Recent developments in my understanding of Los Angeles and her people have put me in the mind to record one or two of same, at some point in time, perhaps now, perhaps later.
the apartment is a mess, clothing covers the floor, empty pizza boxes litter most surfaces, and a grey Chinchilla has been loose for weeks, his droppings everywhere. We play pranks on people on the street, filming from above as one after the other reaches down to pick up the seemingly innocuous dollar bill, only to discover that the “down” side is covered with fresh, human shit. The preparations for this stunt included many instances of near vomiting, much gagging, and the supercautious air people take on when handling others’ fecal matter.
Having been picked up and not taken the bus this time, my skateboard is not with me, and the prospect of having to bus it home, and not thrash the four odd miles all downhill does not excite me. Buses in Los Angeles are doable, they actually aren’t that bad, but still, you’re taking the bus. Immediate major negative cool points. Not that anyone’s counting, but Everyone’s counting, and that’s all that counts. The good and bad of this city is that everyone is watching you, judging you, talking about you at all times while trying their hardest to ignore your very presence. Strange. Hard to pull off at the best of times, impossible to remain outside of it once you’re here long enough.
As a compromise I take my friend’s board, a brand new deck with sick trucks and Bam wheels, which is slipperier than I’m used to, which almost costs me my collarbone on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica, but I get the hang of it, and don’t crash once. Back home, I make my way about things for a few hours, then get a call that my buddies are on the Promenade, and that I should come. Dutiful as ever, I find myself on the bus, heading west at a healthy clip, skateboard in hand. People can’t seem to stop looking at me, must be the new shades or something, so I pretend to be very distraught but trying to do my best to hold in the fury, which is a lot more fun than just sitting there. The anger creeps up behind my eyeballs, cuts the waste from my movements, and sees me through to my stop.
None of us really buy anything, besides jock shirts that look good but really aren’t normally part of the wardrobe, and we jokingly question our reasons for coming so far for basically nothing. The question seems irrelevant, so we drop the subject, and head for the beach. We smoke a joint by the life guard stand, and I watch him on his binoculars on each hand off, just to be sure. Hungry, we decide on Bubba Gump’s on the pier, get a shitty table in the back, are seated without a waiter, and I finally get up and let the oblivious wait staff know of our predicament. Apologies come grudgingly, but a young guy comes up to serve us, and we browbeat him into serving us drinks without checking ID. Doesn’t matter in my case, but my companions are both underage. Dinner’s alright, especially with three boilermakers apiece.
We finish our food, pay, and take our drinks to the bar, so they won’t card. They do, but luckily she asks the only guy who’s packing a fake. Time, about five pm. Closing time, about ten pm. In the ensuing five hours, two of us including myself have another dozen boilermakers, bringing the total in six hours to fifteen, or the equivalent of about 30 beers. We’re so drunk we each spill at least one drink, but the tenders keep ‘em comin’ and we don’t complain.
The shopping bags are abandoned three separate times within the eatery, I lose the skateboard and a pack of smokes with the last green in it, Brian gets the hot tender’s number without even asking for it, and Danny almost gets slopped up by some girl sitting next to her fiancé who’d been all up on his junk all night.
They finally kick us out, but by that time, another five of our people have showed up, we acquired a football, and I’m blacked out. The bartenders kick us out, locking the doors behind us but watching us through them , and Brian, in an attempt to impress the hot one, throws the football hard at a couple walking by, then proceeds to hoodslide a cop car parked out front. We play football on the pier, and catch, smoke more, and I’m abducted by a friend who convinces me to buy 40s, which some guy actually sells to me. I’m in t-rex mode, where shiny things catch my eye, the speech centers are on idle, and I can’t approach something without first aligning my whole body toward it, then stumbling over.
One of our old friends shows up, saying we can stay at her house. She lives with her mom and sixteen year old sister in Venice, and there’s no drinking in the house. Staunchly ignoring this warning, I sneak my half finished 40 into the house on the third try, and promptly pass out in someone’s room. Luckily it’s the old friends’, but in the night, supposedly in an attempt to forgo pissing myself, my body wakes me up and leads me to the bathroom, where I regain consciousness for the first time in ten hours.
I have no idea where I am, whose house this is, what time it is, what city I’m in, where my wallet, cellphone, and keys are. Still very drunk but awake, I tiptoe from room to room, finally locating my buddy on the floor in the younger sister’s room. It seems like a good spot, so I grab a stuffed animal and curl up next to him. I wake up to sunlight and the shakes, I’m so cold. I see that the girls have left, so I take my pants off and get under the sweet smelling covers. The old friend’s mom comes upstairs to get everyone to come down and have some pancakes, but I’m so painfully hung over and her heavy French accent is annoying so I hide under the covers, and fain incoherence and partial sleep when she discovers me. The pancakes turn out to be bland and undercooked, but the younger sister is chainsmoking at the table, so that lightens things up.
Finally someone comes upstairs to wake me, and we leave, but not before I puke all over the bathroom while trying to take a piss, catching most of it in my hands and shoveling it into the toilet. Ten minutes later there are no traces of recent pukage anywhere to be found.
All of my most valued items (cellphone, wallet, &c) have been kept safe in a shoe box, and are redistributed to my various pockets. The old friend’s mother insists on seeing us outside, and on giving Brian some things he had left behind at the old house, which he must take or else they will be thrown out.
We make our way toward Westwood, debate going to class with our old friend, but I veto the notion, as I can barely see and have one of the worst headaches in years. So we make our way toward our respective bus stops through UCLA. One of us asks everyone he meets where he can score meth, weed; I’m highstepping along checking out every girl who passes and voicing my opinion; we all look like homeless guys with shoe boxes, bags, and few brain cells left.
Having thus terrorized the campus, we enter our buses, and are swallowed up by the vast capillaries of LA Metro.
Selah. JP
