Saturday 11.22.08: STINKERS

COOPER CALLED ME THE OTHER DAY and asked me if I wanted to deejay Stinkers (link) Saturday, so last night I slicked the coif and headed to Silverlake for some of that hipster cake. For the unaware, Stinkers is Saints & Sinners' newly-opened sister establishment. Imagine a hidden bar on the seedy end of Disneyland where Mickey Mouse has been replaced with Burt Reynolds circa Smokey And The Bandit. This won me over, since I've always loved Burt Reynolds, because he looks like my father. See?

Burt looks like my father probably would if he had a little Middle Eastern in him (nerd alert: Burt is part Cherokee). So I imagine I will end up looking somewhat like Burt myself when I get old. I hooooooope.

Stinkers aims to recreate the vibe of a '70s-era Heartland truck stop bar. As such, Cooper requested that my musical selection for the evening dovetail with such sensibilities. Piece of cake. My father practically is a trucker, except his truck is a plane and he's in the back working on the free gin & tonics instead of in front driving. Many's the night I laid on the floor as a lad in our house in Portugal or Libya or wherever else we lived in the '80s, poring through an atlas while he stood unsteadily in the middle of the room playing air guitar to AC/DC, wearing nothing but briefs and a belly, a row of empty beer cans on the table behind him. His favorite possession ever remains the burgundy Monte Carlo coupe with the swiveling seats that he owned when we lived in Orange County for a spell in 1985. Legend has it he was on the freeway to Mexico with my mother one day, missed his exit, and promptly veered hard left, flew off the freeway Dukes Of Hazzard-style and landed on the right highway, heading across the border without missing a beat.

Deejaying Stinkers was a breeze compared to Saints & Sinners, where I try to cater to the tastes of everyone from rockers to hip-hoppers to mainstream tools, all of whom seem to think they're the only people in the room. All you have to do at Stinkers is think of the song you're considering, and imagine it coming on in a bar full of drunk truckers. By this rationale, I have come up with five handy guidelines.

TRUCKER MUSIC - GUIDELINES

1. ALL SONGS MUST BE OF THE 1950s-TO-1980s ERA. Truckers like their guitars electric and their synthesizers unplugged.
2. NO HIPPIE/PSYCHEDELIC MUSIC. There are exceptions, but to be safe, err on the side of caution.
3. NO GLAM-ROCK. I know a lot of you regulars around here luuuurve your hair metal, but the grizzled truck driver in the beard and flannel rolling through Tennessee in an eighteen-wheeler would have ran over Nikki Sixx, and then backed up over him once or twice for good measure before playing one of his records. And you know I'm right.
4. NO EXTRA FUNKY BLACK MUSIC. Wilson Pickett, Ike and Tina, Otis... the bluesy stuff they can handle. Throw James Brown or Sly & The Family on the jukebox and you might wanna get that Sloppy Joe to go.
5. NO EXTRA SAPPY LOVE SONGS unless they're about inanimate objects (alcohol, trucks, guns, etc.).

And you can expect me to follow the above guidelines to the letter if I ever deejay Stinkers again. I'm sure a lot of the customers as well as employees would like to see these rules relaxed, but if we're not going to be historically accurate with regards to the era we're aping, then I'm just going to throw some Wu-Tang Clan on as well while we're at it. And you can quote me on that. Besides, no sense in fixing what ain't broke; I got a boatload of compliments and a wondrous time was had. And it's all thanks to my father's air guitar lessons. So this one goes out to you, pa... wherever you are. Malaysia?

VENICE & GLENDON

WHEN I MOVED TO PALMS IN 2003, the intersection of Venice Blvd. and Glendon Ave. wasn't really much of an intersection at all. The stupid island which turns that entire stretch of the boulevard into a mass automobile do-si-do ran unbroken from Girard to Overland, reducing the Glendon corner to a stop sign bordering a one-way Venice. Parents would shield their children's ears when walking through the neighborhood to drown out the chorus of cursing from drivers passing by as they they realized they were going to have to make four u-turns, two three-point turns and fly off a ramp just to go north. Then they would cuss a purple storm into little Ajeet's ear upon the understanding that to get to Ralph's directly across the street, they would have to either take the two-week walk to the Overland stoplight, or grab their child's hand in a white-knuckle grip and run across Venice, which is like running across the 405.

one of these would have come in very handy in those days.

