I had taken to meeting all my blind dates at the same spot: Abbot’s Habit in Venice. It worked out well for the most part. Walkable options were bountiful. Best of all, the staff never gave me shit for showing up and meeting some random two-to-three times a week.

We were done with our coffees and we had just walked four short blocks down Abbot Kinney, towards Main. There was nothing more to see and little more to say, but she wasn’t ready to drive back to Long Beach just yet.

“Isn’t there another place over there on Main where we can just read or something?”

“Yeah there’s a decent café over there. It has a bunch of inappropriately-named dishes. Like, one’s named after Todd Bridges, one’s called the dimebag, something like that. And then they also have coffee and juice drinks you can take upstairs to the room where they have the AA meetings.”

“What’s it called?”

“It’s called Van Gogh’s Ear…”

“Vangozear?”

“Van Gogh’s. Ear. Oh hell let’s just go there. We can walk from here.”

She laughed.

Upstairs on our second coffee. She thumbed through the Weekly as I glanced down at Main Street sporadically for lack of anything better to do.

“Ha, Mike Watt. Playing a very tiny place. Do you listen to Mike Watt? Oh, the Sea and Cake! Do you like those guys?”

“Don’t think I know ‘em.”

“Their music is completely… nonintrusive. It’s perfect – seriously perfect – just to work to, paint, whatever. That album The Fawn is probably the best one.

“The Fond?”

“Yeah. The Fawn.”

Following this date I immediately purchased two Sea and Cake albums.

Some weeks later we resurfaced at a driving range near CSULB to shank some balls. That would be the last time I would see her for at least a year. I caught up with her in Chinatown once. Years later I would run into her again at the Hammer Museum.

Though I’d seen and enjoyed Sam Prekop at This Ain’t No Picnic a full year before the date outlined above, I didn’t make the connection to the band until after this fateful day. Color me hooked: I now have their full catalog, all of Sam Prekop’s solo material and a bookshelf full of Archer Prewitt’s cartoons in my living room. To this day that distinct, airy Chicago sound triggers an immediate vibe in my subconscious: Venice, early summer, too much coffee, the awkwardness of a blind date.

The Sea and Cake play the Troubadour May 19 and 20.

When my mother found out I had finally taken the plunge and waxed my underarms and legs, her first question was, “Who did you go to?” When I told her I’d gone to the lady that works in the back of my local nail parlor, she was less than approving. The leg hairs ARE going a bit unevenly, but I’ve heard this is to be expected. When the conversation moved to bikini waxing, she told me that there is only one place in town to go: Sylvia at Sweet Dreams on Ventura Blvd. According to her, it’s the best ‘Brazilian’ in town.

I have avoided waxing this particular area for a few reasons. First of all, it’s a sensitive area. Slathering wax on one’s outer labia and yanking out all the hair doesn’t sound like a good time. Secondly, I don’t care for the look of a waxed crotch–it sort of creeps me out. Aesthetically, I am a strong supporter of the “70’s bush”.

There is one reason for waxing that I find rather compelling…hygiene. I’ve been told that the ‘Brazilian’–removing ALL the hair from ‘down there’– leaves you feeling unbelievably clean. Now, I am a bit of a clean freak and I’m a sucker for any product that claims to freshen my linens, kill germs anywhere and everywhere, remove odors from my carpet or pull pollution from my pores. Keeping a tidy snatch seems logical enough.

I call to make an appointment with Sylvia, feeling very brave. I explain to her my reasons for wanting to go with the full ‘Brazilian’ but that I really didn’t want to be completely bald or worse, rock a ‘landing strip’ She was very understanding and explained that we could easily wax everything underneath and keep the front looking natural. Perfect!

The morning of my appointment, I feel suddenly neurotic about my cooch. Comparing the experience to a gynecological check up isn’t working. Steeling my nerves, I march into Sweet Dreams, a house-turned-beauty salon.

It’s actually pretty cozy inside, but I am still too nervous to appreciate it. Slyvia walks down the stairs with what appears to be a satisfied customer. She smiles at me and invites me upstairs. I suddenly have to pee. “Just go, you sissy!” I think, and follow this pleasant woman up the curved staircase. She can tell I am a bit jittery. “Don’t worry,” she assures me, “I’ve been doing this for 21 years”

Once we are in her room, she asks me remove my pants and lie down. I stiffly oblige.
“So,” she asks as she spreads the warm, gooey wax along my bikini line, “how’s your mom? I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“Oh, uh….she’s fine. She lives in–“ Sylvia pulls the first strip. It stings, but is not nearly as painful as a leg wax. I tell her so. “I agree. Legs are really sensitive!” She continues to pull out my hair and we resume chatting about my mother. I know I’ve reached a new level of absurdity when I find myself describing my mother’s new house as wax is smeared across my anus. Sylvia makes me feel as though this is all perfectly normal and is finished much faster than I had expected. She trims up a few unruly hairs from the patch she’s left in the front.

“What do you think?” she asks. The areas she’s waxed glow an angry red and there is a substantial tuft to keep me feeling as though I’ve still got a bush. It feels so…clean. It’s exactly what I wanted and I tell her so. She leads me downstairs to pay $30 and tells me to come back when my leg hair has evened out.

So there you have it: If you are in the market for a quick and professional wax with minimal pain, call Sylvia. Be sure to tell her my mom says, “Hello”.

Sweet Dreams
(818) 995-4247
13528 Ventura Blvd
Sherman Oaks, CA

Up to bat: PhotoJanitor tells his side of the tale……

Let’s back up a bit. From the initial posting on the site to the actual date, I had garnered some underground fame. Someone stopped me at the gym, having recognized my eyeless face. A friend of a friend asked Isn’t that [redacted]? Some homeless guy on the street looked into my car and asked for change and an autograph. It was a quite a trip for three days, though the zenith of this whole stunt was still to come.

Above: Escort and charge enjoy La Bodeguita De Pico (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

I had made verbal contact with #2 and I made sure she wasn’t Karl Rove’s niece. Check. Actually, she sounded rather pleasant, which was a welcome respite from what I might have had to undergo had some of you’s gotten your way. We agreed to meet at the Little Wine Cellar and we were on our way.

From the first minute of our dinner at La Bodeguita, it was clear that it would be a harmonious evening in which conversation would flow and stories would be told.

