blame it on la

Lucky for me it's been a slow week. I'm not sure whether that's good or bad, but its definitely a fact. It's times like these that I know that it's probably time to brace myself for some cataclysmic event that I'm sure will hit me any second. Well, That's just what I've decided to take some preemptive measures to ensure my continued happiness. Like most men, I love drums and I love monkeys. What guy doesn't? What kind of monkeys you ask? Oh, I like 'em all, chimpanzees, orangutans, spider monkeys, smoking monkeys, smoking dung throwing monkeys, and gorillas. Especially, drumming gorillas. Hey man, that's just the way that I'm wired. What better combination to pull me out of the darkness, than a drumming monkey that sells chocolate. Since I'm such a good and giving person, I've decided not to be selfish and share this ancient glee making secret with the rest of the world. I'm not sure I'll ever be unhappy again. There's really not much more I can say about this.
I rest my case. I really have been waiting for this moment all my life.

There comes a time in everyone's life, when you realize that maybe it's time to stop complaining and maybe just suck it up. You say to yourself, "I'm just going to make the best of my current situation." Maybe you like music and you want to start throwing out Fred Durst aka Wordsworth quotes, "Time can change me, but I can't change time, so F it!" Yes, I know that's not how the original song goes, take it up with Fred! In this particular case, I came to that conclusion a few weeks ago. I felt as though I'd finally run out of negative things to say about Los Angeles, which I took as a bit of a breakthrough. I felt myself moving past my initial anger and bitterness and I felt a big smoggy, dusty weight being lifted off of my ever so slight shoulders. Not gonna lie, it felt kind of good, if not a tad bit on the fleeting side. While I knew never to allow myself to get complacent, I did maybe allow myself to verbally compliment the city or at least something about it once or twice.

Now, I'm not the most trusting person in the world, in fact I like to proceed with caution. Yet, because things had been running so smoothly I didn't look at the break in my string of bad luck as the "Calm Before The Storm" that it was. Instead, I skipped and frolicked along as though I'd finally won the battle of LA and I was now enjoying the spoils of my victory! I was getting the peace and clarity I so richly deserved, since I'd never done anything to make LA hate me the way it does. I felt triumphant in the fact that I'd finally made this city my bitch or at least my booty call. So you can imagine my surprise Tuesday morning, when I bounced out of my apartment, Vitamin Water and yogurt in hand, off to spend another fine day breaking up marriages. While whistling a happy tune and bounding down the sidewalk toward my beloved car, I began to make a mental list of all the ways a wife can call her husband a loser. It was only then that I happened to catch a glimpse of my car across the street. My car is silver, but i couldn't help notice that the silver seemed to be complimented by some specifically placed industrial orange that just shouldn't have been there. I knew immediately what it was, in fact it was so obvious and inevitable, I don't think I even bothered cursing about it. My car had sooo been booted!

Ok. Seriously. I know that there are parking issues in pretty much every major metropolitan area. New York is a meter maid's wet dream, Boston keeps its workers in shape by having them run outside every two hours to feed the meters. But there is something shady about the way LA does it's ticket business. You may be thinking "Hey Jackass! Quit bitching, you should have paid your tickets." To that I say "whatever dude." I'm like OJ Simpson and I don't believe the rules apply to me. Besides, half my tickets were bogus. Um, a ticket for not having my car registered? Not true. A ticket for not having my parking pass on display? What's that in the window douche bag? The fact is the system is backwards and I just can't get with their big dumb "ticket you for no reason policies." As far as contesting the bogus tickets? I already said the rules don't apply to me! Maybe I did owe for the other three tickets, but that's neither here nor there. The fact is I guess the boot saved my life, because I was starting to get comfortable, at least now I remember, LA will never be my friend.

BIt's been a slow week. Ok, sure, there were a few earth shattering events. Britney Spears taught us that you really can't go home again, at least not if you've just polished of an Ambien, Xanax, and Oxycontin cocktail or two. I've certainly learned a few things about bikini sizing, which I appreciate. We were also treated to a new season of "The Biggest Loser" which NBC inexplicably debuted on September 11th, random? Only if you say so. But hey, that's all kid stuff when you think about what really happened this week! The world's most famous aquitted celebrity Killer, OJ Simpson came crashing back on the scene! That guy's publicist is clearly working overtime. First, his extraordinary and flawless "fictional" account of Nicole Brown-Simpson and Ronald Goldman's brutal, foresicaly prestine murder has managed to climb to the number one position on Amazon.com! Way to go OJ! It just proves that with hard work, a stunning lack of self-awareness, bad knees, and a kitchen knife, you can accomplish even the what may seem at the time to be the most impossible of goals.

