How do you say ‘bowling’ in French?


On a television the size of a shipping container, I watch as two sisters from South Central swat a ball back and forth with the same intensity and speed as I’m applying to a pitcher of Pacifico at a bowling alley off of Pico Boulevard.

Over the din of clattering pins and urethane balls pounding the hardwood, a girl in rented shoes says, “I still do it here and there. Like weekends and holidays, but mainly as a diuretic.”

“I see,” I say. Though I don’t.

“Which is why I think it’s really fucked up when my sister calls me a cokehead. I mean, HELLO, I wouldn’t be snorting this stuff if I could achieve a regular bowel movement.”

“You’re up.” I point to one of the six hundred big screen TVs. This one happens to have our names and scores. Her name, according to the scoreboard, is Ganges, though not after the river, she tells me. After her cat.

“Who’s your cat named after?”

“No one. That’s just her name.” She scoffs and says, “Who’s your cat named after?”

“I don’t have a cat.”

I’m here for a birthday.

Jeff and Jules

She struts to the mechanism that cost Woody Harrelson his hand before he was famous for True Detective, and picks up an eight-pound, neon green bowling ball. She takes the ball, brings it up to her nose and stares down the alley.

I turn my attention to the pitcher and refill/refuel, depending on how you look at it. I hear the pins bang against each other and then the slick hardwood. She strides back with all the swagger of a person who can both claim to use cocaine for the explicit purpose of shitting and bowl a strike in a romper. She may be one of a kind. It’s girls like her that remind me Los Angeles is a special place.

A special place, and that I probably shouldn’t stay here too long.

In Santa Monica that is. The night is thick with salt air and the wind refuses to blow. And tonight, it seems, not even Milagro over ice can solve the weather.

I pick up my phone and search the advertised D.U.I. checkpoints so I can carefully chart my course home; not unlike a sailor bound for Easter Island. Or maybe it’s nothing like that. I’m just headed to Silver Lake.


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FYF 2015: I AM A GOD ( or the Year of the Kanye)

“I feel like there are only five people here, but they’ve been cloned over and over again.”


Last year it was The Strokes t-shirt circa 2003 – this year it was a sea of Kanye West t-shirts. Which, at first glance, appeared to be worn ironically by blue-haired girls with pierced septums flaunting handfuls of side boob. I watched as they dislocated their thumbs to slip on and off wristbands that read: Over 21.

The Kids Are Probably Alright

Flat beers were the name of the game. They were readily available in the beer gardens, craft or otherwise. At first I was upset, but then it occurred to me that complaining about flat beer at a music festival full of kids too young to legally drink is like being perturbed that you share your dial-up internet with a fax machine. The kids aren’t drinking beers.

Still, I was on my tenth when they bumped into me. A girl who sat on a boy’s shoulders rolling so hard that she pulled on his pompadour as if she were barebacking a horse, trying to steer it through the crowd by it’s mane. Only it wasn’t a horse. It was a teenage boy. He asked her to dismount every three minutes or so, his turkey-sausage-fueled legs buckling under her eighty-six pounds of eyeliner and pink ombre hair. She swayed to Kanye as Kanye so expertly rapped over himself, floating in and out of a cloud of smoke, making proclamation after proclamation. Each greater than the last until he plateaued, having reached the greatest height of self-admiration it’s possible for a person with a microphone to hit. And everyone lost their shit. Except for me. I’m not really a fan.

So I watched as the masses passionately chanted self-flattering lyrics that were presumably written as Kanye stared deeply into… the mirror. Nothing says that you are a kind, caring and loving citizen of this earth like shouting with an effected Chicago accent, “I am a god!”Kanye Loves Kanye

So yeah, I’m headed back for day two. I’ll be the guy with the flat beer standing in a crowd of people who claim to be huge D’Angelo fans, from waaay back. But really, I’m not going to see D’Angelo or Mac Demarco or Toro Y Moi. I’m going to casually observe America’s youth testing the limits of how much acid is a reasonable amount to do while the sun is high and the days are long.

*All images were Fat-Jewished.


