People in Los Angeles have an odd relationship with their neighbors. They spend months or even years separated by only a few feet of drywall, yet since everyone is so self-absorbed, it’s rare to know much more about them than their names, and even those can be tough to remember.
By mere proximity, I was able to learn a lot about the neighbors in my first Hollywood apartment. Each were strange, colorful characters in their own ways.
Next door was a former Penthouse Pet who once dated Crispin Glover. She tried to compensate for being past her prime with multiple plastic surgeries and heavy Gothic makeup. After a year and a half of actively avoiding any interaction with me, she slid a note under my door offering to pay me $10 a month to siphon my internet. The next time I passed her in the hall way, she still didn’t say hello. She never got my wireless password.
Across the courtyard was an elderly, obese Hispanic woman who would lean out of her French doors and chain-smoke Marlboro reds all day. She greeted me every morning with an “hola” in a throaty gargle, and when I returned from work in the evening she was there again waiving hello with a lit cigarette. I don’t think she left the building once in the 3 years I lived there.
Every time I went to the dumpster to take out the trash, she would yell out “bottles!” She wanted my recyclables so she could make a profit, and actually had a nice racket going since she requested bottles from everyone in the building. At first, I would separate my bottles for her. Then, she got greedy.
She’d ask for bottles when I clearly had only garbage in my bags. The last straw came when she asked for the full water bottle I was still drinking out of after coming home from the gym. I told her no. Enough was enough. From then on I lied and said I had no bottles, making it a point to not give her anything that could net her 5 cents (7 cents in Michigan).
Across the hall was a couple who both worked at a hair salon and looked like they could be the Nihilists from The Big Lebowski. He was thin with jet black hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was pair shaped with platinum blonde hair, sloppy tits, and owned a bitchy chihuahua who was equally neurotic. He was affable enough to say hi, while she would give dirty looks to anyone she passed.
They drove a hearse, had a Halloween decoration above their door which read “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here,” as well as a HAZMAT-like sticker on the door with something about zombies.
They often had loud sex, which prompted me to make this reaction video one morning upon waking up to their moaning.
One evening, they had a domestic dispute and the police were called. I looked through my peep hole just in time to see the woman standing against the wall, handcuffed in nothing but her bra and panties. She was screaming at the officers and was nearly arrested.
They broke up soon after. He moved into another unit in the building and left her in the apartment next to me. She played a Danzig song on a loop all night, every night for a couple solid weeks. It took the police threatening arrest and the landlord threatening eviction for her to finally stop. She filled the silence with screaming fits at random times throughout the day. I moved out soon after.
Sometimes, when I drive by my old apartment building, I see that hearse parked outside and wonder how they’re all doing. Did the Penthouse Pet ever get the internet? Did the hairstyling nihilist couple reconcile? Did the old lady die of lung cancer? Then I snap out of it and realize I don’t care because they’re all assholes.
While in line for a new SIM card at the T-Mobile store on Beverly Blvd. last Saturday, I saw something I will never un-see. A gentleman clutching a mannequin with matching clothes and hair was entrenched in conversation with a sales rep, most likely signing up for the family plan. I did my duty as a citizen journalist and documented the experience by discreetly photographing them until the salesperson waited on me. The resulting photos are below.
While I exchanged obligatory quips with a salesperson about the situation, the doll and her human suitor waited around quietly, then posed for a picture with one of the employees before leaving as two happy T-Mobile customers.
Beard Muldowney died of accidental causes today. He was 33 days old.
Beard was conceived by his father, Ryan Patrick Muldowney, 27, of Los Angeles, on the afternoon of July 9th, immediately after he shaved before attending a friend’s wedding. Though Beard was a cause of itchiness and discomfort at first, they quickly became inseparable, attending many work events and social outings together.
In time, Beard softened to Muldowney’s face, and he grew to appreciate the more mature look it gave him while learning to tolerate things like his cheeks staying damp long after he exited the shower.
Beard was expected to live a long and fulfilling life, but things took a sudden turn for the worse on August 11 when Muldowney, due to unfamiliarity with a hair trimmer, accidentally took a large chunk of Beard off his chin.
Beard is survived by his father Ryan, older brothers Head Hair and Pubic Hair aka “Curly” Muldowney, and step brother Mustache, who will be euthanized Friday morning due to his father not wanting to look like a child molester.
In lieu of flowers, please donate hair trimmer instruction manuals to those who cannot operate simple machinery without help.
While driving in Los Feliz recently, my car was struck by a runaway avocado that bounced off a rickety fruit truck while my vehicle passed it. I saw it coming, but didn’t have enough reaction time to swerve. The result was a loud noise and a hole in the driver’s side headlight of my 2001 Pontiac Grand-Am.
There wasn’t enough time to turn around and get the license plate of the prick who doesn’t know how to secure the fruit with one of the biggest, hardest seeds known to man while he drives 10 miles above the speed limit. I did, however, have time to be thankful that the avocado didn’t bounce up another foot and smash through my windshield, which could have potentially killed me.
Like all people, I’ve envisioned how I might leave this world. Most of these visions involve me dying while engaged in a threesome with two women who didn’t make the cut to be one of Charlie Sheen’s goddesses. In none of these scenarios has a fruit of any kind been involved, unless you count an alcohol induced nightmare in which I was killed by a coked out Andy Dick.
Thankfully, the damage was minimized to my headlight. A mere flesh wound for a car that has survived a cross-country trip, two rear-endings, and countless sexual disappointments by its driver.
While driving through middle America with his friend Tony, finds a phone number written in a bathroom stall in Mississippi and curiosity gets the better of him. What will he find on the other end of the phone line? True love? Fleeting passion? A busy signal? One thing’s for sure: He’ll find someone to give him the head job that he believes is entitled to him.
This is accompanying video for the November 4th Blog that describes my experience in a Mississippi gas station bathroom.
I was traveling through rural Mississippi over the weekend (is there a part of Mississippi that isn’t rural?) and stopped at a gas station for a for a fuel fill up and a piss drop off and came across the above note written on the bathroom stall’s door. Intrigued, I snapped a photo to document the occasion.
After paying for my cup of joe, which involved dealing with two of the saddest and most miserable looking people I’ve ever seen working at a gas station (and that’s saying a lot), and taking a free cd recording of a local Baptist minister’s sermon, we got back on the road.
I dialed the number written on the stall door, intending to ask for BigNasty, but I got a recording saying the number was disconnected. The other, crossed out numbers got the same result. There were brief thoughts of posting a missed connection on Craig’s List in hopes that BigNasty might find me and give me the head job of my life, I decided against it. Actually speaking with BigNasty would’ve provided a better ending to the story, but sometimes the thrill of life is in the journey and not the destination.