The thing with OJ, is that as a professional athlete, he clearly has the heart of a champion. He's no Britney! Oh no! OJ knows that you have to go big or go home! If you didn't come to win, don't come at all, and I have to say that I admire that about him. When you want a proper comeback, you can't just lethargically wander around a stage lip-syncing in your underwear, heck no, especially if your not new to the fame game. Established stars need an event, something hot, something no one else at your level has done before. I've certainly had my share of wacky ideas, but wow OJ. I have to say that breaking into a hotel room with two thugs while running your own "Sting Operation" falls just this side of genius. Quite honestly, if I heard someone had one of my suits and was planning to sell it, I might be tempted to do the same. Go big or go home people! Sure, OJ may be a double murderer, with a funny limp, a pumpkin head, and a loose grip on reality, but seriously I have to admire his tenacity. I'm just waiting for his next project, I hear it's an album of ballads produced by Phil Spector.

Ok, whoa! Let's start by saying that I'm not afraid of a little warm weather. I'd also like to state that even though I don't use Compact Fluorescent Bulbs, I do live a "mentally" green lifestyle, I've thought about recycling and I even stayed home and watched the "Live Earth" concerts all the way through. Point is I like to think I've done my part to combat global warming. Which is why I was so caught off guard by the Mercury-esque temperatures that have been baking Los Angeles all this week, broiling both small animals and senior citizens alike.

I thought that my African heritage, coupled with my generous endowment of melanin would have helped prepare me to endure what others might call "extreme" temperatures. But triple digits?! That's taking it to a whole new level which by the way is bordering on unnecessary. Seriously, it's enough to make me wish I hadn't hosted all of those Styrofoam bonfires back in the eighties.

Before I came to the West Coast, I had some preconceived ideas of what the weather here was like. I was led to believe that the temperature in LA, this city with no personality, no natural water source, and most conspicuously, no seasons, was always a balmy 77 degrees. What I wasn't told is that there would be weeks I would be trapped in my apartment because going outside would nullify my medical insurance for ignoring the heat advisory. Turns out they don't tell you everything in those travel brochures!

Warm weather is nice, fire and brimstone, not so much. Heat doesn't bother me, but feeling like Hell just opened up a theme park does. It's times like these that it occurs to me that global warming is a real thing. Even worse, it makes me wish I'd gone a little easier on the "Brut" in the eigth grade. What have I done?

Holy Cow! It's been a while. Don't hate, I haven't gone anywhere, even the most prolific writers have to take breaks from time to time. What? Do you think Judy Blume publishes a book every week! I'm sure she took a little hiatus after "Are you there God? It's Me, Margaret." I know I would have. It is a masterpiece after all. I'll have to look into that. If you're gonna go the extreme route and assume that I've been at the compound in Michigan training with the militia and preparing for the war against the "mud people," then once again, you're dead wrong. The truth is I was a little depressed, totally uninspired and probably a little lazy. I took some time to hibernate and stay in bed for days at a time. Self pity is awesome if you want to catch up on some sleep. Don't worry, It wasn't a total loss, I learned a lot. I did some research and built a mock crack den in my living room, sans crack of course. It was more of a decorating motif. Don't believe me? Just you watch! Everyone is going to be doing "early crack den" next year. When you walk into your friend's house and there are a dozen empty water bottles on the coffee table, two weeks worth of mail on the couch, 5 pairs of assorted shoes and socks on the floor, and a gaggle of empty wine bottles everywhere, just remember who started that. You heard it hear first people. So it's time to climb from the depths and out of my hole. I've decided to burn my sheets, kick the tissue boxes off of my feet, cut my nails back 8 inches, and trim my beard so I can donate it to "Locks of Love." Helping kids makes me feel good. Turns out being sad kind of blows, and I'm kinda over it. Of course there's one fact that will never change, LA Sucks, but since it's so good at sucking, maybe i can finally make it my bitch! Hallelujah Hollaback!

