Hollywood After-hours

Impractical advice on what to do for fun in L.A. after last call…

One-thirty is a sad time for the party animals located in the beauteous L.A. area. It’s last call, and as a woman you can chance a good old fashioned gang bang at an after party or look for something a little more interesting to do. Too bad almost none of the typical late-night plans I end up getting into go along with anything considered regular late night activities because the proverbial game of chance I play is unparalleled.

After a night of extraordinary amounts of alcohol consumption myself, my sister and our other female friend decided to stop at Benito’s Tacos on Highland and Santa Monica before heading to, whichever useless after party we’d decided to attend. Besides being the location for Benito’s this corner is also the local hangout for really disgusting prostitutes.

One of these lovelies pranced in front of my car strutting her stuff. Before my very eyes shone the most striking thing I had ever seen, this black beauty was 300 pounds and wearing cut off shorts that had been fashioned in a way that wedged between her ass cheeks like a thong. I was amazed, I was delighted and I definitely needed a picture. In my daze I realized that I needed to capture this Hallmark moment on film so that I could brag about it FOREVER. Too bad Angela Asscheeks was not having any of it and the second she saw a camera she stormed towards my car like a rhino.

For reasons that were unclear, she had a never-ending supply of bottles, which she angrily hurled towards my car. Awesomely, she managed to get three bottles through the sunroof of my car while my sister drove in circles around the parking lot while we screamed and laughed at her. In the midst of the chaos, I happened to get a half-assed photo of her makeshift assless chaps; my sister ended up with a concussion and my friend in the backseat doesn’t remember it ever happening. I guess if you’re ever in the mood for a little late night mischief, go ahead and hassle your local hookers, cause what the hell else is there to do?

Near-Death in Venice

That's Venice Beach, California, for our international readers.

As I pulled out of my parking spot on a residential street in Venice and began picking up speed, a woman came out of nowhere and side-checked my vehicle with her purse. I was convinced I must have committed involuntary manslaughter and I felt it was important to make sure the woman was alive, so I stopped abruptly. That’s when this leather-jacketed, 40yr old, entirely unattractive broad hopped into my car and told me to, “Move it!”

I stayed put.

Now that could’ve been because I was in shock, but it’s also possible that I’m naturally calm and rational under duress.

Suddenly, a broad-shouldered beefcake appeared running towards us at TOP SPEED from around the corner. “GO! GO bitch!” she screamed at me but I didn’t move. Again, that could’ve been because I was frozen senseless with fear and horror but it’s also possible I was unaccommodating because the cunt-whore beside me was calling me names.

Her boyfriend quickly climbed atop my vehicle and once he got into a spread-eagle position demanded me to, “GET THAT SLUT OUT OF YOUR CAR.” But just as quickly he folded, took a slight crawl towards the passenger side and pressed his mouth against my windshield. He kissed it and in a sweeter appeal said, “Baby they’re going to kill me if I don’t give them that money.” This didn’t work either so climbed off my hood, screamed primally, ripped his shirt from his body, then tore his shirt into smaller shreds WITH HIS TEETH.

This was the moment when I finally pressed the gas.

In some sort of divine providence there were two female cops who’d pulled over a teenage driver around the corner, so I gave them my statement and ole Leather-Jacket finally got out of my car.

There is a moral to the story and that is: Always Lock Your Car Doors. That way when a wayward girlfriend tries to climb into your vehicle, she can’t get in. No need to get caught in the middle when domestic disturbance takes to the streets.

Drug Laws Apparently Do Not Exist at Reggae Shows

Feeling "irie" in public is apparently OK as long as you're accompanied by a group of Jamaicans.

I had the honor of seeing reggae legends Toots and the Maytals play at The Roxy recently. Now, I've been to plenty of outdoor reggae concerts, so I know the score. I'm hip. I'm down. I know what happens when a bunch of reggae fans are outside and looking to have a good time: A certain narcotic tends to get consumed. It's expected and that's alright with me.

But this show was at The Roxy, which is an indoor rock club that holds about 300 hundred people. You might think not even the most brazen of blazers would dare roll up a woolie in a public place the size of your parents' living room. But low and behold, the green fog was so thick that I got a contact high from the inordinate amount of marijuanas being smoked in there.

