Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Homecoming
You've probably guessed it by now. I've been on a weekend shenanigan writing tip. This past weekend was as non-eventful as a John McCain bowel movement. Wait, unless you count Thursday. The partner in crime of the night, Lilia, wrote a dope and funny piece about her adventures with the narrator of these here weepy blog. Check it out... HERE! She said it best so why say it again.
Friday's post work itinerary included a couple October Fest brews with my castrated primo, a Presidential Debate that nearly bored me if it wasn't for the robot posing as someone's great grandfather with cute little T-Rex arms, a Mediterranean salmon dinner and more brew. I was gently buzzing, hella full and tired by midnight.
My sis and Noah came over on Saturday. We all ate, took naps and watched t.v. into the evening. I don't think I've ever kissed a boy this much. Congrats Noah, you had me at BUUUUURRRRP. Raise that fist playa.
Word came later in the day by way of text message that the 35er would be the spot for the night. Lazy as fuck I still wanted to go. What started off as an ex-B.P. double date turned into an Extended Monte Crew Drinking Convention. The trifecta was in full effect: Mary Jane, Osito Panda and So-Fee-Ah among other Garvey Blvd driving professionals. Good times like ol' times. Flashes of 2003 came and went. Kanye and Chris Martin blasted through the speakers and we were back...
For a couple of hours in the 35er basement I was home again.
Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
The night before, my homie Sofia's bro invited my chica and me to his place to watch football on Sunday. I gladly excepted and made the journey to West Co. but not before a stop at my chica's grandma's place for a a classic Mexican breakfast; Chilaquiles, beans, eggs and Heineken Light.
A couple of ice cold Modelo's, a nap and annoying 49er fan chants later we were headed back to L.A. By the way, I thought Raider fans were supposed to be obnoxious idiots and the shithole fans of the NFL? Well, I know of a couple of 49er fans that would make a 100 story elevator ride to the top with Joan Rivers, Donald Trump and the Republican chick from The View seem like a vacation. I thought I was watching the game with the most annoying kid from high school. Wait, I was watching the game with the most annoying kid from high school. Funny thing, the Bronco fan is my favorite of the bunch.
Eh, maybe it was eventful.
On to tonight. I don't think I've ever seen soo many Dodgers hats on people that shouldn't be wearing hats.
Go Dodgers!
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
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Clear Heels Tuesday
A couple of weeks ago I realized I am getting too old to be going out during the week; this excludes Thursdays of course. Haven’t you heard? Thursday is the new Friday. Anyway, for the 4th, 5th or 6th time (I already lost track) in the past two months I went out on a Tuesday night.
I met up with some friends at BJs for grub and hops, with the intention of hitting up a bar or something alike after. My homie Mina has been on serious party mode as of late and up to do just about anthing this city has to offer. Hot spots (Firecracker), not so hot spots (anything on Sunset), lounges, bars and as of Tuesday night, strip clubs are all fair game.
I’ve never been big on the strip club thing; I’d go a step further and say I actually don’t like strip clubs. The sex biz is a funny and lucrative thing but a life threatening diagnosis of blue balls is the last thing on my mind when I’m looking for adulterated fun. Plus, 10th grade was a looooong time ago. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why people frequent the Spearmint Rhinos of the world, I mean we all love a cheap, actually not so cheap thrill, just not at forty bucks a pop; pardon the pun.
Being the ever so loyal friend that I am I sacrificed myself and agreed to go to the aristocratically named Taboo. As we arrived all preconceived notions reemerged, right on queue; like the Dodgers tanking the month of August. It was an all nude joint, so all hope of carrying the semi-buzz from my two Jeremiah Reds was thrown out the window with whatever dignity I had left. Seriously, a strip club on a Tuesday?! My poor grandmother, I wonder what she is thinking of me right now. “Ay no, nino pleve.”
What’s the first sign you’re in a shitty strip club? One of the dancers is out front smoking. I thought to myself, “Mmmm, classy!” Ten bucks and a $6.50 half liter bottle of spring water later we sat at the foot of the dance floor; like a couple of ballers courtside at the Lakers; I looked around for Jack Nicholson, instead there were two paisa dudes quietly sipping cokes and a bald cholo dropping dollar bills like Pacman Jones. “Make it rain playa!” You’d of thought he was dropping twenty dollar bills with that smirk and undeserving sense of entitlement on his face, but I checked and they were indeed one dollar bills.
I only had eight dollar bills on me and I hate to be a shitty patron but I had to make the most out of the little I had. I wasn’t about to break one of the twenties I had in my pocket. “Oh no he didn’t!” There were like six girls in circulation; one of which I thought was pretty hot. At least out of my league hot. Isn’t the point of going to a strip club to introspectively flirt with women way out of your league? I think that’s Rule Number 9 in the “Reasons to go to a strip club” handbook. Anyway, a couple of girls came and went and Mina and I tried to give a couple of bucks to each gal whether we felt they deserved it or not. Then again if you’re getting butt ass naked in front of complete strangers and sticking your butt hole in their collective faces, c’mon people gotta be heartless to not at least throw a buck in the fray. That’s worse than ignoring the homeless guy on the freeway off ramp!