Then one day two summers ago, concrete medians appeared on either side of Palms Island. Theories as to their purpose ran rife through the community, one person insisting that CalTrans was going to put a metro rail line through the hood. But when the construction signs finally disappeared, Palms Island had been segmented at Glendon and traffic lights and walk signals were at each corner. This corner marks the heart of Palms (heh), equidistant to Culver Center and the Jack In The Crack/McDonalds/CPK trifecta to the east, and the Latino-Semitic corridor leading to the hallowed block housing Saints & Sinners, the medical marijuana clinic, and the mosque upstairs to the west.

Therefore, being a major artery of foot traffic in a notoriously kooky neighborhood, this corner is bringing birds of many different feathers face to face for the first time. Sometimes it's more like face to concrete, as outlined in last week's blog The Art Of The Dirt Nap (link), and other times it's less dramatic but only slightly less funny, as in the case of this fella below. Just examine him for a minute and let him work his magic. That woman will never forget him.

That was last week. Then today I see some guy has decided to move his entire living room on the corner in hopes of making a few bucks. What a renegade. I'm sure Enterprise didn't give him permission to hang his raggedy clothing all over their ominous black gate.

I.Will.Kick.Will.I.Am's.Will.I.Ass

For the past few years, I've been having to deal with people asking me if I'm Will.I.Am from the Black Eyed Peas. I take offense to this for several reasons. First of all, Will.I.Am dresses like Mary Poppins if Mary Poppins were a Black man. I do not dress like Gary Poppins. Secondly, Will.I.Am has dreadlocks and the tender swagger of an African Leprechaun. I have neither.

Before I get into why I will kick Will.I.Am's ass, let me give you some background. I've been looking like famous people my whole life. Folks have been coming up to me since I was 5 telling me how much I look like some famous dude. It's part of the reason I call myself Sumkid. I always look like somebody else, or familiar to people for no reason. I even get compared to Frylock....it's ridiculous.

So let's flashback to where it all started..... North Carolina, 1984, with a little potbellied 30-year old named Webster....

THE WEBSTER YEARS:

In the early 80s, my mom used to work out at this place called "The Sports Club" in Fayetteville, NC. At the time, it was a state-of-the-art gym facility with dozens of basketball courts, raquetball courts, spas, weight rooms....this thing was huge. It was like the Death Star.

Most importantly, they had frozen yogurt, which to me was like space food. I couldn't understand how something so good and so sweet and so white and so cold wasn't ice cream. It was a brand new world for me, so I would beg my mom to take me with her so I could eat myself into a diabetic coma while she played raquetball with some redneck in a glorious mullet. I would sit and eat my yogurt while she killed everybody in the Death Star on the raquetball court for hours on end.

Eventually people started coming over to me and pinching my fucking cheeks telling me I looked like Webster. At first, I would deny it...but then people started giving me money and snacks and treats and shit cus I was so cute, so I'd roll with it. Then eventually, I even started performing for them. Here's some footage of one of my performances:

My cute, monchichi years were doomed by a long and awkward adolescence. I got glasses, grew a high-top fade, my face and legs got all gangly and I was a well-read little dude. All of which came just in time for TV to unveil one of its most well-known and beloved teenage coons, Steve Urkel.

I was fucked.

THE URKEL YEARS:

My Urkel years were marked by my own mother and random people running up to me and screaming "Did I do thaaaat??" in my ear. At first it was funny. But to this day if I see Family Matters coming on TV my chest gets tight and I want to have a drink. What made it worse is that my glasses turned into sunglasses when I went outdoors, so I looked like a total asshole when I came back to class after playing basketball at lunch. Imagine Urkel in your 8th Grade English class wearing sunglasses. That was me. But even Urkel had endearing qualities....he was a hopeless romantic, an intellectual, and after years of hard work, persistence and heartfelt stalking, he ended up marrying the girl of his dreams.... so I guess we had some things in common after all.

But the adorable years were coming to a close, and slowly but surely people started comparing me to somebody not nearly as cute and adorable as Webster, or as loveable as Urkel.

THE SCOTTIE PIPPEN YEARS:

Really? Scottie Pippen, White people? I say White people, because at this stage of my life, it was only White people sayin' this shit....

And I took personal offense to this one because this dude had no personality and his head looked like a freshly bruised yam. I mean, this is the best picture I could find of the dude. He doesn't look so bad here....maybe even good-looking. But he still kinda looks like he washes his face with a pencil eraser.