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I am a Goddamn Spiritual Person

As the sun rises, I wake up with the chirping of birds, the hum of the freeway, the clanking of Guatemalan immigrants sorting through my trash for bottles and cans.

I breathe in pollen, moss, carbon monoxide emissions. I breathe in intention, and I breathe out ten thousand vodkas in plastic cups, weed before it was legal, and any other toxin that doubled as a party favor back when Bush was in office. I breathe out the anxiety that is not worth holding on to and I tell myself, they cannot implicate me in their ugliness.

“They” being anyone who stands between me and the times of year when I’m on a beach with a beer, with no plans of checking my email and no desire to troll instagram to see who is on a beach with a beer instead of in an air conditioned office abutted by freeways and vegan restaurants, massage parlors and gastropubs. Despite being a spiritual person, I spend my life either on or between freeways. Maybe we all do.

405 chilling

I have replaced Jameson with apple cider vinegar. I shoot it first thing in the morning and I follow it with a water-back. I wince in a way whiskey no longer makes me wince. I can feel the vinegar rotting my molars, my esophagus, but I’m told it’s good for me. Then I stuff myself with massaged kale — as much as I can stomach, and follow that with eggs with yolks as orange as tangerines. Or as orange as oranges. Either way, I eat them.

As a spiritual person, having breathed in my positive intentions and watched my thoughts float past me — not criticizing myself for having them, nor following them to wherever they might go; essentially not giving a fuck about them — and having breathed out the toxins of my youth, those which are deeply embedded in me and those which linger on my epidermis, I have pretty much fulfilled my duty for the day. It’s 7:53 A.M.

A normal person is constantly busy: work, bills, compulsive overeating followed by shame-fueled hours on the elliptical, celebrated with margaritas until the body has slowly slumped into submission. Also known as sleep.

A spiritual person, such as myself, watches his problems wrestle each other into submission like a plastic bag blowing in the wind. Yes, my problems heave and hoe just out of reach until the wind quits or I walk away.

Life is quite relaxing now that I am spiritually satisfied, though it has not pleased everyone. My employer doesn’t seem to understand that “working” doesn’t really fulfill the prophecy that I have imagined for myself, yet I still show up at the office and drink their coffee.

Paying rent is, of course, futile since the pursuit and accumulation of money is unsatisfactory. My landlord served up an eviction notice. I wrote back, “You cannot implicate me in your ugliness. When you’re ready to leave the dark side of chasing paper and paying your mortgage I’ll teach you the ways of breathing in intention and breathing out fucks-given.” So far no word, but I am an optimist, insofar as it’s possible for me to exert energy on anything that may not serve me.

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The Complete History of My Front Tooth (Right Incisor)


1985-1994: A tooth breaks through my gum line. Then said tooth falls out and is replaced by another tooth, which is larger and according to my peers “buck.” I am both haunted and proud my large, offensive tooth.

December 12, 1995: I’m at hockey rink on a former military base. More specifically, I’m standing between the posts of a goal that’s adjacent to the actual rink near the referees’ locker room. Because I’m incredibly stupid, I’m not wearing a face mask. To punctuate my stupidity, I’m not wearing a helmet either. Yet I glide side-to-side warding off the attempts of my brother and his friend who are younger, and by my own estimation, unworthy opponents.

I’m not sure if the score is being kept, but I do know I’m caught hugging the wrong post when a shot gets rifled from probably seven feet away from me. In an attempt to maintain my shutout, I do my best Terry Sawchuk and dive headfirst toward the puck. The next thing I remember is my mouth is bleeding and I do the least Terry Sawchuk thing it’s possible to do – I shriek at the top of my lungs then run around the rink looking for what I didn’t know then, but do know now to be a half gallon of morphine.

When they finally calm me down, everyone wants to know what happened to the part of my tooth that my braces didn’t save. I dig around in the crease for a bit looking for it. The old guys say if I find it, I should drop it in a glass of milk, but we’re at a hockey rink so there’s no milk and I’m fairly certain I swallowed my tooth anyway. This is the first and last time I ever play goalie.