There will never be a time that I like this city, that's just a given. However, every now and then something cool does happens here. I would say this is top secret, but it's common knowledge to anyone who knows, me. Yes, I have a soft spot for hair metal. I can't help it, there's just something about listening to songs that are only about partying and disillusioned young girls turning into prostitutes moments after they stepped off the bus, that just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Hey people, I still sport my Poison shirts with pride and without a hint of irony. Thank you very much!

It is with this state of mind that I recount a story as well as a mystery that I discovered this past weekend. It was last Saturday and I decided that instead of feeling sorry for myself at home, I may as well take my victim act on the road. It was about 90 degrees and as I like to do on such days, I thought to myself "Let me do what I always do when it's nice out. Get drunk outside." Clearly outdoor drinking is one of my favorite past times, but there was a dilemma, where to go? I jumped in my car and decided to waste some gas while cruising for the appropriate spot to accomplish my mission. Here comes the good part. While driving down the Sunset Strip, I past the world famous Whiskey-A-Go-Go and almost caused a 228 car pile up when I saw the marquee. The sign read "CRUEFEST." There was no information, so I sped home and looked it up (like I always do) and found out it was an all day concert featuring bands who have been "influenced" by hair metal Gods, Motley Crue! That's pretty much all I needed.

I threw on my best conservative "I'm so down with this scene, no really, I am" outfit that may have involved some jeans and a motorcycle t-shirt and made my way back to the hair metal mecca in the heart of Hollywood. I could't believe my luck when I got there as the band who was on "Rock-N-Roll Junkies" were playing nothing but Crue covers. I later found out that the lead singer was actually the son of Motley Crue lead singer Vince Neil, which I thought was kind of weird. Does anyone else think it's strange for the son of a still touring and recording rock star to be in a band that only plays covers of his father's music? That's neither here nor there, because as creepy as it was, they were pretty darned good. In fact, all the bands i saw that night were good, some of them even had their own songs don'tcha know.

So what's the mystery you ask? Well, One thing I know, is that the Sunset Strip is basically a time capsule and on Saturday night, when you enter the zone, you're pretty much crossing the line back into 1985. I'm not sure where these people come from with their teased hair, snakeskin spandex, cowboy boots, and fringe jackets, but they're there, and there are a lot of them. Hey, that's cool too. What blew me away was the amount of What I can only describe as Hair Metal Grandmas that I saw. Nope, not joking, these ladies in their late 40's and 50's decked out like they were 17. I swear I stood behind a woman in a thigh length skirt and halter top who was straight up BALDING! Oh, there's more, I've always known about mom jeans, but mom leather pants...with spiked belts?!?! C'mon grams, I asked you not to go out like that! I don't hate on any of these people, but holy cow they're funny. Again, I really just want to know where they come from. Sure i'm making fun of them, but the truth is, they actually fit in much better than I did, which is also scary. I suppose in the end, I have to give props to those who live their lives with no apologies, I guess I could even take a lesson or two from them. Unfortunately, i don't know where to find them during the week. Sigh.

Wow! What a week! LA never ceases to amaze me! I have to wonder how this city does it. How exactly does it take and transform seemingly normal people into morons that apparently have no sense; common or otherwise. Up until now I guess I've been too wrapped up in my own personal pity party to really pay attention, but it seems to me that LA has a unique ability to destroy almost everyone it touches. Fascinating.

Now I'm not the type to laugh at other people's misfortune. Hey, I don't even laugh when old people fall, and the last thing I want to do is give this place credit for entertaining me. I will admit however, the recent Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan drama has been more than a little amusing, even if it does just prove that LA really is the devil! Let's add up all the factors. Neither one of these ladies are LA natives, they've both been rumored to have talent, but most importantly they both managed to score Awesome magazine covers this week!

It's not all fun and games though. You know that whenever I finally get excited, something always has to come through and throw a monkey wrench in my program. Um, what's up with Lindsay trying to blame her late night drag race on the random black guy?! So lame Lindsay, so lame. In fact, I can only thnk of one thing lamer. Do I have to bust out the Marky Mark?

Charles was the culprit
The whole plot was an insurance scam
Charles and his brother came up with a plan
Kill Carol, collect a big check
Blame it on a black man, what the heck?