Case #1: Requisite stories of our past. I used to teach pre-school. One of the kids, during nap time, had a certain predilection towards masturbation. It’s true and, apparently, pretty normal for little girls. What’s not normal is talking about it on your first date, but, then again, neither is being an escort.

The food came, as did the mojito’s. I had the Picadillo a la Habanero, or ground beef marinated and slow cooked in a garlic, onion and tomato sauce. She had Ropa Viejo, or Old Clothes. The food was great, though its deliciousness was somewhat tempered by the fact that semi-erotic images of the owner’s beautiful wife hung directly across from me. Now, I have no problem staring at beautiful women, but looking at these portraits/paintings/life size Cuban Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition cutouts felt like she was cheating on owner man/husband with me. Plus, I was on a date, which was going swimmingly until we were visited by certain patrons of a certain website.

Case #2: Apparently, #2’s momma and poppa still like to get busy. Excellent.

As we were talking someone surreptitiously sidled up to our table. She placed a blank white business card on the edge of our meal and ran out of the restaurant. I turned it over and it read simply “Losanjealous,” in plain black letters. We were tagged, were seen, were possibly being watched and had been/will be the entire night. Though we never quite reached paranoia levels, we were certainly mindful of the eyes that drifted towards us.

After dinner we decided to check out the local watering hole: The Cottage. Crossing the street, we narrowly missed a cop car that seemed like it appeared out of nowhere, a la Timecop. Quick to escape the law, we ran into the bar. As I walked in, I knew it was going to be a trip as me and #2 were the only whitey’s in there…perfect! We sat down and Mr. Bartender, all done up in a belly button length tie, pimp hat and matching pimp vest and fingernails FloJo would be happy with, handed over a Mai-Tai and a whiskey. From that point we decided to forgo a certain promised musical end to the evening due to both our laziness and the fact that it was well into the set by that point.

Above: Escort and charge enjoy The Cottage Bar on Pico (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

Instead we drank the night away, which ended at Swingers by which point we had already done three lines of coke off of each other and smoked and drank each other silly. No, wait, sorry, I was just thinking about what would have happened were my life like Ben Stiller’s in Permanent Midnight.

At the end of the evening I gave her the requisite escort kiss on the cheek and was on my home until…thump! I looked behind me and there, lying in the road, was a body face down on the pavement with a stack of white business cards in her hand. They were watching the whole time…

EscortWatch 2007: Read on…
The contest is announced
The details are solidified
The finalists are presented
The winner is chosen

First Up: Contestant #2 tells her side……

Above: Escort and charge enjoy La Bodeguita De Pico (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

I must admit that, as shocked and humbled as I was to win, I expected to be much more nervous than I actually was, especially since I was a blind-date virgin. I attribute my composure, in part, to the fact that I knew what PSJ would look like, in part, whereas he had foolishly agreed to spend an entire evening with a potential ogress. As I conducted my pre-date primp, I felt pretty confident in knowing I would at least start out with points on the board, since there was a better-than-average chance that PSJ’s first impression would be something along the lines of, “thank God she’s got all 10 digits and a full set of teeth.”

On that note, I feel it’s my duty to disclose to you all that the redacted portion of PSJ’s face is just as dashing as the rest of the picture. Of course, I must admit that I fantasized that maybe he’d be sporting an eye patch behind that big black rectangle, or, even better, have a wild case of lazy-eye, because that’s just crazy hot…but I digress.

PSJ was a perfect gentleman throughout the evening, opening doors, allowing me to be seated first at the table, etc. Very chivalrous. La Bodeguita’s cuisine was delectable and their waiters attentive, and the live music nicely complemented (but didn’t overpower) the conversation. We ordered mojitos, of course, because ‘when in Rome Havana’

Our conversation was so engrossing (little-known fact: PSJ enjoys using the word ‘dank’ in everyday vernacular, yet he spent his childhood in neither OC nor SD) that we didn’t leave the restaurant until well after 9. Alas, by that point the schlep out to the concert was far from appealing, since we had at that point already missed a significant portion of the set. So, we stayed local and hit up the Cottage just across the street. Stiff drinks, fedora-rockin’ bartender, and Boyz II Men on blast: what more could one ask for in a bar? Again, more gabbing over drinks (I stuck with rum, while PSJ switched to whiskey; what a champ) was followed by a spot of gambling. The stakes: Pie & milkshakes at Swingers. The wager: raining outside = on me, no rain = on PSJ’s dime. I won. ::woot::

Above: Escort and charge enjoy Swingers Diner (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

Well, Losanjealous readers, I’m still not sure why you ultimately decided to put your confidence in me to take full advantage of the opportunity so graciously offered by this wonderful website; but I had an unforgettable evening – even sans indierojc – and I only have you all to thank for it. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Forever yours,
Contestant #2

EscortWatch 2007: Read on…
The contest is announced
The details are solidified
The finalists are presented
The winner is chosen

1) UCB’s a great theatre and good fun. I give UCB the thumbs up.

2) UCB veteran Paul Scheer is funny. I saw him at the UCB New York a few years ago. I give Paul Scheer the thumbs up, even when he’s hidden behind a Vader mask and his voice is muffled. However…

3) The 10pm Darth and Kevin Vader Show was not too hot. I give Darth and Kevin the thumbs down. A few laughs but largely vapid. I shan’t dwell on it, but I was promised the following:

Los Angeles, CA-January 4, 2007- You are Invited to a Live Taping of the Darth Vader Talk Show! Everyone from Endor to Outer Gungan Knows that there is only one Dark Ruler of Late Night TV, Darth Vader. Join Darth and Kevin Vader (His younger 1/2 brother) for a special episode of their interplanetary award winning nightly talk show celebrating Star Wars. As always they are joined by the Mos Eisely Cantina Band and perform the show under the watchful and sarcastic eye of Emperor Palpatine. Guests include: George Lucas, Jar Jar Binks, John Williams, Peter Mayhew (Chewbacca), The Director of The Star Wars Holiday Special, the Architects of the Death Star , and many more… Plus: Stupid Jedi Tricks and a Erotic Star Wars Fan Fiction, More Deleted Scenes, and a Film from Sean Conroy

Time out. With hindsight and an editor’s pen that last bit should actually read as follows:

Guests include: George Lucas, Jar Jar Binks, John Williams, Peter Mayhew (Chewbacca), The Director of The Star Wars Holiday Special, the Architects of the Death Star , and many more… Plus: Stupid Jedi Tricks and a Erotic Star Wars Fan Fiction, More Deleted Scenes., and a Film from Sean Conroy