This was especially confusing because for being such a tiny club, the Roxy was crawling with security; a brigade of 350 pound dudes with chips on their shoulders and balls for brains. They weren't really the kind of guys whose authority you challenge. Plus you can't even smoke cigarettes indoors in LA, so its not like you can pretend the smoke coming out of your face isn't a controlled substance.

But there we were. Dancing, drinking, and inhaling the sweet aroma of the devil's herb like we were in a college dorm room on April 20th at 4:20pm. At first, everyone was making eye contact with everyone else, almost to ask, "which one of us is a nark?" But it turned out it was none of us, and we all spent the evening like I imagine this country spent the 60's. We were high, the band was high, The Roxy sold an unbelievable amount of cheese pretzels.

So I guess as far as the law in concerned, reggae concerts are like international waters where no court can convict you of a crime. Next time I'm at a reggae show I'm going to try something really illegal just to see what happens... like starting a cockfight.

Battle of the Illegals

There’s more than one group of lawbreakers menacing LA.

Back in 2002, the city of Los Angeles banned any new billboards from going up. Like the laws against public urination or gang murder, the law has been largely ignored. According to LA Weekly, since the ban, over 4000 illegal billboards have gone up in Los Angeles.

On the other hand, with the current rate of growth, the LA area is set to be home to 1.3 million Illegal Immigrants by 2010. Mathematically, I think that works out to no Mexicans actually in Mexico.

Two groups of lawbreakers. One LA. Which one is doing the most damage to our fair city? Well, here’s the breakdown on how each group helps, or harms Los Angeles.

A pretty one may marry me for citizenship?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Probably not, but maybe

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Make me sad by reminding me that I flunked Spanish in high school?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: Yes. Many billboards are in Spanish.

Winner: Tie

Place for ugly graffiti?

Billboards: Yes

Immigrants: No

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Might team up with a friend to remind me when Indiana Jones comes out?

Billboards: Yes.

Immigrants: Even if they did, I don’t speak their illegal immigrant language.

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Take the job of one of my friends or another hardworking American?

Immigrants: Possibly

Billboards: Possibly. I have a friend who is a sign holder.

Winner: Tie

Cook me a delicious meal at one of LA’s fine restaurants.

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal immigrants

Hold a rally that holds up traffic?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Make me wait longer at an overcrowded emergency room?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Illegal Billboards

Move leaves from one part of the yard to another part of the yard using a device that blows air?

Billboards: No

Immigrants: Yes

Winner: Yard owners

Make the Home Depot parking lot look like a crowed, popular, happening place?

Immigrants: Yes

Billboards: No

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Make a Republican upset

Billboards: doubt it.

Immigrants: Yes.

Winner: Illegal Immigrants

Results:

Immigrants:8 points.

Billboards: 4 points.

Yard Owners: 1 point.

It looks like illegal billboards are harming our city far more than the illegal immigrants. It’s time to round them up and send them back to where they came from.

Visitor Info Flash Drive Disappears at San Quentin

I have no connections in Hollywood. I don't know the chick at the Thai massage parlor who beats off Brett Ratner. I do have connections that can get me into San Quentin with the assurance that I can leave when I want to, which tends to be the right way to see a prison. So I took a field trip to the maximum security penitentiary...

San Quentin is a level 4 prison which really means that your chances of getting shanked are 4 out of 4. I recognized the guard at the main gate as the guy who told Metallica that there's a no hostage policy in their bullshit St. Anger video. I figured if a bitch like Lars can do it, so can I. No one actually tells you about the hostage policy. You have to read a sign to learn that.

I was among a small number of non-prisoners who sat in on an experimental therapy session. Free people seeing other free people in a maximum security prison is weirder than being the only white guy at a Sista Souljah concert.

All were invited to attend unless they were on death row or in the hole. We sat with the prisoners in a large misshapen circle. In fact, we were tightly packed because 60 inmates, 45 of whom were down for murder, showed up. Being seated knee-to-knee with convicted murderers in a prison rec room with no guards and no direct line line-of-sight with the nearest guard tower is a bit disconcerting.