The next day I go to school with my war story. I play up the blood and also change the setting from a net next to the rink to the rink itself. In the revised version I’m playing up a level and it’s the save that breaks my tooth, which wins the game for us. We’re league champions. If I cried they were tears of joy because we were champions, my frieeend.

Spring 1999: Somehow I’m still wearing braces. And to no one’s surprise, I find myself talking shit about a kid who has a full mustache and is rumored to drive himself to school. We’re in seventh grade. Or at least I am. I’m not sure he’s technically enrolled. Whatever shit I may have been talking makes it’s way to the mustachioed man-student and I’m informed that he’s going to kick my ass after school. I get specific instructions to head to where they sell pizza at lunch, but not as far as the bus pick-up lines.

At 3:01, I show up certain that some school official is going to intervene and shut this thing down. Instead there’s a circle of guys in JNCO jeans crowded around. I have spiked bleached hair and I’m wearing a Girl skateboard shirt. My mustachioed counterpart tells me that I must be a girl because only a girl would wear a shirt that says “Girl” on it. I tell him he’s a fucking idiot, and has he “ever even heard of Eric Kost—” He throws a punch that I am able to mostly block with my forearm. But I’m certain that he’s shattered my ulna and as I reach for it, he sends another punch to my metallic blue braced-face. This time he connects.

He starts to charge me, but I dodge him momentarily. “Pussy,” he says. I run my tongue across the bottom of my mouth. “Fuck.” I spit into my hand, but my tooth is nowhere in sight. I bare my busted grill to the crowd and say, “I gotta go.” And maybe because they see I’m missing most of my front tooth, the crowd lets me pick up my Jansport and walk away.

A couple days later I make sure everyone knows that I barely felt either punch. Personally, I considered it a draw and I would’ve demanded a rematch, but by then my mustachioed foe had left middle school to join the army.

2001-2004: I’m sure I broke my front tooth once, maybe twice, but I honestly can’t remember how or where.

Spanish dentist

March 23, 2007: I’m allegedly studying, but mostly drinking, on the Mediterranean side of Spain when I snap my tooth while eating a goddamn bocadillo in the afternoon. I walk to my college counselor’s office and she tells me that it’s siesta so I won’t be able to see a dentist until later. She feeds me three glasses of red wine and I fall asleep in her office.

When I wake up it’s dark and I assume she’s Cosby’ed me and now wants me to hit the road. Instead she says her husband is outside and he’s going to take me to a dentist. It’s 9:00 p.m.

I take a ride with a strange Spanish man then enter an elevator that opens to a small suite. A man in street clothes flips on the lights, invites me in and tells me to take a seat in the corner room while he changes. I flip on the lights in the next room to reveal the sort of dentist office you might see in a low budget movie that only had the money for a massage chair and a couple mirrors. My dentist enters, still in his street clothes, but now wearing one of those masks. He tells me that he used to live in Connecticut and “should we switch to speaking English?” I agree and he goes on to speak a language that’s completely incomprehensible to me. When he pauses I tell him he’s very good; in particular his accent. He says in Spanish that while he’s impressed with how white my teeth are, he couldn’t match the color. He went a few shades darker and suggests that I get it fixed when I return to America. As I’m leaving, he tells me I owe him 30 euros. Sure my tooth is a little brown, but my good that’s a fucking deal. I leave happy, but also make a note to limit my medical care in Spain to the cosmetic.

October 2008: I’m in the park of the Greystone Mansion just up the street from my office, which will soon go out of business. I’m working for an agent who insists that I read on my lunch break, but instead forcing me to read scripts, he piles up James Salter, Hemingway, and Nabokov. I’m in the middle of thinking I need a drink, since these guys seem to always be drinking, when I reach for my sandwich made on a beautiful baguette from La Brea Bakery. I take one bite and instantly feel my tooth crumble off. On my way back to the office I think I have to make up a story about how I broke it – mugging? Changing a tire? (Is it obvious I’ve never changed a tire?) Elbow to the face in the elevator? Instead I keep my mouth closed and decide to go home sick. No questions asked.