A few shining stars in the muddled galaxy: Palpatine was solid, short bit about ‘holding Padme by the lake’ was solid, and the dude who played Lando (apologies, name unknown) was great. Any time photoshop magic involving fake Lando chauffering Britney Spears sans undergarments is employed, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get a laugh. Any time you share the nightclub blueprint proposal of cloud city hovering above (and attached to) Capitol records, you will make me laugh. Just a rule of comedy. Let us now talk sushi…

Following the show my party spilled into the sushi joint next door to decompress, bitch, and eat. We were quickly derailed with the following admission:

Spencer: Guy I work with knows a guy hired Steve Winwood to play at his wedding for $250,000.00.
Me: Get the fuck out.
Spencer: Dead serious.
Brett: If you’re going to pay that kind of money you ought to get somebody worth it.
Me: Hey don’t discount Stevie man. Little Stevie Winwood. Traffic…some of that stuff is killer. Blind Faith, Spencer Davis man that’s great shit. It’s not all beer commercial with that guy.
Melissa: Yeah but $250,000?
Me (Drunk and louder than necessary): I tell you who I would not hesitate to hire, in a heartbeat, for 250 large to play at my wedding: he is a consummate performer. A consummate.
All: Who?
Me (overly grandiose): Phil Collins. The man is consummate. A very consummate performer. I would require him to wear Haggar wrinkle-free khakis with a braided belt, with a magenta Knights of the Round Table polo tucked into it, paunchy gut squared glasses and a sweat-glistened bald head crooning to me all night long. Done. Hired. In A Heartbeat. Hired.
Brett: He’s going to sing You Can’t Hurry Love.
Me: No. Fuck that. That song is not allowed, not the original and sure as hell not fucking Collins version.
Brett: I’m going to request it while you’re cutting the cake.
Me: I will forbid the song be played. I will double the rate, if necessary.
Brett: He’s going to sing it. Last song.
Me: I will be gone, long gone, on my honeymoon by then. You enjoy but it doesn’t happen while I’m there.
Melissa: How can you tell him he has to wear that?
Me: Man if I’m laying down that kind of scratch he better wear whatever the fuck I tell him to.
Brett: You are cordially invited to sing at the nuptials of Ryan at the rate of 250 Large. Cash. Wardrobe provided; no jacket required.
Melissa: You can’t even…where can you get Knights of the Round Table anymore?
Brett: You can’t buy that shit anymore.
Me: Oh. I will provide.
Melissa: So what’s gonna be the best song at the wedding?
Me: He’ll be laying all that shit down. Flooring everybody. Hey. Take a look at me now! Pen-ultimate: Turn it on Again. My good goodness. When he hits that, it is going to go OFF.
Melissa, Brett, Spencer: What’s that?
Me: Turn it on, Turn it on again!
Melissa, Brett, Spencer: ?
Me: Fuckers! You guys don’t even know this song. (screaming) I can show you I can show you some of the people in my life
It’s driving me mad just another way of passing the day

You guys are shitting me. You’ve heard this.

Melissa: I think you’re going to be way into this, I don’t know these songs.
Me: Home By The Sea?
Melissa: Nope.
Brett: He’s going to sing Land of Confusion with all those puppets.
Me: Home by the sea! Ok, Follow You Follow Me. You know that. The old Genesis stuff is completely solid.
Brett: Wasn’t the old Genesis all weird instrumental fugue-y shit?
Me: Not that old…ABACAB. But I will also lay ground rules. “No We can’t dance. You’re not playing that. I know you cannot dance. No can’t hurry love. No groovy kind of love. No Tarzan. Prettymuch nothing after 1989…

In the Air Tonight is also going to kill. Creepy dude that drowned his buddy will be over there by the groom’s cake, watching and waiting.

Phil’s got so much material, man.

Brett: He’s no Ambrosia.
Spencer: you could get those guys for $250… just $250 without the thousands.

It’s Science Fiction month at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre
Directly across from the Scientology Celebrity Centre
5919 Franklin Avenue
323.908.8702 | www.ucbtheatre.com

Here we are now having the time of our times back at The Paco. This time it’s packed to the Paco. I’ve never seen a bar so small and yet somehow people continue to stream through the door and manage to get drink service in a normal amount of time. Oye, Paco! Ambassador of greatness in yon Catalonia.

Allow me to describe the physical size and autentico vibe of Paco. If I can. What’s the smallest bar in LA? Anyone?… Tiki Ti? There’s gotta be something smaller. You take the Ye Rustic Inn in Los Feliz – same neighborhood. Now take just the first room of Ye Rustic Shithole. Now chop that room in half and you basically have the size of Casa Paco. The place is packed to the gills with locals, a few Frenchies, few Brits and a few creepy older guys (present party excluded) thrown in for good measure. The DJ is off the hook at present. Soundlessons vibe. Tiny cramped joint. Basically a dump with a killer sound system, great DJs and cheap drinks. San Miguels are going for 2 euro a throw. Through the dingy, smoke-infused window one gets an occasional glimpse of the comings and goings at Pizza Paco, the newer breakaway venture directly across la plaza.

Paco! Three nights ago I was in this same joint, early evening. Chilling. The power went out. Three of us sat at the bar in total darkness, laughing, as the bartender deftly ran to the front, flipped a switch, and had the music cued to the precise spot it had been knocked out within 30 seconds’ time.

Paco! Some guy vaguely resembling Michael Jeter is balls drunk. He drinks from a glass of pure booze, leers at everybody in sight and fiddles with his mustache. He strokes his mustache and then strokes the goatee of a half-horrified-yet-largely-amused hipster seated next to a girl. All three are leering, giggling and chattering in Spanish. Now Jeter’s twiddling mustaches. Jeter’s stroking legs. Jeter nearly spills his glass of pure booze. Jeter returns to his own waxed mustache and champions it. Jeter chastizes hipster for not having stronger mustache. Jeter runs finger down hipster’s cheek and beneath his nostrils. Hipster freezes up, shivers, turns to girl and deadpans, in perfect English, “Fucking Christ! Fucking touched my face, yeeeeeieeh!” All three laugh.

Easily my favorite bar in Barcelona, though it must be said the one in the Raval with the gasoline can light fixtures screening Blue Velvet to a dubreggae soundtrack runs a close second.

The evening progresses…

Related:
Part One
Part Four

The Chelsea goal had sent the room into a palpable funk.