The session ran for 5 hours, and I grew fond of the place. During breaks I chatted with some inmates. In the fountain opposite death row some ducks landed and playfully splashed one another. I almost said, "Now this is the place for me!" The inmates were nicer than my co-workers and twice as polite as the fuck-asses driving on Sunset.

I left eager to return because I didn't leave with a weaponized toothbrush protruding from my neck. I spoke affectionately of the experience not knowing that the personal info I submitted for the security clearance was on a flash drive secreted in an inmate's ass, on its way to the street.

Florida to Ban Truck Nutz

I lived in Florida for a few years before moving here to Los Angeles, and it seems like I escaped just in time. The Florida legislature is cracking down on the most sacred form of self expression: Fake testicles you can hang on your trailer hitch.

They are called Truck Nutz. Well, that’s slightly inaccurate. There are lots of brands, but Truck Nutz somehow got their name to represent an entire industry. They’re like the Kleenex of fake testicles. I don’t know Truck Nutz’ marketing team pulled if off, when Bumper Nuts have the added feature of uneven testicle length, and Bulls Balls feature sturdier construction and can come in a camo pattern.

Whatever the name, the fascists in the Florida Legislature want to ban them, forcing truck owners to drive around in castrated, humiliated trucks. Barely trucks at all. They say they have to do this because Truck Nutz look indecent. You know what’s really indecent? Taking away our right to express yourself. With nuts.

Thankfully, here in the Golden Sate, our politicians know better. We aren’t going to freak out when we spot a plastic scroat or two dangling off the back of a Hummer.

“But what about the Children?” you might ask if you were a whiney bitch, “Shouldn’t we protect them from the sight of dangly rubber genitalia?”

Well I’m no psychologist, but I bet seeing that dangly rubber genitalia is good for kids for some reason. Probably for learning

California is already a leader in Environmental issues. Why not take the lead on genital-related freedom of speech issues? Not only should we embrace the freedom to hang our Truck Nutz where we please, we should make it a point of pride.

Hell, put a pair of Truck Nutz your Prius. Let people know that not only can you drive in the carpool lane, you’re more of a man when you’re doing it.

Put a pair on your Vespa. On your rollerblades.

But why stop there? Why not just get the West Hollywood Fire Department to design their hoses so they look like massive dicks? Now there’s a cause we can all get behind.

[Apparently, the resolution didn't pass because one of the Senators had Truck Nutz himself. Freedom wins again!]

An Ex-Con’s Guide to Being a Background Artist

So you just got out of prison and you need to find gainful employment. Where’s a parolee to go? Central Casting!

Here are some tips to help a fish survive his new life as an extra.

-If you’re working on a cattle call where there are more extras than cells in a block, know that they can’t really keep track of everyone, and unlike COs, PA’s don’t do counts. This means you can wander off the yard and find a quiet place to nap or do push-ups. Just make sure you make it back to the bullpen before your bit is up.

-Stay away from anyone with lawn chairs. These lifers make a career out of being an extra and love to talk about how they got to be a pirate on Dead Men’s Chest. They will bore you to tattooed tears and you’ll probably be tempted to shank them, which, (unlike in prison,) will not help you gain the respect and esteem of your background artist cellies.

-Stick a Snickers bar or a can of Coke in your pocket every time you walk by the Kraft service table. Take your score home and send care packages to that cho-mo with the life jolt. Or, if you’re feeling entrepreneurial, you can exploit small black children to unload your stash for you; just send the kid to fence the wham whams outside any Starbucks in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills.

-Sometimes production companies will try to save money by giving the extras cheap boxed lunches while the crew eats gourmet spread from a lunch truck. Don’t plex, just pose as a gaffer. Even people who work on movies don’t really know what gaffers do, so just act like you belong and you know what you’re doing. And if anyone rats you out, just dummy up, give 'em the red eye and roll it up back to extra holding.

"Donut Time" Almost Cost Me My Life

When forced to choose between my own physical safety and 85 cents worth of donuts, the decision was alarmingly easy.