2009- July 6, 2015: I have a good run. A really good run. I wear a facemask while playing beer league hockey. I eat pizza with a goddamn fork and knife. Things are good. It’s a time of peace. I go to the dentist for normal things like cavities and cleanings. They tell me all of my previous dentists were horrible and I need to get everything redone. Everything accept the front tooth. Instead they just try to sell me Invisalign over and over again. I decline, and they agree that I will be fine without it.

July 7, 2015: I get out of work early and pump iron with the Armenians that frequent my gym. I feel a sense of camaraderie among them, which lasts until I’m piled into the sauna, surrounded by tattoos that are the Armenian Genocide equivalent of “Never Forget.”


Riding high, I find myself in a market, face-to-face with a wall of baguettes. I grab one. I think of being in Paris and how everyone seems to start in on the end of their baguette as soon as they stroll home from their corner patisserie. I eye the baguette, grab it and step outside. The sun is shining, there’s a nice breeze, I practically skip to my piece of shit car. And I can’t help myself, the baguette has tempted me for too long. I give in to its allure in a parking lot in Silver Lake.

One bite. The first bite. That’s it. When you’ve broken your front tooth as many times as I have, well, you know the feeling. It’s not like a hockey puck, or a punch. There’s a distinct collapse, like a foot smashing a sand castle.

This is the way your tooth breaks.

This is the way your tooth breaks.

This is the way your tooth breaks.

Not with a bang but a whimper.

July 8, 2015: Now I’m in a high rise in Hollywood where the dentist tells me she’s surprised it lasted as long as it did. She remembers me from 2009. She asks why I stopped seeing her 2012. I assure her that it was nothing personal, just her outrages prices nearly bankrupted me. She tells me the woes of owning a small practice and then offers to set me up with a veneer instead of slapping on another bonding. It’s true that I’m out of network and it’ll cost me $1,600 out of pocket, but I need to think about my future.

“What if I give up baguettes?” I ask.

“That might work too.”

“Fuck it. I’ll go with the veneer. Do you guys take maxed out credit cards?”

“Sure! We’ll put you on a plan!”

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On the (Panamanian) Road


It’s a whistle. Not like a steam train, more like a person whistling. But not like a person whistling to a dog. More like a guy whistling at a girl, but without the second… would you call it a refrain? The part that calls for your attention, but not the part that suggests an appreciation? It’s not a mating call. It’s more like a firework that’s been launched but never detonates. It just swerves and flaccidly drops into the sea, or a parking lot. Only it’s a whistle.

That’s what I’m hearing anyway, underneath this tree with these drooping flowers that are called Angel’s Trumpets or Devil’s Teardrops or something. That’s what the Panamanian cab driver called them as we drove by this morning. We have these in Los Angeles, I think, but the ones here are supposed to make you hallucinate.

So I hiked up this mountain road with my shorts chaffing my thighs and my shirt melting into the blades of my back. Which is how I arrived here, sweating underneath these flowers, trying to get fucked up, but only hearing the sound of a whistle that I can’t place.

I wish the wind would blow, but the air and the trees are too thick so everything must stay as it is. If a car drives by going down the hill, I might try to hitch a ride back to town. But it’s tough to make promises in this heat. Plus, it’s Christmas and I haven’t seen anyone the whole time I’ve been under this plant. This whole time meaning the last twenty minutes, or maybe two hours. I don’t have my watch, well, because I don’t wear a watch. What I mean is that I don’t have my phone. And time moves slowly out here. Everything does. It’s the humidity.

I lay back, or maybe I lie back. Really what I do is fall back. The blades of grass are sharp and ants crawl into my ears and up my hands and ankles. I wonder if I should be worried about snakes or sloths or coyotes. Maybe it’s just something they tell tourists – it’s just something to say on a long boring drive in the rainforest other than, “That’s a tree, which is old and interesting.” Or, “That’s a waterfall, which is probably prehistoric.” Or, “That’s a house that a tycoon from Canada bought and then left for his two sons who divided it in half, never spoke to each other and have since died.” They’re just filling the dead air. Panama is not Rome. There isn’t a coliseum, or a plaza, or a river, or Vatican City. I guess Vatican City is a different place since it has the word “city” in its name, but to me, it’s Rome.