Palpable. Heat rises. Surrounded by Arsenal jerseys here. Drizzle outside. Room gets warmer. I go for a beer. They have Red Stripe™ on tap here. Tap! That´s a rarity. There are some arguably skeevy places to watch a match in the south of London and I´d somehow picked the one with the Stripe on tap. Natch. Watering holes like GrAsshopper and Bar Costena have a tendency to condition one for all manner of life. As such I was, for the most part, in my element.

But back to my shins. Was my hotel in fact built by hobbits, for hobbits? Bloomsbury had been treating me right…a visit to the Horse Hospital … the ominous reading room @ British Museum…overly extravagant consumption at the local socialist bookstore…said goodness aside, a stairway mishap on one of said hotel´s tossing (bleeding? blooding?) hobbit staircases Saturday eve had offered both shins massive bruises and swelling. Pulsing. Flesh wounds that would carry into España and beyond. I could already tell.

The match ends one to one and the crowd disperses into the drizzle.
España! Jesuchristo . . . Y ahora?

Related
Part One

Here I Dreamt We Were an Audience

The Crane Wife
I cracked open the binding and flipped past the title page, landing squarely upon the first page of the first chapter and began to read the starkly beautiful and tragic folk tale of the sail maker and his beloved. Osamu’s sad tale had barely begun when I looked up to see eight bright red lanterns suspended in a false sky. Behind them was a large woodcut printed on laid cotton paper with dark India ink. The image evoked Osamu’s home, perched high above the sea, serene and still, and it remained so as other images swirled in and out of the foreground. I was inside the story, but which one? Was this Osamu’s tale or another, taken from a different place and time? It wasn’t clear, but there was no time to question the images, for they would come and go like the sweetest of pop songs, and they compelled me forward.

The Island
A bird, regal, aloof, alone, flew slowly toward me through a reddened sky. She extended her neck, as if in search of a lost chance, then flew away, off toward the nearby ocean. Far from the mainland, she flew until, not without a perch, she alit on an undeserted isle. She seemed to beckon me with her wings, her song, the wind softly sifting her feathers and her watery call. Her song made heavy my weary eyes, the gentle lull of the lapping waves sending me to sleep. Then a thumping sound surrounded us and the daughter of the island began to rise, at first soft with sleep, then fierce in her resolve. I sank below the waterline, no breath, no voice, but the voices from the deep called to me in my silence, the strumming of wires, the gentle reeds, and the steady blare of a conch-shell horn. All the while, the red lanterns burned.

Engine Driver
I saw you across the room, but the wind swept us up and blew us to the cliff edge and a moment later we were holding hands, laughing and running from path to precipice and back again. We were wrong, all wrong, it was all I could hear, my ears filled with nays, but your eyes glowed as bright as red lanterns, with a certainty I wasn’t sure I possessed. I looked at you and knew we’d jump, hand-in-hand, into the mother sea. Water engulfed the shore and us with it, our engines burning still, our lives traced in the gouged lines of a woodblock, black and penetrating.

O Valencia!
Others had caught up to us, successful scoundrels who’d gotten away with it all, fearless and cruel, perfect in their diabolic thieving of chattel and soul. I lost my footing, the notes swirling before me, but you grabbed my arm and we fell to the endless dunes, no direction but undulating sands, with nothing but a uniform of dusty pride. The dunes burned away when I caught your eye through diffused light, and a tumultuous city rose from the grains at our feet. We ran down paved streets, amidst vertical geometries, but I could see it falling around us by the light of eight red lanterns.

Summersong
Had I been sleeping? The calm heat of a sunny day belied scorched earth surrounding us, the detritus of paradise, laid bare beneath the dangling legs of the striped and twisted songstress. Debris turned to letters, letters to atoms, and the music pulsed ever on, so we moved forward again, from the broad metropolis to the one of steel in air. The others had found us again, their wrath the beating of drums. We jumped onto the strings lined with pencils, which moved along the skyway, transforming into knives, bright with the red of reflected lights.

Odalisque
We stopped, transfixed by the dancer’s frenzied steps toward freedom, drunk on sour cherries and moonlight. The bird flew back, her long wingspan the first movement we could see on the horizon, but she was moving faster than ever now, emulating the dancer’s urgency. We danced too, but we couldn’t keep up, the dancer and the bird are too swift for our mortal feet. An expectant sound burst from behind walls of thin metal, the snowfall turning to cinnamon and cloves as it hit our tongues. And out of the accordion’s arching bellows sprung more birds, long and lean, with eight beaks that held orbs of crimson glowing within.

The Culling of the Fold
I woke with a start, Osamu’s story fallen at my feet. I hear ringing in my ears, but no music, words, or beats. I rub my eyes and look around, but there’s no sign of you or the bird, the room empty of cities, dancers, and dunes. The ringing continues until modern life hits me and I answer the phone. Did you see what I saw? Did you hear any of those songs? Did the bird abandon you, like she did Osamu and me? “Yes,” you say, you saw it all too. You lost the bird like I did, but you begin to hum the songs that won’t leave our heads. I sing along, our voices louder with each note. It was a wonderful show.

Picture shamelessly lifted from jumpsodablog’s flickr. Thanks!

“Oh. Hello!”

“Ha. It’s three o’clock in the morning, jesus where are you? Are you on the road?”

“Onnn the road. But near my house. How was Frampton! That’s so awesome. Did he wah-wah-waah, wah wah?”

“You’re goddam right he did. He totally Came Alive. All over my ears and face. All over the wiltern. Everywhere.”

“I knew you were going to say that. How was the wiltern, old crowd?”

“It was weird. They had chairs set up. I’ve never seen that…but I guess that’s what they do for old dudes. I was just there two nights prior for Sonic Youth and I can guarantee those guys had no chairs. I’ve never seen chairs. Whatever. Originally it was billed as, like, Pearl Frampton. Peter Jam or something. Two dudes from Pearl Jam were supposed to be onstage with him. Then we get this message saying they’re not part of this tour, after all, and it’s just Frampton with Frampton. Very hack.”

“Huh.”

“But think about it man. Thurston Moore has to be about the same age as Frampton. And he’s still coming alive all over the wiltern, without the chairs. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually awake.”

“I just got in here, I just got back from karaoke. I’m hoarse as hell.”

“Did you ‘roke frampton, after frampton, in Koreatown?”

“You’re goddam right we did. Hey. Listen I’m fading, I just got out of a cab and walked in the door here. Are you near your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Call me when you wake up, ok?”