I was IN Chicago during the Jordan/Pippen administration, and outside of the magic those guys were on the court, it was not a fun time for ya boy.

But he was a damn good player. And I'm glad the mufuckas won some championships. It made my transition into the 2Pac years that much sweeter.

The 2Pac Years:

You know, I actually haven't left my 2Pac years completely. The older I get, the less they come, but every once in a while I get the "Anybody ever tell you you look like 2Pac?". Now granted, that mostly comes from 50-year-old white guys in Hawaiian shirts, but it makes it all worth it when the ladies ask. Cus you know....the ladies love Pac. Usually, to get the 2Pac comparison, I have to go bald-headed and beardless, which is becoming less and less acceptable these days. I gotta have some hair on my chin or else I look like 2Pac if he was washed up and started making excercise videos or family sitcoms.

So when I started keeping hair on my face...the game just got deeper. 2Pac was just the beginning of this new trend in my resemblances. I started looking like dead people.

The Marvin Gaye/Isaac Hayes Years:

Now THIS.....this was enjoyable. Everybody loves Marvo. He could sing, he was attractive, he did massive amounts of drugs and died a tragic death. That's something I could rock with. And in all honesty, I don't actually see any resemblance....but I'll take it as long as yall give it.

In a similar fashion, James says I look like Isaac Hayes, particularly when I'm bald with a beard. But then again, if I wear glasses and a hat he says I look like Spike Lee and if I wore a suit he'd probably call me Barack Obama or Morgan Freeman.

I'll Kick Will.I.Am's Ass....Unless he wants to do a song with me:

So on Saturday, I'm moderating this hip-hop forum for the children. This girl comes up to ask me if I'm in The Black Eyed Peas.

Now, out of all the comparisons I've ever gotten in my life:

1) This is the most repulsive to me

2) I get this one more than ANY

It raised a bunch of questions in my mind and heart....What am I supposed to do with this? I don't want to look like this dude, but if I do....what am I going to do with my life? Do I dress like Gary Poppins, or have a tender swagger?

So I challenge Will.I.Am to a boxing match. Me and him in the ring....five rounds. I want people to see us side by side, but I don't want to be standing next to him. I would rather punch him...but not to hurt him. Just punching him for sport is all. I'd like to do this so people can see how different we are. If anyone knows him, please reach out to him and tell him I'd like to organize a boxing match with him, and we can do it for charity and donate the proceeds to a cause of his choosing.

Immediately after the match, we can rock a show and call it all peace. He can ride off into the sunset on his bicycle, and I will at last be loosed of this curse.

Who am I going to look like next?

The Art Of The Dirt Nap

SUM BARBACKED LAST NIGHT so I DJ'ed alone. Got several compliments, and I was really feeling it up until a little past midnight, when I got into a very boring conversation, and soon after was talked into playing Madonna's "Hung Up". I pride myself on not succumbing to hot women with stupid song requests. but these two totally jumped my electric fence. One was really tall and was looking over me while I was playing, and the other one was like a little pushy anime character, and I had neither the time nor the constitution for jousting. My fate was sealed shortly before last call when I panicked after a song ended unexpectedly quickly and threw on "I'm Every Woman" by Chaka Khan. I don't think I'm living that one down.

Jorge pulled maybe the most spectacular Goodbye Headfake of his career, reappearing beside the DJ booth thirty minutes after bidding everyone fond farewells, in high-heeled leather boots, a fedora and a fur coat.

Was just crossing the street at Venice and Glendon and noticed a man laid out flat on the opposite corner. And when I say the corner, I mean the part of the corner in the street, not the sidewalk. A portly woman standing by had apparently called 911, because by the time we crossed the street, fire trucks had pulled up and he was being hoisted onto a stretcher. I took a power nap in the gutter of the parking lot across from Saints last night, so I'm well acquainted with the joys of sleeping on concrete when trashed. Just don't sleep on the part of the concrete that cars drive on. A pretty good hustle the hospitals have going here: drag anyone remotely unresponsive into the emergency room, throw them in bed overnight, and charge them $3,000. If that don't learn him, nothing will.

HALLOWEEN '08: THE SHOWDOWN

WORDS FAIL ME, thanks to all those drinks, the "powdered sugar" that I "mistakenly" inhaled, and the three pieces of spacecake I ate the day after to stave off the hangover. So, I give you the following. Pay special attention to our interview with emcee and mug tycoon Tytus Penn, who Sum and I feel deserves honorable mention for what might have been the most inventive costume of the evening, and definitely the most confusing.