I did a late night improv show in Hollywood recently and was hungry on my way home. It was 3AM and I was faced with the decision of stopping at an establishment called "Donut Time" at Santa Monica & Highland or baring hunger pains for my 20 minute drive home to the Westside. I was tired and not of sound mind when the choice became crystal clear: it was motherfucking Donut Time.

At night, the corner of Santa Monica & Highland is exactly how my strict parents envisioned all of LA when they wouldn't let me drive up here in high school: Shady characters, gender benders, and a public display of those black stereotypes that white people feel really guilty just thinking about.

I parked my car right next to an angry African American gentleman who was menacingly looking back and forth. When I got out of my car he screamed "what chu want?!" at me, to which I replied "a donut." He didn't respond to that, which I decided was the best possible outcome to that interaction. Two very polite transvestite hookers greeted me at the door and asked if I needed anything. I figured using my "donut" answer again might take on a tragically different connotation in this scenario. I said "no thanks" and threw up a little in my mouth.

Once inside I asked the sagely Korean owner for a bear claw; he gave me a cinnamon role. I tried to correct him but he insisted that what he had just bagged up was, in fact, a bear claw. I had 2 thoughts at this point 1) This does not matter, they taste exactly the same, this is not the time or place to have a semantics argument over breakfast pastries.. and 2) Fuck THIS guy. He owns an establishment called "DONUT Time" yet has an amature donut vocabulary? It may be 3AM, but justice does not sleep, good shopkeep!

I made it out alive with a real bear claw, a second offer for horrifying threesome with the hookers, and something I can only describe as a "honkey stare-down" from the man standing by my car. Snacks always taste better when you risk your life to obtain them. And you know what? That was a good god-damned bear claw.

Big Pimpin'

It was 2am and I was filling my tank at the Mobile station on Santa Monica and Vine when a black man wearing a pale yellow suit approached me.

“You drive a Lexus!” He exclaimed.

I don’t want to brag, but I do drive a 1992 Lexus, which is a pretty nice car if you’re living in the year 1992. In 2008, it's covered in scrapes and dents, and the tape player is broken so you can’t even plug and ipod into it. Luckily, it does have heated seats, which really come in handy living in the freezing cold tundra that is Los Angeles.

“Someday I’m going to get me a Lexus,” the black man said.

“That’s cool.” I said, nodding.

“What do you do?” He asked me.

“I’m a comedian,” I said.

“You’re a comedian? I’m a pimp!” He said, as if being a comedian and being a pimp were two soul career paths, and that though he chose the path of a pimp, there was a day when he could have just as easily become a comedian. A day when, had he come across a stage with a live mic he might have turned to comedy, but instead he came across an over-weight cock-sucking sister and turned her out.

“You want to see my hos?” The pimp asked.

“Sure,” I said. I mean, how many times in your life do you get to meet real actual hos?

I walked over to the pimp’s late 80’s model Lincoln Towncar, which was parked at one of the other pumps.

The pimp opened the rear driver side door, and sure enough, inside were three chunky black women wrapped in tight short spandex dresses.

“This is Monique, Bunny and Luscious,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

The hos smiled. I smiled back, and then I got the fuck out of there.

Captain Cunt

My mother the superhero.

I’m not sure how motherhood is handled in most places in the United States or even the world, but I like to think that I am an expert on it in Los Angeles. Not that I’m a mother, but I have one and I grew up in Hollywood, so I guess that qualifies me just as much as the next idiot. It became clear to us as children that my father married her because she was very beautiful and very willing to have sex. Los Angeles is about being beautiful or talented and if you cannot have both you better exploit one of them.

Her looks helped her almost always get her way. In the rare occasion that her good looks were not doing the trick she would go batshit insane. These tantrums and outbursts lead to her nickname, Captain Cunt, and when she’d slip into that mental phone booth and shed common decency, it was time to take cover.

Once, I watched her hold the door to the cleaners shut on a woman that dicked her out of a parking spot. Later when the women confronted my mother about her behavior my mom looked at her, spit in her face and said, “Talk to me after you’ve had a face lift.” This is token Angeleno behavior; you do not take shit from anyone uglier than you.

My mother adhered to this unspoken code of ethics, crusading against the unfortunate looking whenever they crossed her path, which was often. Like any worthy superhero, she refused to acknowledge her good deeds.