“Ok. But…My sleeping schedule has been very erratic as of late.”

“Ok. Well, whenever you do end up waking up, give me a call. Welcome home!”

“Ok. G’bye.”

“G’bye.”

- Earlier -

Interior, Prince

“I don’t want to go to Brass Monkey.”

“We’re not going to Brass Monkey. I’ve never even been to Brass Monkey. That’s where the white people go.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to go there.”

“We’re not.”

“Good. So where are we going?”

“There’s a couple of places on 6th I know about. Actually a few. And there are some joints down Vermont. Or hell! Lets just walk to Loud Karaoke Music Zone, you’ll like it.”

“What is it? (To stranger) Where should we go karaoke?”

“There’s lots of good places around here.”

“We don’t want to go to Brass Monkey.”

“No no no, not that place. But it is an ok bar. But you want a private room.”

“Yes!”

“You want to go to a parlor.”

“Yes.”

“There’s a good place right over here near Wilshire and Vermont.”

“Is it the joint with the dude with lightning bolts coming out of his mouth? Cause I’m all over it. That’s where we’re going.”

“? No no. A block over. New Hampshire.”

“Are you talking about the place across from the pirate restaurant? On Wilshire…”

“(Choke/scoff/laugh) You don’t want to go there. That’s for the public. You want to go someplace nice. On New Hampshire, you go up to the fourth floor and you look for Palm Tree.”

“Fourth floor?”

“Fourth floor.”

“Ok thanks.”

New Hampshire

“Ok we’re at 6th and New Hampshire. I count two buildings with more than four floors in this general vicinity. This one is under construction and there are no damn lights in that one. You’re sure it wasn’t the other side of Wilshire?”

“Let’s go back and get that dude and make him sing with us. I bet he’s still sitting there, smoking & boring people about the guinness book of world records.”

“Aw hell. Let’s just go in here. (To security guard) Do they have karaoke in this restaurant?”

“No.”

“It says ’singing’ right there on that sign above you. Is there singing upstairs?”

“Oh. Yes. There’s singing up those stairs. Go on up.”

Upstairs

“Do you have a room?”

“No. We don’t have a room.”

“You’re sure you don’t have a room? Like that one, right there?”

“Just you guys? Ok. We have a room. Give me five minutes.”

(CHORUS)
Both: I’ve had the time of my life
No I never felt this way before
Yes I swear it’s the truth
And I owe it all to you
‘Cause I’ve had the time of my life
And I’ve searched through every open door
‘Til I found the truth
And I owe it all to you

“…That house right there with “The Party’s Here!” in neon. Christian used to always threaten to just go ring the door one day with a sixpack in his hand. “Somebody told me the party was here?”

“So apparently Dennis Hopper actually made a giant replica of that La Salsa Muffler Man.”
“Is it art, if you just take something that’s already been done and make it again basically the same?’
“Arguable. Arguable. Thing about muffler man though is that he apparently has a lantern jaw. One arm up, one down.”
“Yeah, like he’s wielding a club, right?”
“Muffler.”

“…A toast to the Riviera of the West Coast: It is good to be alive.”
“You mean of the Americas.”
“That too. Why limit. It’s got the burden of two continents… it’s pulling weight, I’m saying!”

“…I had to sit down and go over the statutory laws of Idaho with at least two different members of the group…”

“…I would love to just punch you in the jaw right now…”

“…It was pavlovian. Even if you weren’t tired you’d get in this habit of falling instantly asleep in the other guys’ cars. So you were basically guaranteed two extra naps per day…”
“Damn it I love naps.”

“…We need to go over your strategy. Approach the counter. Bracelet on the one hand, inside your sleeve if possible. Glass in the other hand. Then you distract them. Talk about the vineyard, the band that’s playing, their shirt or something. Get ‘em off on a tangent and eventually just sort of drift away. If they ask for it, fine, no loss. But your chances of a free pour are increased immeasurably. G’head, give it a try…”

“…Without doubt you are an auteur. Your skills in metallurgy, art, crafts are second to none. Of course you are peerless. Perchance… do you have anything a little less…horseshoey?”
“You know, the fourth time it really was funny to me. The first three times…it was ok but the fourth time I heard the joke, it was funny.”
“Oh you’re going to hear it several more times, my friend. I can’t stop saying it. I’m going Letterman approach here, pound ‘em over the head with it…”

“My good god. She’s completely passed out cold on the table!”
“I know.”
“Who’s in the other chair d’you s’pose… It’s gotta be that girl over there. Drunk as hell.”
“Naw. The lady at the table is….this dude’s wife.”
“This guy right here playing pool with the drunky?!”
“Yeah.”

“So do your students ever make you feel old?”
“Yeah. And then I make them feel dumb.”

“…This bathroom situation is bullshit. You can believe I’m taking it up with the Mayor and the Rotary chair when I see them…”

“…You don’t understand how bad I just want to punch you in the jaw right now, it is this song…”

“…Sturgis is amazing. They have these gigantic warehouse-sized bars that are basically open for ten days out of the year.”

“…Hey! Do you want some stickers? Do you want to register for ozzfest?”
“Nah, just wanted to come over and say thanks for rocking the Zeppelin, guys…”

“…What’s the secret in the secret sangria?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be secret, of course…”

“…Good god the juice is loose up there…”

“…What the hell is this movie. British Batman? Beginneth! …”

“You are talking to the surliest woman in the world right now. Seriously the world. It is time to stop.”

Above quotes taken from PCH, SB & Ojai, Saturday-Sunday. Year two for us.

___________________________
¹If I recall correctly, Felicia’s friend Meredith got free tickets to that show because her dad was Apple’s doctor.
²It was really weird, though also strangely comforting.
³Felicia is a third-year at UC Davis, studying English.
⁴My sister and I saw a Sufjan Stevens show in Aspen last summer with our family. My mother drank too much and threw up, but concealed the barf by neatly vomiting into her cupped hands.
⁵Felicia will be in town this weekend, and I was meant to have dinner at home with my family, but bailed. People are unhappy about this.
⁶It is actually called “Novocaine For The Soul.”
⁷Felicia is referring to the band’s leader Mark Oliver Everett, who goes by “E” or “Mr. E.”
⁸ Syntax unclear — what I meant to ask was whether the “EELS guy” responded with “thanks” in a calm manner.
⁹That band is called Smoosh, the sisters in the group are more like 16 and 14, and you can hear about Smoosh here.
¹⁰At this point, I sensed my sister’s boredom with the conversation.
¹¹Legally, natch.