There might not be a pope around here but there are, however, indigenous people who do not speak Spanish. They pick coffee beans and when they’re not, they get black-out drunk and fight for each other’s wives. I want to be the type of guy who sees some nobility in this, but unfortunately I don’t. Though I’m thankful for their efforts with the coffee, without which these words would not have been written and I’d still be in bed. The indigenous people in this province supposedly walked here all the way from Alaska. That’s what a white guy who owns a coffee plantation told me. Why they stopped, we’ll never know. The white guy didn’t say that. I was just thinking it.

I think a car may have driven by, but I missed it. My abdomen isn’t working so I can’t sit up. I try to use other muscles, namely my brain to communicate with my back or my arms to aid in the rising of my supine body to a position so I might wave down a ride, but to no avail. I guess I’ll just enjoy this day Christ was born in the position that he assumed in the manger, although he didn’t assume it. I mean, I assume someone put him in there like that, on his back. Probably his back. I don’t think you leave babies face down in their cribs. Or in his case, the manger.

I feel the weight of the clouds, the rainforest, and the water that has formed into individual drops and taken to pelting me. And like the birthday boy himself, I maybe even feel humanity pushing me into the dirt. As rain starts to fall harder, I seep deeper into the soil and it occurs to me that I might drown. To save myself I have no choice but to exhale very quickly through my mouth so as to free the surrounding area of rain, then quickly inhale through my mouth, as you do when snorkeling in the rain. My breath is getting shorter and shorter, but the system is sound. Now I just have to wait out the rain.

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Yes And: Hollywood House Party

scenic view

On the porch of a house in Hollywood a girl in harem pants plays a mandolin and sings, “No new friends, no new friends, no new friends…” We walk along the side, entering the way pool guys and gardeners do, to arrive in a backyard full of mostly bespectacled men with beards. They’re all 29 years old. Well, that’s not true. Some are 28, others are 30. And not all of them have beards, some have mustaches.

Other than the bearded men, who all introduce themselves as writers, there are also actors and improvisers, and actors who hate improv and improvisers who insist they have no interest in acting.

I drink two or three or four beers with the American flag plastered on the side before I notice my friends have disappeared. And of course, the beer isn’t working. I’m talking to a black guy with a Mohawk who tells me he speaks French fluently and thinks I’d be very handsome if I didn’t have a beard. When I don’t respond quickly enough, he tells me he’s a very talented graphic designer and has a background in the theatre and once spent three weeks in Paris when he was fifteen. Then he asks me who I am dressed up as. He says he can’t tell. I look down to confirm that I’m dressed as I’m pretty much always dressed. He tells me that this is a 90s costume party. I excuse myself, citing an empty Dixie cup.

Around midnight, a busload of girls who are too pretty, too pale and have snorted too much coke, show up. They swing from one end of the party to the other, like marionettes chasing each other. They look like they’ve just stepped out of Nylon Magazine. As it happens, and as they are quick to tell you, they are those girls. “Google me,” one of them says. “I’m legit.”

I tell her I believe her. She tells me she doesn’t care if I believe her or not, because there are a lot of people talking a big game here, but she’s actually very legit. She asks if I recognize her from an HBO show that she was on. I do, I tell her so. She says she doesn’t care if I recognize her or not because she’s legit. But then, in almost a whisper, she does ask one favor of me, “Don’t tell my sister what I’ve been doing.” I agree and she floats across the party, plucking a joint from a stranger’s fingers, she disappears in a haze of smoke, leather, and the obligatory floppy black velvet hat.

My drink is gone. Or rather, I drank it all, but the crowd is too thick to fight my way back to the bar. I haven’t seen my friends in an hour, maybe longer, so I elect to take a lap around the party. One stride into my lap, three guys ask me if I want to go in on a gram. I tell them I’m not actually looking to hole-up in the bathroom with three strangers and a gram from somebody’s friend’s neighbor’s roommate’s connect. They look at me like I’m fucking insane and we part ways.