From time-to-time, I like to bring up these random acts of insanity, but she insists that I am making all of it up. I know the truth, and plan to carry the torch. At any rate, I’ve still got my mother, and she’s not slowing down anytime soon. Seriously, last week she called a condescending sales person a dickhead and swore her revenge on the store. I can’t wait.

Real Stories From the L.A. Transit System

Ride the bus, get shit all over your neck: ask me how!

About 80 percent of the time, riding the bus in Los Angeles is uneventful. On the ride home through Sunset, it’s usually just me, and a couple of exhausted working class Hispanics who only want to catch a siesta before waking up for their next job in 2 hours. But then 20 percent of the time, some social miscreant will use the bus as their personal crazy-theater, and ruin the ride for the rest of us.

It was with this in mind that I noticed a man lumbering down the walkway, heavy-set and bleary eyed, intent on the seat beside me. He reeked of booze, but as the man was much larger than myself, and much drunker than myself, I chose to employ a strategy of polite ignorance. He leaned forward to the neck of an elderly Asian man sitting in front of us, and blew gently on the man, soft and playful, like a lover. I was quite puzzled to witness this ruse, as most bus hi-jinx I’d seen consisted of fairly self-contained crazed shouting either praising the Lord, or condemning the government, and in some cases, both.

The Asian man scowled a bit, but continued looking forward. As if going in for another drunken lover’s waft, this time ol’ boozer leaned up and hocked a huge throat loogie all over the Asian dude’s neck. Esophageal snot slid down into the old man’s collar like raw egg. In silent defeat, the old man stood up and exited at the next stop. No sooner had the old guy excused himself, than I felt a ¾ full can get shoved into my hand.

“Hold this,” the guy mumbled. I looked down, and it was Budweiser and Clamato, which is a combination of two shitty things that are in high enough demand to create a single shitty product out of. I immediately shoved the beer back in his hand and said, “Ah sorry dude, this is my stop.”

Surprisingly, he stood up to let me through, and in the process lost his footing and fell back about four feet, spilling Budweiser and Clamato onto a floor already layered with the sticky remains of various questionable public fluids. The bus let me off, and I was thankful to have survived another Los Angeles bus ride with no shit on my neck.

I Love My Dick Covered Burrito

One of the plus sides of living in Los Angeles is the abundance of cheap but delicious taco shacks. The secret ingredient is penis.

Last week I was standing in line at the Cactus when my bff Suzy called. “Where you at?” Suzy said.

“I’m at Cactus,” I said. “Vine, between Santa Monica and Melrose.”

Suzy pulled up in her new-to-her 2005 Mercedes Benz C-Class. Only in LA does a person who lives in a shitty apartment with a lesbian roommate and no air conditioning drive a newish Mercedes Benz.

“You eat here?” Suzy asked indignantly.

“Yeah, they make a good vegetarian burrito,” I said.

“I don’t trust these places,” she said, “I mean, where do they go to the bathroom or wash their hands? It’s so gross.”

I’d never noticed the lack of bathrooms at the Cactus until that moment. Where do those Mexis pee?

For a second she had me. Then I thought about it and decided, so what? What’s the worst-case? So they literally have no pot to piss in and have to drain their lizards in the alley behind the El Rancho market. There’s no sink in the alley and I bet they don’t use hand sanitizer, that’s too bourge for a Mexican working at a taco stand, so they go straight back to rolling burritos with dick-hand.

And while I don’t really like to think about the fact that my burrito has been made with dick hands, honestly it doesn’t really bother me that much either. I mean it’s not like I’ve never put a dick (or twenty,) in my mouth before. And though I personally wouldn’t go down on a guy working at a taco stand I’m sure there’s some lady out there sucking his dick and loving it.

So if a little dick residue gets on my burrito...even if it is a warty, herpetic dick...it probably won’t kill me. In fact, whatever they do to it at the Cactus, it tastes pretty good. Mmmmmmmmm, I love my dick-covered burrito.

“They got an A.” I said, pointing to the health code rating hanging in the window.

“Yeah, they probably stole it.” Suzy said.

Some girls just don’t understand good Mexican food.