Yes. That Prince. The Purple One.

So in honor of Prince’s creative usage of the English language and singular letters, I’ve chosen to review the night’s events with an A-to-Z list.

A- Attention to detail: 3121 purple doormats, 3121 cocktail napkins, 3121 outfits for the wait staff, purple entry carpet, purple-chalked pool cues…

B- Bathroom antics: My goal was to text as many people as possible from Prince’s bathroom. Not only did I manage that, but I also got this pic of Prince’s mirrored bathroom and the Baby Wipes a thoughtful Purple One set out for his sweaty partygoers. (And I’ll admit it. I looked through all of the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom, finding very little of interest except these weird ball things and a purple hand towel.)

C- Celeb-sandwich: We provided a lovely, yet slightly jaded filling for the bread made from David Duchovny, Angela Basset, Sharon Stone, Hugh Dancy and a guy in a metallic purple leather jacket who we thought was Kenny Rogers.

D- Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough: A fierce cover played by the Purple One… made me question whether Michael was really the right man for the job.

E- Elevators: Safely hidden from Sherwanied bouncers, we snapped some schweet shots in one of Prince’s elevators. With the fusion of purple, O(+> and heart mirrors, I felt loved.

F- Floor stage: The “stage” was level with the floor (okay, it was the floor). Stupid floor stage. I spent ¾ of the concert looking at Mulder and the back of my friend’s head. I couldn’t see a damn thing. I did catch a couple glimpses of the twin backup singers/dancers. The crowd was evenly split between people who were really into it and people who were really into being at Prince’s house. Fortunately, the floor-stage set up probably prevented the Purple One from seeing that only half of the crowd was waving their hands in the air. (Though the number of people singing to “Kiss” was irritatingly out of control.)

G- Glade candles: During the concert, the thick raspberry (beret?) scent, mixed with the smell of sweat and swanky booze nearly did my head in. Plus, my shoes were really, really uncomfortable.

H- Hair design: What Prince experience would be complete without a carefully styled coiffure? And to top it off, when he came back to the concert room to mess around on the drum kit, his hair design was covered by a silk scarf. Always use protection.

I- Ice: Prince wasn’t wearing nearly enough. Though my ?th drink of the evening (in this stylish blue plastic cup- how colloquial) sure had plenty. Ahem.

J- Jokes: Who knew the Purple One was so darned funny? In addition to mocking the Lakers and talking about his “crib” (in seriousness), he commented that one of the audience members was “working up a mixed sweat”. Zing!

K- Kleptos: Who wouldn’t pocket this wicked cocktail napkin?? Technically, taking home a free napkin isn’t really stealing. Neither is taking home one of the cocktail glasses (wasn’t me!). Still, I think stuffing Prince’s purple hand towel down the back of your pants is both ungrateful and uncalled for. (And yes, guy in the suit, I saw you do it while you were talking to me. The bathroom was mirrored…)

L- Liner notes: You know all those pictures in the 3121 liner notes? Yeah, that’s totally the house. I moseyed through pages 3-6, 15-16, 25-26, and the cover.

M- “Method” brand hand soap: It’s from Target. Enough said.

N- Napkin note: At one point in the wee hours of the morning, we decided that we should write a thank-you note to the Purple One. Lacking both a pen and paper, we borrowed a cocktail napkin, and magically found a pen in the bathroom (it’s a house of magic, I tell you). We sneakily hid it behind one of the framed photos of his dancers in the room on page 3-4 of the liner notes… so now some cleaning lady will find a crumpled napkin that reads “Prince- Thanks for the good times & memories… I’ll never forget it… You rule. Loved your hat. Love, Kim, KA & Lauren” and promptly throw it away. It’s the thought that counts.

O- Open Bar: Patrón was the (sponsored?) drink of the evening, though I didn’t make proper use of the free expensive alcohol until later on. The bartenders (all ladies in classy 3121 attire) were incredibly nice, generous and helpful, and we proceeded to dump the entire contents of our wallets into their tip bowls. I also managed to drink my body weight (plus the combined weight of the entire Losanjealous staff) in Patron and gin. Cheers.

P- Patrón/Purple/Prince: All of these have pretty much been covered, but I must say that Patron is delicious, there was purple everywhere (purple carpet, purple elevator, purple pool table and on and on) and Prince wore an amazing white bodysuit/cowboy hat/giant sunglasses combo. (P could also stand for the unplayed Pussy Control… my favorite Prince song, besides Bat Dance.)

Q- Quixotic: I’m not going to lie. I only know this word because of LiveJournal’s moods. But I looked it up, and I’m pretty sure it’s applicable to Prince.

R- Race for food: We left at 5 am, absolutely starving and in need of some overpriced, pretentious food, so of course, we head for Mel’s, which happened to be full of post-Prince-partygoers. (My severe hunger was partially caused by the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything prior, in hopes of drinking champagne out of glasses with chocolate handles… chocolate handles that I would’ve eaten, despite my social etiquette.)

S- Swag: After accidentally getting off the Princelevator on the wrong floor, we found ourselves outside of the house. Heading back to the front, we walked past the heavily guarded swag table. Ginormous round purple velvet boxes beckoned us… but the guys with earpieces made us go away.

T- Target: More or less, the sole source of my wardrobe. Though fiscally wise, it left me feeling somewhat unswanky. But my shoes were kickass. Bangladesh.

U- Upholstery: I’ll give you one guess as to the color of nearly every piece of fabric in the house (if confused, please see entry for “P”). This pillow was one of my faves.

V- Van: We pulled up in a busted Nissan (with an unpainted hood, bumper and side panel), passed the keys to the valet, and sauntered to the end of the line. Our names were checked and we stood shivering in the cold until a giant gray camper-type minivan backed down the driveway, and the doors opened. Confused and impressed, we climbed in, sat gingerly on the ridiculously plush leather seats, and were driven to the doorway approximately 8 feet away. At this point, I knew it was going to be a wicked night.

W- Wasted: My state of existence for the entire night/morning. Also what I kept writing in text messages (“I’m wasted at Prince’s house!” “I’m wasted in Prince’s bathroom!” etc, etc). Oddly enough, the number of celebrity sightings increased hand-in-hand with level of intoxication, so I just kept on drinking, hoping to find Carrot Top.