The girl in the leather jacket and the floppy hat swings back in front of me. Her skin is almost translucent. Her eyes are blue, her scleras are a shade of porcelain, and her jaw, grinding down her perfect teeth, seems to have a mind of its own. She asks for my number and I ask why. She tells me to fuck off and that she’s making a movie and the budget is 3.5 million. Then she asks again for my number. I guess we both assume that she’s answered my question so I give it to her. She puts my name into her phone and then under company she writes: Financier*. I tell her that she’s confused me with someone else. She assures me that she hasn’t because she doesn’t make mistakes and that she doesn’t care what I think because she’s legit. I can google her. Then a tall blonde girl wearing six shades of black, whisks her away so they can pose for a photo shoot. Not an impromptu photo shoot. There are lights, C-stands, a prop couch. And now there are models dropping their chins, pursing their lips, flicking off the camera.

I’m ready to fight my way over to the bar when a girl in a crop top comes over and asks me to guess who she’s dressed up as. I say, “Sheryl Crow,” for reasons that are still unclear to me. She says she’s Courtney Love. Then she proceeds to tell me that Courtney Love is not just a singer, but she also used to be married to Kurt Cobain who was the lead singer of Nirvana, which was a band in the nineties, before he died of an overdose. She tells me she learned all of this in a documentary she watched on HBOGO using her parents’ login info. She asks if I have any coke. I say no and she tells me that she was born in the year of the Ox. I say, “I think I was too – 1985, right?” She buckles over laughing then says, “No. Gross. 1997.”

I guess I’m getting old. Maybe that’s why the booze isn’t working. The girl in the leather jacket and the floppy hat texts me her name and the words: director/writer/actress/model/singer. I look around, but I don’t see her anywhere. I also don’t see my friends or the girl who was born in 1997. I find my way upstairs and into a conversation where a girl where a Wu-Tang shirt volunteers that she doesn’t actually know a single Wu-Tang song. Then a blond guy doing his best James Dean takes her to a nearby couch where they proceed to aggressively make-out while ten guys watch, sipping their beers.

I wander back outside with a cup half-full of vodka, which is not how I approach life by any means, but rather this cup was empty and then I filled it up. Thus, well, you get it. On the perimeter of the party, I sip my lukewarm vodka while actors improvise conversations and girls who look like models, because they are models, pose in front of a lime tree, a staircase, a parked car. A man wearing a baja hoodie comes up to me and demands to know where we’ve met. “I don’t think we have,” I say. He tells me his name and that he’s on mushrooms and that surely he’s met me before because he’s a musician and I’m a musician. I tell him I’m not a musician, but he doesn’t believe me.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and continues to talk about knowing people on a deeper level. The more he talks, the less he sounds like someone on mushrooms and the more he sounds like someone trying to act as if they’re on mushrooms. He continues his monologue while tightening his grip on my shoulder. I can’t fathom why someone would decide that this party would be a good place to do mushrooms. I tell him that I need to go home, he tells me that I don’t. I tell him, “I need to take my dog out for a walk.” It’s three in the morning.

“You’re a good pet owner,” he says. “A dedicated pet owner.” I ask him to please let go of my arm. He tells me that he used to have a blushing disorder but he had endoscopic thoracic sympathectomy surgery and now he never blushes, but a side effect is he sweats in weird places like his chest, his groin, his feet. He holds up his hand and says, “My palms don’t sweat anymore, neither does my head. That’s another side effect.”

Maybe he actually is on mushrooms. I’m also starting to think I should leave now. I slowly back away from the man on mushrooms so as to not alarm him. He watches with wide eyes and pleads for me to not go. I get into an Uber with a driver who tells me he’s studying at a famous barbershop in Inglewood. “It’s where Ice Cube trained for his role in the movie Barbershop,” he says. I applaud him for pursuing his education.

By the time we reach my place, my driver has pitched me his mobile barbershop business and targeted me as a potential investor. He tells me the sky is the limit when it comes the mobile barbershop industry. I’m not convinced that’s true, but what the fuck do I know about haircuts on wheels? I tell him to count me in. He gives me a card and we agree to talk in the morning. I’ve had enough of Hollywood, I’m going to get into the mobile hair game.