Alas, while the concept of wearing a perpetual grin on your face all night as your costume is genius in every sense of the term, we knew it wouldn't go over well with the throngs of ogres, fiends and other assorted undead who had toiled over their outfits for the evening. So, as your trusty judges, we took serious those who had taken the contest serious. And here they are.

THE WINNERS

BEST MALE COSTUME: LUKE

Whaddya want. Several male costumes had their strong points, but the moment we saw him, we knew there was only one clown walking out of that bar with that Dewar's bottle. And that clown walked out in a yellow one-piece jumpsuit with Truck's hand on his ass.

BEST FEMALE COSTUME: "MADONNA"

There's something about Heat's turn as the most excited hot dog ever that made it hard for me to co-sign this one. But Heat didn't enter the contest, and I was temporarily blinded by the pointy golden titties. Sometimes it's just as simple as wearing pointy, golden titties.

BEST DUO COSTUME: TONY & SHEENA

By the time Ian started announcing winners, these two had finished their drinks and cleared their tab, and were just sitting at the bar, waiting for us to declare them winners so they could grab their prize and skate. And we couldn't even hate.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

MOST TIMELY COSTUME: THE LEHMAN BROTHERS

Timely. Witty. But you forgot flashy.

MOST UNTIMELY COSTUME: RED SONYA & CONAN

These two could have almost taken the duo prize. But doesn't this guy always walk into Saints dressed like this?

BEST FOOTWEAR: KATE

She made me. And I'm glad.

MOST REALISTIC COSTUME: DEAN

After I took Dean's picture and he slunk off, Frylock's hubby remarked "that guy is depressssssed" loudly as he swung in for his shot. I didn't have the heart to explain to him that Dean had just got hit by a fucking car outside Saints ten minutes prior, and had the gored-up knee to prove it.

THE "THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING" COSTUME: SGT. SLAUGHTER

There's just something about this one that is so amazing. Don't ask me what that something is. And don't try to disagree either.

WHO BIT WHO? MUSTACHIO VS. ANONYMOUS COUPLE

I just hope you all came together.

and of course, it wouldn't be right if I didn't include

SARAH PALIN & MICHELLE OBAMA

OK, maybe the Michelle Obama comparison is a stretch. She would never wear that blouse.

THE COIF DEBATE

Lately, more and more of you have been remarking on the length of my hair. Some of you just flat out laugh and stroke my mane, presumably for good luck, or to get a booger off your hand. Some of you will wave at me from the bar with an expression equal parts smile and facial cringe, a look I'm getting to know better by the day. And others of you dawdle up to me and feign small talk for a bit before asking me about it in as matter-of-fact a tone as your drunk ass can come up with.

So for the record: I'm letting my hair grow because I need to look like an Iranian '80s pop star for a music video I am in the process of shooting. That's right, I am sacrificing my uncommonly good looks at the altar of high art. Which is not to suggest that I don't like my long hair at times. But generally, I think it has gone about half an inch too far. No biggie: it's gonna be worth it in a couple of months when I'm a Youtube sensation.

I'm still about four shoot days away from hopping in Truck's barber chair, but on the plus side, it does give me two to three more weeks to do dumb shit like this to my hair. Blame Rose.

I don't think I'll be doing that too much though. French braids hurt.

Come to think of it, most of you probably haven't seen my music video from last summer. Sum's fair wife Nzinga directed it, and it includes a lot of people and places you doubtless are acquainted with. And yes, I rap. There aren't many things I don't do.

And finally: does anyone have access to a fabulous jacuzzi? I need one for a scene. No, we don't have set insurance. But we only need it for an hour one Saturday. Your tub will be immortalized in the annals of history forever. It will be more famous than that wooden jacuzzi Dirk Diggler was sitting in when he explained his nickname to Burt Reynolds. Mark my words. This shit is gonna be huge. Oh, and we also need a jib, and a bird or exotic animal that can be trained to sit still.

THIS HALLOWEEN @ Saints & Sinners, we present "NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD" (aka "Come Dead, Leave Deader")!!