X- X-treme: I tried really hard not to cop out on this one by using a word that doesn’t start with X, but Prince does it, so why can’t I? To be x-act, this was the most x-citingly x-treme thing I’ve ever, ever done. Without x-ception.

Y- “Y’all like my crib?”: Which is what the Purple One asked us all between songs. I didn’t need to wait for “three” to scream like a white lady.

Z- Zero: As in, the number of cooler things I could’ve done on a Saturday night.

To recap:
Things gained: bragging rights
Things lost: some dignity
Things stolen: 3 “3121” cocktail napkins, a cocktail glass
Things witnessed stolen: a purple hand towel from the bathroom
Celebs seen/head butted/talked to/sweated on by: David Duchovny, Hugh Dancy, Angela Basset, Sharon Stone, Jude Law, Michelle Branch/Vanessa Carlton (I think?), Kenny Rogers (?), Elvis Costello (?), lots of people I whose names I don’t know, The Purple One
Songs played by Prince that I can remember: 3121, Black Sweat, Purple Rain, Lolita, Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough, What Have You Done For Me Lately, Play That Funky Music White Boy, Kiss, Satisfied, another song with a lot of screaming
Number of drinks drunk: No fucking clue. Though they were all either Patrón or gin and tonics, I do remember that.
Number of people I texted from the bathroom: 5 (including my two friends who were there with me).
Hilarious jokes made by the Purple One: 2
Number of references to Prince lyrics made in this article: 6

Final conclusion: You were right, Prince–3121 WAS where the purple party b.

The bouncer/doorman took a fancy to me and gave me and my friend VIP bracelets so I got to sit on the stairs with a perfect view the whole time. I could have talked to Anton a few times, but it seemed a bit cheesy, esp. since his female entourage was standing in line for kisses and I was kind of grossed out about it. So I admired His Crazy Majesty from afar. It was great.

While Bright Channel was on, a couple young dorks arrived and decided people needed to be dancing and moshing. So they dove into the crowd and accidentally kicked my friend in the chest. We were not amused. “Is this the future of rock and roll? Everyone standing around like wax figures?” the dorks asked rhetorically. “Quit jumping my friend!” I yelled. Later on in the evening, Anton made fun of these guys yelling “rock and roll” over and over again. He mocked them and said something about how they must watch “Jackass” a lot.

I was tired of it and went to get a drink at the bar. That’s when my surreal night got more surreal. The gangster/David Lynch bouncer in a suit David (Dave, dave? –ed) bought me a drink and told me to call him in 15 minutes, at which time he’d magically produce VIP bracelets for my friend and me. I just had to meet him at the stairs. I came back and told her about it and she asked “How do you disappear for drinks and come back with VIP bracelets?” “I dunno. He said he liked my smile!”

So we’re sitting in our (relatively speaking) cush seats on the stairs, with perfect views of Anton facing our way. Yes!

There was a mini-drama going on around me concerning Frankie’s German girlfriend and some groupie who he supposedly recently had sex with who was by the stage in a blue hat (and looking very 80’s). Both of these women were fighting and bickering the entire time (and I had a bird’s eye view and could hear most of the priceless dialogue). Helga, I think her name was, complained to my friend about this woman, while Helga’s friend Bettina wanted to trade my cigarettes for a swig of her Jim Beam.

Helga’s and the woman in the hat’s friends had to keep breaking up potential fights (they both disappeared for a while, so maybe they took it outside). Basically, the German girlfriend did not like that the groupie was by the stage near her man. At one point, she called out to Frankie and asked “Who’s the bigger poseur? Her or me?!” He looked desperate to have them stop so he could continue playing, chewing his nails like he was nervous. Helga kept taking pictures of Frankie. It was as if the more pics she had of him, the more he would be hers.

The groupie later yelled “Frankie, your girlfriend’s a fucking bitch!” It was then that Anton went “meow, meow, meow, meow” into the mike. The keyboard player turned around and went “shush!” and then said “Go get me a greyhound” (cocktail). She drunkenly fished one out of her purse and complied. I didn’t see her for a while…

And as you know, the night ended with some guy hanging from the rafters and then plopping down on the cement. The audience just parted like the Red Sea and watched him drop.

Jeannette: Was the subway ok?

Barbara:Greatest people watching ever, and I’ve lived in NYC and San Francisco! Tweakers, gang-bangers, crackheads, and teenage punks. We spent our last couple stops to Union Station being stared at by the one white guy on the train. He was standing over us, just staring. Super-creepy.

Jeannette: Did you catch a cab?

Barbara:Yup. I hailed one like a New Yorker, just in time to avoid some man who seemed to be running toward us for no apparent reason.

Jeannette: Any crackheads bother you on the way into/ out of the club? I got accosted by four of them in the two-block walk from my car to the club the first night..

Barbara: No crackhead encounters.

I forgot to mention that during the 3+ hour jam session, a couple fashionable looking chickies were out cold in the VIP room. I’ve never seen this at a concert before: people sleeping!

Also, next to the groupie who wouldn’t shut up was a man (her friend) in a suit who was playing “second tambourine”, and badly. Dave kept coming by and pulling the tambourine out of his hand, and the boys in the band explained: “if you can’t keep time, quit playing!”

It may not seem like much of an addition, but when you put all that together (groupie and girlfriend fighting, poseurs sleeping, man in a suit compelled to play second tambourine off-stage, and skull- cracking nimrod…well, in the words of the dorks: “Rock and roll! rock and roll!”

All in all, the BJM night of my dreams. They did not disappoint.

Friday night. I got there late (11:00 pm) and thought I might have missed a bit of the show since they were supposed to go on at 10:30. Anyway, they didn’t hit the stage til around 11:30 so I was cool. Other than the fact that they didn’t make a set list and they didn’t rehearse my favorite song (Wisdom) so they couldn’t play it… and they were taking requests so it took 5 minutes between each song to decide what the next song was going to be, it was an amazing show. I was going to go as someone’s plus one the next night and the show seemed pretty uneventful so at 2:30 am when they were still playing, I was getting really tired. The bar was out of liquor (and closed after 2:00) and a lot of the crowd had cleared out. I thought, hmmm…. I’m just gonna come back tomorrow because I’m wiped out… I can’t BELIEVE they’re still playing!