Fine, on the surface it looks like those lyrics have nothing to do with anything. Unless you have the foresight to look at the bigger picture. If there's one thing Marky Mark has always been good at, it's predicting the future! I'm pretty sure he knew the Funky Bunch was going to break up way before they did. Unfortunately fo these poor young ladies, the real issue is that according to The Oracle, or Mr. Mark, it seems that either Britney or Lindsay is going to end up killing someone for some insurance money. I'm not sure how we stop that, or which one it will be, but my money's on Britney, so watch out Sean Preston. Then again, it's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that a lady who pees with the door open and eats fried chicken could ever have anything but love (and cholesterol) in her heart. So I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Ok LA, it turns out you're an angry and vengeful mistress aren't you? You know, When I shook my fists and challenged you to show me what was next, I didn't think you'd take me seriously. I thought maybe maybe you'd raise my rent, or dent my car. I'm gonna be honest, I didn't think you were going to kill my cat! Didn't see that one coming. Well played, LA. Well played. That's just low, even for a crap dustbowl of a city with subpar mass transit such as yourself. Sure LA, you may feel smug, what with your hybrid cars, your perpetual sunshine, and your increasingly supicious phalanx of tanning salons, but you still can't bring me down. In fact, you have unwittingly bonded me with one of the most influential people in this country, possibly the world. That person would be the one and only, Oprah Winfrey. Very sloppy, LA. Thank you.

I've been grieving the loss of my cat, "Stone" for a few weeks now. We'd been buddies for 12 years, and clearly she didn't like it here either. Just a little background, Stone and I were basically bonded from her conception, when her pregnant street cat mother used to come to my window from the backstreets and barrios of Boston and harass my then cat "X." Eventually pregnant feral mommy disappeared and one night in her place I was greeted by a palm sized kitten crying at my window. The rest is history, albiet a somewhat abbreviated version. Stone was always a skinny and I like to think very fit cat, until I got her fixed. Almost immediately after I heeded Bob Barker's sage advice to spay and neuter my pet, she ballooned into the fattest, coolest, and friendliest cat ever and that's how she stayed until about 3 months ago when Inoticed she started losing weight, hiding, and peeing on my floor. The Doctor told me she had a very aggressive form of cancer and there was very little if anything they could do to help her. Over the next 3 weeks she got progressively worse and one night as I was contemplating taking her to be evaluated, she tried to jump on my bed, but couldn't make it, so she sat next down next to my bed and took her last breaths. You can imagine my horror the next morning when I awoke to find my friend lifeless on my bedroom floor. Even though I knew it was coming, nothing could have prepared me for that.

Just when I thought I was all alone and no one would relate, and no one could possibly have it worse than me, I turned on the news and saw that my sister from another mother (ok stepsister), Oprah Winfrey recently lost her beloved (not the movie) golden retriever "Gracie." Far be it for me to try to make light of a painful situation, but the first thing that came to mind was "OMG, I am so glad I wasn't the dog walker who let Oprah's dog choke to death on a plastic ball." I'm guessing she's training dogs in Siberia by now. Secondly, I thought "Damn, wish I published a magazine so the world could know my private pain." Or something like that. But sadly in the end I thought.."OMG, Oprah and I are bonded for life!" As any self respecting person (and there aren't many in the talk show game) will tell you, working for Oprah is the Holy Grail! Nothing short of an act of God can get you into the hallowed halls of Harpo and that's a fact, but now I finally have an in. I'm pretty sure after I relate my story to the Queen, all while carrying both a copy of the latest "O" and a picture of my cat, I'll be well on my way to a place called "Credibility Road" in a utopia called "Harpo Studios."

So thanks again LA, and nice try. I'm not dumb enough to keep challenging you, but I'm not quite ready to call a truce yet either. I'll end by saying "Goodbye Stone." And although I never knew her, "Goodbye Gracie." I'll see you soon Oprah, we'll be talking pets in no time, but please go easy on that dog walker. It was probably her first three or four years on the job.

So, before I came out to this western wasteland also known as LA, I'd heard about this mythical beast that some refer to as "California Casual." Let me explain. First, as I spend my days beating dead horses, I come from the east coast. When you go out in New York City, there is almost always a dress code that's just the way that it is. Turns out it's not like that here. Who knew that as long as you look relatively clean you can get into almost anyplace you want. Ok, i'm down with that. First of all, as a single man, I may or may not do laundry as often as I should, but other than that, I like to think of myself as a chill dude, I like to be comfortable when I go out, so the CC look is right up my little black alley. I was cool until 2 days ago that is. Let me set the stage. I was bored, and alone, and fiending for a little social contact. Is that so wrong? Does that make me a bad person? I only ask because I did a little research and my sources tell me that wanting to get drunk outdoors in the daytime fits perfectly into the "ok you're pretty cool" column.

