunnel crowd types may have just walked in after getting turned down at the Ivar, and I may need to pretend to play something poppy so they'll stay long enough to buy a few drinks, complain about me and leave. Maybe I'm really enjoying myself. Maybe you're about to spill whisky on my equipment. Point is, sometimes I need to be left alone.

I know I look more like I'm checking my email up there, so it's easy to forget that I'm responsible for the sound coming out the speakers. I'm aware I'm sparking conversation as often as you are. Plus, it can be hard to tell that you're boring the criminy out of someone when you're drunk. So, since I'm too nice to tell you myself, if you ever ask me a question while I'm deejaying and you get one or more of the below responses, do the right thing and just hang out looking cool for a minute until you see me order another drink or something.

"Yeah"

"No"

"Sorry, didnt catch that"

"Could you not lean on the mixer please?"

"...."

Oh, Franamami and Janet will be there tonight too. Aaaaaaand a certain person who is definitely not related to me will be on a blind date who is positively not a friend of Franamami's. For sure.

RESTAURANT REVIEW: Tokyo 7-7

TODAY IS THE SECOND DAY STRAIGHT JOSH AND I ATE BREAKFAST AT Tokyo. It sits at the corner of two alleyways, in the center of the block that borders Venice and Culver to the north and south and Cardiff and Bagley to the east and west in Culver City. It's run by a street-tough gang of smiley old Japanese ladies who serve $2.60 French toast breakfasts and $3.85 vegetable yakisoba at portions that will anger the greedy and obese, but will leave everyone else feeling mature and wise. They serve cigarettes and Budweiser, a remnant from the restaurant's early years in the 80s when a meal wasn't a meal without ash in it. Service is warm and prompt. The bathroom is dark and smells like shit. The food is greasy yet clean, unhealthy yet you still somehow feel like you're cheating arteriosclerosis. Their bacon is salty and crunchy. Their chocolate milkshakes are like cupfuls of cold, sweet cloud. Every french fry is a 'bottom fry'. Monk said his home potatoes taste like old people smell. I order the grilled cheese sandwich every time and wouldn't dream of anything else. The pheebs at Yelp rave about its 'amazing decor' but it's not amazing; it's standard-issue truckstop shit you can find across the country. What's amazing is the fact that L.A.'s beautification Nazis haven't turned it into a Gap Kids yet.

If melted Kraft singles on toast still make your nipples tingle, this is the place for you.

Tokyo 7-7 Coffee Shop, 3839 Main St., ste. B, Culver City. Closes at 3pm, shut weekends. [Yelp]

reminder: WU TANG FUCKING RULES.

Fact: balls are round.

Fact: tight jeans make your privates smell funny.

Fact: Wu-Tang Clan fucking rules.

Yes, even after all the sub-par records. Name another group with two digits of classic albums, then maybe I'll humor that argument some.

Bart Aloe will prove it this Saturday and Sunday 3pm-4pm on soulpublicradio.com, when he will host an exclusive episode of his famed Dedicated To Wu show for The Palms Weekend Radio. Wu-Tang's music tends to scare the daylights outta people these days, so be sure to turn your stereo all the way up. They'll thank you later. In their minds.

Dedicated To Wu tracklist:

1. Gap Mangione, "Free Again"
2. "Ice Water"
3. "Kilo"
4. "Block Rock"
5. "Poisonous Darts"
6. "Clipse Of Doom"
7. "Lay Your Hammer Down"
8. "Watch Ya Mouth"
9. "Hip Hop Fury"
10. Syl Johnson, "Is It Because I'm Black"
11. "The PJs"
12. "Killah Hills 10304"
13. "10 Bricks"
14. "Wolves"
15. Booker T & The MGs, "Sunny"
16. "The Glock"
17. "Who's The Champion"
18. Judy Clay, "Children, Don't Get Weary"
19. "C.R.E.A.M. (Cee & Gee remix)"

FUMIGATION DAY at the MAYORAL COMPOUND

a Western Exterminator rep talking to a customer

THE WESTERN GUY LOOKS JUST LIKE THE FELLA IN THE DRAWING TOO. Except, nowhere near as slim or well-dressed. I was on the john when this flabby-ass dogcatcher banged a little too authoritatively on my door, and again 20 seconds after I shouted at him to give me a minute. The notice said to empty all cupboards by 9am. My cupboards consist of two chipped mugs I remember drinking from in 1983. I only needed ten minutes, which he was apparently unable to give me, even ten minutes before the scheduled spraying time. "Ain't no ten minutes. We'll have to reschedule yours." He pulled the same shenanigans at Josh's apartment. Maybe he had a date with a roach, or a weight counselor, though I can't imagine how much weight he'd have to lose to lose that stupid look on his face. He was swiftly replaced with another Elmer Fudd lookalike. I guess they do chase varmints after all. Maybe Western is a remnant of the Fudd Dynasty, and the Fudds are actually real people, like Jesus and the Da Vinci Code. Just kidding, that's a fairytale. Jesus, not the Da Vinci Code.

Janet called me from work following what Josh says was a heated phone argument between her and Lesley, our building manager who is best known for not wearing shoes much. The Fudds couldn't get into Janet's place; eventually someone jumped through a window. I could hear Janet's neck vein throbbing through the phone. Lesley was on her Bluetooth talking about paying a mortuary $500 and finding a rabbi when Josh and I bundled Mrs Brown from #4 into my Oldsmobile to take her to dialysis since the senior citizen van was late. The van pulled up as we were pulling out. It took us five minutes to walk Mrs Brown from the car to the hospital lobby, and two hours to get over the sight of the dialysis room. Then I had a chocolate milkshake for breakfast at Tokyo 7-7. Those little old Japanese ladies really know their way around a grilled cheese sandwich.

Ran into E Reece walking the block pushing his brand new son, fresh out the baby factory. Jesse passed by in his A-Team van, which is looking better and better. Now Josh and I are at the Coffee Bean on Sepulveda and Palms waiting for the smell of cockroach holocaust to subside. A cashier just called a lady "sir". Come see us.

FREE SHOES ALERT

AS OF 2:33PM, A PAIR OF PLAID RED ALIFES AND A PAIR OF CANVAS BLUE NIKES ARE SITTING ON THE GRASS in front of my mayoral compound at 3757 Westwood Blvd., just north of Venice. I got tired of looking at them. This has nothing to do with the fact that my girlfriend hates the red "Christmas shoes" or that my sisters cheerleaded their purchase and have been laughing at them ever since. They're a little gang-related, so I can't be held liable for subsequent attempts on your life should you decide to come pick them up. That is, of course, assuming they're still there as of 2:37pm, and Jesse the Parking Lot King isn't wearing some fashionable new footwear with unreasonably long laces that don't match anything you try to wear with them.

UPDATE (4:07pm): Nikes gone. Christmas shoes still available.