So, I’m saying bye to Ivory and doing a shot of Jagermeister with some dude and about to take off when I notice this guy up in the balcony testing his weight on the water pipes on the ceiling (oh don’t even think about it you retard.. i was thinking). Up until this point I was watching him because he seemed completely whacked out and he kept rubbing his crotch in like homoerotic ecstasy while watching the band and dancing around like Axl Rose. When he jumped off the balcony and grabbed a beam and started walking across the ceiling with his hands I had to whip out my camera and run accross the floor to try and grab a snapshot. About 2 seconds after I snapped the photo, the fucker dropped almost 20 feet to the floor thinking that the (by now pretty sparse) crowd was going to catch him.

Needless to say, they parted like the Red Sea and this freako cracked his head but GOOD on the floor. Four Bouncers then carried him out and threw him out of the club and ended the show. NO ONE in the band saw this (weird) and Little Radio pulled the plug on the show immediately after. On the way out to the car, I saw the crotch-rubbing beam swinger limping off to the car parked behind mine. At this point he seemed completely sober and was whimpering to his friends who were trying to put him in a car. His back was killing him and he was having problems bending to get in the car. What a douchebag.

Jesus Christ. I was so fucked up. How old am I again? Here’s my review of Saturday’s show:

1. I fortified myself with a massive intake of alcohol, expecting anton to be as grumpy as he was last time when he had no voice. The combination of a non-grumpy Anton and a completely loaded me made for a considerably calm experience.

2. We met Dave and he let us into the balcony to watch the band from the loft, literally above the band.

3. At one point Jeannette stood up to do something and someone (Frankie? Plucky?) smirked and shot off, “This isn’t a bathroom break.”

4. I went to get us beers and tripped on a carpet near my beanbag chair and very nearly laid myself out flat on the stage. Giggles erupted from self and the loft perimeter.

5. We left early, at 2:45am. Allegedly they played until 4am. Come to think of it I’ve never finished a BJM show. They play so goddam long. You gotta love that. Although apparently we didn’t love that.

6. I lost my phone, which never, ever happens. This, the verysame phone I bought three weeks prior. We thought it might be in Jeannette’s car. “Here, I’ll call your number and we’ll listen for the ring.” “That won’t work, it’s on vibrate. But try it anyway, maybe we’ll hear it.” We try it. “Shush, shush now.” I realize the buzzing in my head is considerably louder than the phone could ever hope to be. Operation futile. This plan is puny.The next day. Sunday. $325 and unhappy later I’ve a new phone. I want to find the old one. I suspect it is in Jeannette’s car yet nonetheless I instigate an email-and-voicemail harassment campaign of the little radio warehouse. I finally drive down to the warehouse and rap on the door. Some nice chaps Amber and Jimmy let me in. There’s a black phone just like mine but it’s Dave’s. I ruffle through the beanbag chairs and find jackshit. They give me a poster for the BJM show as phone consolation. I’m walking out and I feel a vibration on my leg. It’s the $325 phone. It’s Jeannette. “Guess what I just found. Wedged into the cupholder area.”

I begin to rock. And roll. All over again.

Setlists and mp3 streams at little radio.
Photos by Jeannette

WEEKEND WHITE SHEET: BLIZZARDY ‘BIGGIE SMALLS’ BEAR RECAP ‘06
aka How I Very Nearly Died In My Car 188 Times Over Two Days

Some good friends of mine invited me up to Big Bear for a weekend of skiing. I said, Hell yes. As the predetermined weekend approached I began to check the forecast and grew, shall we say, concerned. Saturday morning. Zero hour. It’s a downpour here and a seriously nasty blizzard up there. Ben’s Weather advises ‘Travel to this area is highly discouraged.’

I pack my shit and take off.

I’ve been to Big Bear a few times, last time being in 2002. Let me be perfectly frank and earnest, Losanjealenos: When it does finally get the snow you’d like, Big Bear is a complete and total pain in the ass to reach. Imagine taking the 15 to Vegas on a Friday night. Now add a shitload of ice. And mountain roads with sheer dropoffs. Why not add fog, hail, poor visibility and torrential snow for good measure.

Still, everybody and their mother loads up. Not just the boarders and skiers. People who have no intention of reaching the resorts load up. Hundreds of cars haul sleds and toboggans a few miles up the mountain, park haphazardly on both sides of the road and engage in snowball wars while you’re steaming in your car, stopped dead in your tracks with hundreds upon hundreds of cars waiting in front of you. You steam and sulk. Your knuckles are not yet white. You haven’t endangered yourself (yet), but you probably will. You consider pulling the plug and turning around, but you never do. Most of all, you wonder when you’ll get to wash your hands free of greasy road-and-tire shit after ‘installing’ mandatory chains.

Before I continue, I should say that I enjoyed the hell out of this weekend; I’m simply being pragmatic. I have a very light front-wheel-drive coupe, arguably the worst car for inclement weather. I knew good-and-goddam-well what I was getting into and I charged into it, head-first. As I approach my mid-thirties I’m almost proud of my continued foolishness. Enough with this. Table time:

Sure, you could leave at 3am and arrive at Mammoth Village in the same amount of time that it took me to get to Big Bear. In fact, I’ve done it. (Aside: You really haven’t lived until you’ve seen the hulking shadow of Mount Whitney agelessly staring at you and your car at 6 in the morning)

Mammoth. You trade 140 more runs for 140x more people. Sometimes. Both places have their merits, but Big Bear has been and always will be considerably more nightmarish to get in and out of, inclement weather aside, strictly for the single-file-traffic-line factor. After a long day of skiing that drive home can be downright brutal. Add a blizzard and, provided you live to tell the tale, you suddenly find yourself hand-crafting a long-winded HTML chart for your website following booze and a well-earned soak.

Next stop: Tahoe. Who’s in.

It’s hotter than hot this time. I’m a crumb-topped cassoulet™. I shiver. I shake. Grandma leaves the room, puttering on woolen slippers. I blink twice and find self sitting with a handful of cards. I’m playing five-card poker at the Benev Society in Chinatown. Food poker. I glance about the place. Myself. Jgold. S Irene Verbila. Mair the Intern. Pete.

Fuck this game. I splash some ice water onto my face and rise slowly. Pop the plastic on an antibiotic caplet the size of a horse suppository and dump the powder into my cold coffee. Time to dose up.

Outro: First person to find the secret poker hand hidden in one of the links above wins $6.29 voucher for Maria’s Ramada, Little Armenia. Is it worth your time?

Is it worth your time. Have you been to Maria’s Ramada? Don’t ask me this.