Wednesday, September 24, 2008
White Tank Tops
My Friday evenings usually begin at 5:30PM with a bee line from Koreatown/Silver Lake to the big brown comfy couch at home for an hour nap and some psychological debriefing. This Friday, it began with a 6 week old but always familiar route through downtown L.A. and into the S.G.V. I’ve yet to find a barber in my neighborhood; actually I haven’t even looked for one. I’ve been going to the same barber since I was 16 (that’s 14 years for those keeping score) and have no intention of changing that. Why make the every two week trek to El Monte? I’ve got a dozen reasons. Besides, my barber has become an extended member of my friends. He doesn’t just cut my hair; he’s a sports analyst, movie critic, philosopher, comedian, political pundit, El Salvadorian ambassador, automotive expert, black market broker and psychologist/family therapist. The $9 + $3 tip = $12 price tag is a small price to pay for 15-20 minutes with such a multi-faceted human being.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
I had tickets to the Dodger game on Friday. Having sprung a last minute invitation on my friend Sofia, I wasn’t sure if she was going to come through and figured I’d go see my little nephew and sister if Dodger Blue wasn’t in my immediate future. A confirmation and haircut later I jet to my sister’s place to get a quick Noah fix. “First pitch be damned” bounced off the walls in my cranium. I got home just in time to shower and dress seconds before Sofia called and said she was out front. We got to the Ravine, threw back a couple of Dos XX and made our way to our seats only to get a serious hook up from our friend Nicole. We went from Reserve Level seating to sitting three rows from the field and about twenty yards from Manny Ramirez. ‘Twas the start of a beautiful night on the last Friday of summer ’08. Somehow we ended up with club access to some bar/restaurant in the stadium I had never even seen. A few brews and a hunting vs. vegetarianism conversation later, Sofia and I found ourselves in a damn near empty parking lot. We decided to cap the night off with a stop at a bar two blocks from my place.
Now, my neighborhood is relatively safe. Trust me, there are white folks named Todd and Bea that live in my building. There was a freakin’ bunny in my yard last night, a bunny! But damn. I was feeling a bit adventurous and thought we should go to Dusty’s Sports Bar on Figueroa. As I had mentioned in my last posting, I walked by last Friday and saw a handful of questionable characters. What do I mean by that? Tattoos on a couple of bald heads and old men in flannel shirts. Get my drift? Anyway, I had consumed at least five beers at this point and was pretty damn spirited to say the least. As I’m walking to the entrance I see a group of guys standing out front just kinda hanging out. I approached the group and saw wet drops on the concrete leading up to a pool of blood as large as a small doormat. To this I said aloud, “What the fuck is that!?” I hadn’t noticed there was a guy holding his side and on a cell phone, who reluctantly said, “It’s my blood homes, I just got stabbed.”
Now I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life and have yet to see a person that was currently involved in a stabbing one way or the other. All of this guy’s cholo buddies were just standing around puffing away on their ciggies as if their bleeding friend was lining up a 2AM booty call and not on the phone with a 911 operator. I looked at an astonished Sofia and said, “Dude, want to go somewhere else?” I’m not sure if the absurdity of it all of or the osmotic desensitization caused her to say, “Let’s have ONE drink.” An hour later I was in my living room watching Family Guy as I waited for my chica to bring me some late night drunk grub; precious bodily fluids intact.
Saturday was as boring as any ‘ol kid-pretending-to-be-an-adult work less Tuesday. My living room played host to a vegetarian burrito breakfast, a couple of naps and a pant less afteroon until the shower bug bit, the chica arrived and sushi hunger struck. Them belly full, but they sleepy.
Sundays are almost always all good. Except when you wake up early to check the latest NFL injury report, confidently update your fantasy football line-up, watch your favorite transplanted football team cock tease you worse than Laura Cipres did at your last 8th grade dance at Potrero. What’s worse, both of my relevant fantasy football teams lost; my main team losing by one unforgiving point. All I could think was, “Gee, did I just wake up to the filming of Radiohead’s music video for Let Down?”
Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I woke up today to a surreal summer morning at the start of fall. The beautiful girls from my teenage years will wean themselves off those marvelous white tank tops, the Hollywood Bowl has downgraded its mystique, the stream of cars outside my window no longer sound like concrete waves but like desolate piano keys trying to get home one frustrated driver at a time. The Fall is here.
Labels: baseball, Dodgers, fall, fantasy sports, Los Angeles, nightlife
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