On this very ordinary and sunny LA afternoon, I sauntered into my local watering hole to do what I do best. That would be "get my drink on". I was stoked to order my beer and have the bartender ask me for $2.75, score one for the black man! Who knew it was happy hour!? Feeling, sexy, thrifty and oh so very, very thirsty, I decided to take my tasty beverage outside to enjoy the California sun and some of the best darned smog this side of Milan. I took a seat next to an amorous couple who clearly needed a room and proceeded to drink my beer as I checked out the sights and sounds of Santa Monica Boulevard. I hadn't sat down for more than five minutes when a gentleman clad in a green windbreaker walked past me, made his way up the stairs of the balcony and plopped himself down right next to me. Since I'm only interested in talking to the ladies while I'm on loser patrol or "socially lubricated me time" as I like to call it, I didn't give my bar mate a second look. Until he started talking to himself. Hey man, that's cool. Self expression is always cool. Not gonna lie, I wasn't concerned until my man started drinking the drinks that people who'd been there before him had left behind. It was a full on "Hey man, do you mind if I lick out your glass?" situation. I continued to watch as my bar buddy began beg the other patrons to smoke the butt of their last clove cigarette. I kept my head down and then witnessed my bro start shooting snot rockets over the balcony into the street. Since I'm somewhat of a modern day super hero, I used my superior peripheral vision to take another look at "Mucus Man" and as I checked his dirty hands and three pairs of pants he was wearing, it slowly occurred to me that the reasonably dressed man next to me was not a California Casual hipster at all, but in fact a homeless man.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm as liberal as the next guy and I believe that everyone is entitled to a standard of living. All I'm saying is that at that moment, it felt to me that maybe California might want to reign in and revise their standards of dress to get into certain venues. I'm no elitist mind you, my standards are simple. It seems to me that if a person rolls up to a bar with a shopping cart, you might want to take a second look at that patron...hey that's just me. If said "customer" is wearing seven layers of clothing with mix matched shoes in July...once again...it might be time ot evaluate. If you notice your patron, walking down the bar and slurping down the foam from leftover beers, he may not be as hip as you think people. That's just my reality. My point is, at the end of the day all I could think was "WTF? Freakin' California Casual...LA you've done it again!"

Fortunately I've never been homeless and I'd hate to live a life where people cringe at the sight of me and overtly switch seats when I'm around, but hey man, I'm not paying $2.75 to hear some one's thoughts on being the new Messiah! California casual indeed. What else does this city have to offer? What's next? No seriously, I'm really curious.

The word on the street is that LA is the place to be. At least, that's what I'd been told all my life. Me personally, I'm an east coast kind of guy and never had any real plans to move here. That was until the ugly spectre of unemployment reared it's head. Not gonna lie, that guy can make you do some wacky things. Now it's two years later and I've lost an awesome New York apartment, a lucrative, but soul crushing job, my girlfriend, my self respect, and my desire to interact with people. I'm sure I've got plenty more to lose before this year is over. I've done the requisite one year adjustment period that I've been told is the norm to embrace this place and I still can't seem to find love for earthquake central. Ahhhh, solitude, our love/hate relationship is so very complicated, you're always so coy with your siren song that goes something like this "You just need some me time, man!" It's only then that I crash up on your jagged rocks of loneliness and realize that you're kind of full of it. Ok, holy mellodrama! It's not that bad, really.

So here we are, July fourth. Has this day ever fallen on a Wednesday? It seems almost rude for the calender to plant this day in the middle of the week, forcing us all to stay relatively sober on one of summer's most anticipated drinking days. In order to function at work on Thursday. It's almost annoying that there isn't someone in charge of holiday scheduling, because true to the American way, I would fully write them a strongly worded letter to have them place our nation's Birthday on a weekend where it belongs in addition to getting some sort of refund! That's just something I'd do for the people, as I do love to give back. Sadly that's not an option, so I suppose we'll all have to deal.