We know alot of you nerds got your Halloween costume for this year on November 1st, 2007....so we might be too late. But for the rest of the general slackin' populous, NEXT FRIDAY we're throwing the mother of all Halloween parties ..... here's the deal:

Friday, October 31st

10pm-2am

Saints & Sinners 10899 Venice Blvd

All Hell Breaks Loose....

"NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD"

-NOTHIN' BUT MUSIC FROM DEAD PEOPLE, courtesty of your friendly neighborhood laptop jockeys

-DEAD FOLKS COSTUME CONTEST:

Come dressed like your favorite dead person and win some life-threatening prizes, like BOTTLES OF LIQUOR AND A MAKEOUT SESSION WITH ONE OF OUR HAWT BARTENDERS!!!!(yeh bitches, I said hawt.)

How serious is this? We won't even TALK to you if you don't come in the door dead. Matter of fact, we'll put you in a closet with Greg Leonard and make him talk to you for the whole 10-2am time block. We won't even SEE you. You'll be dead to us.

This is gonna be the end of all parties.... you know why??? Cus we're borrowing Jorge's strobelight. And you know how even the most composed grown-up turns into a horny freakbeast when they're drunk, in costume, and in a strobelit bar. Shit starts to get hairy.

We plan on swimmin in hair that night..... you game?

"I Hope"....The Three Part PW Investigative Report: Pt. 1

Weekenders,

Meet Kris. She Hopes. Our lovely and classy friend is a beloved regular at Saints & Sinners, and she Hopes so hard that she inked the inside of her bottom lip with the words "I HOPE".

Webster has a few working definitions of hope, but I think the one that has the most relevance to our investigation is the following:

intransitive verb1: to cherish a desire with anticipation <hope you notice Chip in the background of that picture wearing a clown-fro to a Rambo party>
So this tattoo on our friend's lip got me to thinking about all the times I've talked to the likes of Cooper, Nathan, Jes or any of the Wild Men of Borneo and had a conversation end with one of them saying "I Hope" with a lil bit of a twang on it.
Example #1:Sum: Hey Nathan, thanks for the smoke. I gotta get back inside and get to DJ'in. I'll see you in there.Nathan: (all twangy) I hope....
Example #2:Sum: Jes! Good to see you my man? Let's do a shot! You drinkin?Jes: (dead serious stare, mustache bristling, all twangy) I hope....
Example #3:Sum: Jorge, if you kiss me on my hand again, I'm gonna slap you as hard as I can in your chest.Ian: I hope....Jorge: (laughing and groping everything in sight) Oh my god I love you guys!!!
If you've been hanging around Saints long enough and struck up a convo with any of the aforementioned regulars in the past year or so, you know what I'm talking about. It's pretty much a tribe....a movement of people, if you will, all trumpeting this two-word phrase that speaks volumes and can mean just about anything...two words that can be applied to any conversation or situation you can imagine.
So in this three part expose', we'll tackle the tough questions:How did this start?Where is it going?What's that pot roast smell?Why is the video not on YouTube?Why are these people TATTOOING these words on their bodies?
NEXT WEEK: An insightful interview with the West L.A. founder of the movement, Nathan Hamill (or as we like to call him, Darth Vader's Grandson).

RESTAURANT REVIEW: Parking In Rear

Friends, it's been a long time coming. But last weekend finally saw the opening of Parking In Rear a.k.a. Sofra Kebab Express, the new Mediterranean restaurant on Venice two blocks east of Saints, and yakking distance from my presidential compound. The local ladies amongst you may recall how the $5 clothing store off Westwood that you loved so much was recently kicked the frruck out like a squatter settlement so that the 88-cent store where nothing is 88 cents could move one door to the left. The wall that borders Habib's, that fine purveyor of withered produce, was torn down soon thereafter and the resulting rubble gazed upon for several weeks by numerous men of Arabian descent before construction commenced in earnest on what was described only in whispers: a local kebab and hookah spot.

Alas, it's Muslim-owned, so no alcohol. But that's what Saints is for. Besides, if my last post established anything, it is hopefully the fact that more drinking options are the last thing I need. The cashier at Habib's told me they'd be open until 2am-ish on weekends, which at least for last weekend has not proven to be the case - they were done by 11. But I remain pathetically excited about this addition to my constituency. Gaby's is similar and has later hours, but at six blocks away it might as well be six days away. Besides, the food tastes decent enough, but let's just say it doesn't digest well.