Piñata Hate Crimes Infect Los Angeles

Curbing for Candy

In the wake of Barack Obama's riveting speech on race, as well as the endorsement of Bill Richardson, racial tensions have blown wide open in LA. These horrifying pictures surfaced on the Internet early this afternoon. Several white supremacist groups have claimed responsibility for the attacks.

WARNING: These photographs contain explicitly violent images.

Skid Row Feng Shui

I propose to make Skid Row a better place, through the ancient Oriental art of spatial arrangement, Feng Shui.

Feng Shui led me to invent a separate hamper system, strictly for socks I have masturbated into. The stiff-ankled sock with the chip crumbs in it is a bitter sweet reminder of when I ignorantly beat off while eating a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Any masturbator worth his weight in semen will tell you that the best way to lubricate is with your own spit. It's cheap, good for the environment, and sometimes tastes like Kool Aid.

What those same masturbators won't tell you is that if you don't rinse your mouth out after eating a food with abrasive content, you're going to shred up your prick like an erosive gravel deteriorating a rock formation. But I digress.

The first thing the citizens of Skid Row can do to ensure maximum Qi, is face their boxes, tents, or laying papers to the East. Those with begging receptacles should be sure to rotate them one quarter of a revolution, four times a day.

Further more, I…I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I'm a fraud. This, all this, is just a charade. I don't know the first thing about Feng Shui, or Skid Row for that matter. Hell, I've never even been downtown, and I certainly couldn't point it out for you on a map. I rarely even leave the house. I'm only just now realizing, that for me, Skid Row exists as a metaphor for my self-esteem: a run down hovel in Me-Town that could certainly use some tidying up.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put Neosporin on my tattered genitals.

Never Trust a Shirtless Man, and Other Lessons Learned from a Downtown LA Male Crack Whore

Despite the city's attempts to gentrify the homeless male crack whores out of downtown and push them into Pasadena, these homeboys have way more wisdom to offer you than the Ryan Gosling types (who will soon be moving into a loft above the warehouse where you scored blow in back in high school.)

Follow these tips in your day to day affairs to ensure maximum success in life.

7. Never trust a shirtless man. His name is Larry. He's a selfish lover.

6. "It seemed funny at the time" is never a good excuse for stealing a baby.

5. Don't ask George Michael to wake you up before he goes goes, no matter how much it makes you giggle.

4. Commit arson only to cover up serious crimes -- not littering or public urination.

3. If you get a legitimate job interview and the employer asks about your skills, avoid phrases like, "I'll suck on anything."

2. When you're in a police lineup, refrain from making the "throat-slashing" gesture, even if warranted.

1. Never fall in love.

Gang Bangin' Green

Whether you're a Grape Street Crip or a Witmer Street Loco, the fact remains, global warming effects every hood. If Los Angeles gangs were to adopt a more eco-friendly approach to crime, then the city could guarantee a sustainable, thriving arena for turf wars well into 2060.

Regardless of the set you claim, remember ese, no Earth means no theft, no vandalism, no murder, and no consumption of illegal narcotics.

The next time you're rolling up to smoke some fools, consider doing so in a hybrid electric vehicle. The electric engine is as silent and smooth as the body floating face down in the L.A. river.

Don't forget, human corpses are just as biodegradable as orange peels. Organize a compost heap where members can discard dead bitches. The resulting rich mulch can then be used to grow marijuana, ideal for your local farmer's market. And remember, whether it's weed, crack, or angel dust, be sure to offer customers reusable hemp-spun baggies. That one's a no-brainer.

Every gangbanger worth his weight in yayo knows the pleasures of an honest tag. However, aerosol spray paint releases harmful fumes into the ozone layer. Try tagging in natural, earth-friendly pastels, a selection of which can easily be stolen from your local art store.

On the subject of theft, don't go for the Korean owned liquor-hole around the block; oftentimes these smaller stores employ the use of cleaning supplies with dangerous chemicals. Instead, begin a grassroots movement to bring a more eco-friendly grocer to your community, such as Trader Joes or Whole Foods. Then rob those stores.

As Ice Cube once said, "Gangsters make the world go round…" Well gangbangers, it's 2008, and I say, "Gangsters make the world go green."