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The Road to a Carne Asada Quesadilla

It’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m in the back of a hired car with a greasy carne asada quesadilla in my lap. I’m firing questions at my driver like I’m Charlie fucking Rose. The subject, of course, is the Egyptian American experience. My driver looks back at me through his rear view and questions my credentials. “Are you kidding me, man?” I say. “I’m legit. Look at these eyebrows! Look at this beard!”

“My sister pays to make her eyebrows look like yours, and yours look better.”

Because I can take a compliment I say, “Shukran.”

“I can say ‘thank you’ in Chinese – does that make me Chinese?”

“Maybe. But I thought you said you were Egyptian.”


“Never mind the Chinese — what about this beard?! I mean, I grow beards the way other people grow…” But I’ve lost my train of thought. I can’t think of anything that grows quickly except for weeds and people don’t intentionally grow weeds. Also, my goal is hyperbole and I’m not sure weeds grow that much faster than my beard. I should spend more time at Home Depot and learn about plants. And horticulture. And other stuff.

“We’re here,” he says.

Yes, but how did I get here?

I’m at the Tacos Arizas truck and I’m speaking Spanish, because, well, I can still taste it on my lips now – I’ve been drinking tequila. And the speed at which I’m speaking leads me to believe I’ve had quite a lot. Like enough to put a teenager in the hospital. Even though I’m speaking Spanish, the tequila is doing all the work. Of course my time in Spain, my degree in the language, and the years wasted translating sentences from a text book so I can learn how to say: “In the summer, I like to go jetskiing with my family on the lake” – those things might be helping.

In the end, the only thing I really say is, “I’ll have a steak quesadilla. For here please.” Here being a side street next to a Walgreens in Echo Park. Behind me are two brothers. Yes, they’re clearly brothers. You can tell just by looking at them. But one speaks with a thick Boston accent while the other has no detectable accent at all. Which might be confusing if I didn’t know these guys, but I do, so I’m not confused. Yes, we arrived here together. Now it’s coming back.

Before the taco truck: We bust into the Gold Room sometime after 1:30. I ask about the drink specials, but I already know the drink specials. Three tequilas. Three beers. Six, seven years ago, this place used to be scary. It was thick with cholos who had been pushed out of their homes, but still came back to drink in this bar where you can throw peanuts on the floor. People got murdered within a police baton’s throw of this place, but now they have Firestone 805 beers in the fridge. Adios, Tecate, Bohemia, Victoria, Corona. There’s a new lager in town and it’s crafted on California’s lovely Central Coast.

Fuck me. Of course I order a Firestone. Where is my moral compass? Why do I pine for the days when shit-faced cholos would give me and my friends menacing looks while we slurped our bargain-priced drinks before last call? Now this place is as mundane as the lines at Costco. Everybody just minds their own business.

But before that, there was the Thirsty Crow, the Black Cat, Bar Stella which actually didn’t happen, and then Jay’s Bar which did.

At Jay’s, Frank Sinatra is on the TV and Dinesh from Silicon Valley is next to us at the bar. I’m drinking mescal. The same mescal that I drank a week earlier on Balboa Island where one can buy frozen bananas dipped in chocolate and watch very blonde women go on uncomfortable first dates with very leathery men who promise jaunts on the yacht to Cabo and Cannes. I did not have a chocolate banana then or now. But sometimes I think I could drink mescal forever. Then I remember what happens to the Consul in Under the Volcano.

“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?” 

Goddamn, that is an exquisite sentence. But it’s just bleeding with insanity. The nectar of the Oaxacan gods is not to be overindulged.

Before all that, I’m on my couch with my feet up reading a review about a biography of Saul Bellow even though I don’t like Saul Bellow. Actually, I’m not sure I’ve even read anything by him. I often confuse him the guys who wrote The Swimmer or Rabbit, Run. Maybe that was Bellow. I don’t know. All I know is I’m quietly having a couple of tequilas. A tequila nightcap because it’s the day after Cinco de Mayo and the stuff was lying around. And, as of Sunday, I’ve quit whiskey again, so I might as well drink this stuff. I have one tequila knowing full well I’m going to have a second, and by the time my phone buzzes with an invite to a bar down the street, I’m on my third. I’ll go for one drink. Maybe two. I’ll be back before midnight.

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