And that's the deciding factor ultimately: the food. Then again, if the last post established anything else, it's the fact that I'll eat anything that's not moving too much. And I'll extend that rule to anything that's not making too much noise as long as it means I don't have to leave my three-block radius. So okay, ultimately the deciding factor for me is NOT the food, but it would be nice if it tasted good.

Being half Middle Eastern, I know my Mediterranean food. And I also know you can't grade a brand new spot in Culver City against a back-alley joint in a three-thousand-year-old Istanbul bazaar without using at least a slight curve. So by that rationale, Parking In Rear is good. Nothing for Zankou or Gypsy Cafe to lose sleep over, but definitely enough to keep you local when you have a hankering for skewers of meat.

To date, I have eaten:

a chicken pita
a lamb pita
an adana kebab sandwich
a falafel plate

and a couple of sides. It all needs more lemon, salt, garlic and olive oil - in short, more flavor - to elevate it from B to A status. Hummus is the yardstick of any Med spot, and here it's curiously unaddictive. And babaganoush is nowhere on the menu.

The prices also need shaving by about 20%. At $4.50 for a regulation espresso-size Turkish coffee, it's strictly for when someone else is paying. They have a ton of interesting-looking sides, but substituting your fries for any of them will get you taxed. For a new restaurant in a working-class neighborhood, they seem a bit deluded with regards to their target demographic.

On the positive side, the adana sandwich is fucking bananas. Do not wear a long-sleeved shirt. The falafels are piping hot, crunchy outside, and soft inside. I haven't tried the lamb shank yet, but it looks promising, largely because I'm a sucker for lamb. And the Turkish coffee may be pricey but it's also perfect.

They're obviously doing something right. It's reasonably busy whenever I pass by. I saw the long-haired guy who lives in one of those green bungalows across Venice and plays his electric guitar all day on his stoop in there twice, and he looks pretty broke. Coppelia's, the Mexican spot two doors down, looks like it's feeling the pinch. I hope they don't go belly up; they do rotisserie chickens for $6.

I guess the only question left now is how long it's gonna be before the cooks start hitting on my sisters.

PALMS NEIGHBORHOOD REPORT

Hello, constituents of Palms. This is your mayor speaking. I had relinquished the title out of shame, after my building's new owners, Monem Co., began their campaign to gentrify me out of my beloved apartment, but since my neighbor Fuji decided to move in exchange for close to 20 grand in relocation money, I got the call from my representative pencilneck to tell me that they were calling the dogs off. And believe me, there was a point in negotiations when I could have taken a fat sum to hit the road myself. But ladies and gentlemen, your mayor is not for sale. I am a servant of the people.

That, or an idiot who turned down 10 grand to continue to live in a neighborhood where sweaty-faced delinquents spray chicken-scratch on your wall in broad-ass daylight. We were watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, for fuck's sake. Fuji claims to have caught the offenders in the act and socked two of them in their respective faces, a claim none of us can verify since we all got word of developments after the Griswolds had shuffled off-screen, but seems plausible enough considering a) Fuji was quite drunk and b) is a complete maniac. He is an ex-gangbanger from the side of L.A. that created the shit, so he takes this kind of thing extremely personally.

Being distantly related to at least one of the suspects, he stumbled down Westwood to bang on the doors of the various "unties" of theirs who normally harbor these whelps when they're not deep in the bowels of juvenile hall. I had to run upstairs and put his wife up to speed, who barrelled out the house, apron on, and brought the hammer of Thor down upon him. I feel no shame for squealing. It's the seventeen-year-olds that will flip and shoot you. They think this is all a video game.

I must be getting old, because I ran these exact streets as a sweaty-faced delinquent, and I've never heard of a P/S BFGC gang. And that was back in the '90s, when being broke was fashionable. Don't the kids want to pretend they're rich now? What is P/S anyway? It's W/S - West Side; E/S - East Side, etc. What the hell is P/S? Pouch Side? Pool Side? Pool Side Gangstas?

Later in the evening a couple of lovely ladies took me to Saints for a couple of tasty drinks, then I hit La Cabana for the pork plate. I was woken around 4am at my sisters' place next door by what was either heartburn, or something that sounded like a spraycan being shaken in the Cafe Brasil parking lot. I walked downstairs to finish the night in my own bed, but not before running into Fuji, who apparently heard the spraycan sound as well, and leapt out of bed, landed in his sneakers, and ran downstairs to catch them in the act.

I'm dead when this guy moves.