I started to realize all that cool/cheesy lighting is meant for one thing and one thing only. To hide all the pimples, scars, etc etc on these girls’ bodies. It was kind of gross; I mean I totally understand its normal and all that but damn, nudity can be so unforgiving. One girl was kinda yelling at the DJ about the lighting as she was stepping on the dance floor. As she turned around low and behold scars all across her nalgas. Like magic, the light turned a redish purple and voila, an acne free buttocks! My favorite part about the whole experience was watching the girls pick up a “clean up” towel, spray some kind of disinfectant on it and wipe down the pole. Every time a new girl would come up as they’d clean the pole Mina and I would smugly look at each other as if thinking, “Ooooh yea, that’s what I’m talking about. Clean that mutha fucken pole girl!” One girl looked like Amy Winehouse; she kept dancing to these Art Laboe jams too and even had the messy “I just woke up from an eight ball binge” hairstyle. I couldn’t hate, didn’t Amy Winehouse win a Grammy?
Atmosphere’s Dirty Girl blasted through the speakers and as much as I love that silly song, I felt like the dirty boy.
Forty five minutes later I was bored and my spring water brought an unwelcome sleepiness. The rotation of girls had restarted and some frat boy types arrived which meant one thing: it was time to go. We drove home, talked about Mina’s disappointment with the spot; after all it was nothing like Tijuana. I was home by midnight. I toyed with the idea of calling my girl who by now was powering through sleep in Sacramento but didn’t want to wake her.
I dozed into R.E.M., singing in my head… “Dirty, dirty, you’re such a dirty girl. Yeah.”
I met up with some friends at BJs for grub and hops, with the intention of hitting up a bar or something alike after. My homie Mina has been on serious party mode as of late and up to do just about anthing this city has to offer. Hot spots (Firecracker), not so hot spots (anything on Sunset), lounges, bars and as of Tuesday night, strip clubs are all fair game.
I’ve never been big on the strip club thing; I’d go a step further and say I actually don’t like strip clubs. The sex biz is a funny and lucrative thing but a life threatening diagnosis of blue balls is the last thing on my mind when I’m looking for adulterated fun. Plus, 10th grade was a looooong time ago. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why people frequent the Spearmint Rhinos of the world, I mean we all love a cheap, actually not so cheap thrill, just not at forty bucks a pop; pardon the pun.
Being the ever so loyal friend that I am I sacrificed myself and agreed to go to the aristocratically named Taboo. As we arrived all preconceived notions reemerged, right on queue; like the Dodgers tanking the month of August. It was an all nude joint, so all hope of carrying the semi-buzz from my two Jeremiah Reds was thrown out the window with whatever dignity I had left. Seriously, a strip club on a Tuesday?! My poor grandmother, I wonder what she is thinking of me right now. “Ay no, nino pleve.”
What’s the first sign you’re in a shitty strip club? One of the dancers is out front smoking. I thought to myself, “Mmmm, classy!” Ten bucks and a $6.50 half liter bottle of spring water later we sat at the foot of the dance floor; like a couple of ballers courtside at the Lakers; I looked around for Jack Nicholson, instead there were two paisa dudes quietly sipping cokes and a bald cholo dropping dollar bills like Pacman Jones. “Make it rain playa!” You’d of thought he was dropping twenty dollar bills with that smirk and undeserving sense of entitlement on his face, but I checked and they were indeed one dollar bills.
I only had eight dollar bills on me and I hate to be a shitty patron but I had to make the most out of the little I had. I wasn’t about to break one of the twenties I had in my pocket. “Oh no he didn’t!” There were like six girls in circulation; one of which I thought was pretty hot. At least out of my league hot. Isn’t the point of going to a strip club to introspectively flirt with women way out of your league? I think that’s Rule Number 9 in the “Reasons to go to a strip club” handbook. Anyway, a couple of girls came and went and Mina and I tried to give a couple of bucks to each gal whether we felt they deserved it or not. Then again if you’re getting butt ass naked in front of complete strangers and sticking your butt hole in their collective faces, c’mon people gotta be heartless to not at least throw a buck in the fray. That’s worse than ignoring the homeless guy on the freeway off ramp!
I started to realize all that cool/cheesy lighting is meant for one thing and one thing only. To hide all the pimples, scars, etc etc on these girls’ bodies. It was kind of gross; I mean I totally understand its normal and all that but damn, nudity can be so unforgiving. One girl was kinda yelling at the DJ about the lighting as she was stepping on the dance floor. As she turned around low and behold scars all across her nalgas. Like magic, the light turned a redish purple and voila, an acne free buttocks! My favorite part about the whole experience was watching the girls pick up a “clean up” towel, spray some kind of disinfectant on it and wipe down the pole. Every time a new girl would come up as they’d clean the pole Mina and I would smugly look at each other as if thinking, “Ooooh yea, that’s what I’m talking about. Clean that mutha fucken pole girl!” One girl looked like Amy Winehouse; she kept dancing to these Art Laboe jams too and even had the messy “I just woke up from an eight ball binge” hairstyle. I couldn’t hate, didn’t Amy Winehouse win a Grammy?
Atmosphere’s Dirty Girl blasted through the speakers and as much as I love that silly song, I felt like the dirty boy.
Forty five minutes later I was bored and my spring water brought an unwelcome sleepiness. The rotation of girls had restarted and some frat boy types arrived which meant one thing: it was time to go. We drove home, talked about Mina’s disappointment with the spot; after all it was nothing like Tijuana. I was home by midnight. I toyed with the idea of calling my girl who by now was powering through sleep in Sacramento but didn’t want to wake her.
I dozed into R.E.M., singing in my head… “Dirty, dirty, you’re such a dirty girl. Yeah.”
Labels: nightlife
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