Resisting Arrest

A professor of mine said that people go to see movies in order to see a just world. I get that. We like to see the good guy succeed and the bad guy get his. Rarely do we see the execution of swift justice. I remember someone passing me from a right turn only lane and a cop pulling them over immediately. It made me happy, not orgasm happy or bowel movement happy, but finding a twenty-dollar bill sticking out of a dead homeless guy's back pocket happy. It made me feel like there was some order in this crazy, mixed up world. I got a taste of that justice tonight. I belive in Karma, or what we do in this world will come back to us. True or not, it gets me through the day. Well, dear readers, tonight a douche bag spat on me and he learned that Karma can be a bitch.

We get a lot of douche bags in our establishment. It's not something special we do. We just happen to be purveyors of alcohol. And when a fucktard consumes alcohol, he becomes a douche bag. I can't stand these people but I try not to let them get to me, either. I've been at this long enough that I can spot them from a mile away. They walked in an hour after the Saints edged the Vikings in an amazing game. I got a strange vibe off him, something in his walk. He introduced himself to the bartender, "Remember me, I used to be Megan's roommate." I turned away. A minute or two later, I heard the woman shout, "Cuntasaurus Rex, I hate this bar," as they exited. The bartender explained that she recognized their state of inebriation and offered them water, but refused to serve them alcohol. Hey, she's a better bartender than I. I usually want to give these chodes a Bacardi tracheotomy and watch them collapse in a pool of their own puke. In any case, I figured that the incident was over. Next thing I see the woman standing at the front door flipping the bird. Now it's relatively innocuous, but it's not good for business to have drunk bitches blocking the door giving the finger. I set down my pornography and got up to start earning my Haitian wages.

I opened the door and asked them to leave. She wanted to file a complaint against the bartender. I told her it was duly noted. She wanted to file a written complaint. I told her to write it down and come back tomorrow when she was sober. They refused to leave, so I called the cops. While waiting for Santa Monica's finest, Dick Bag, name changed to protect the Dick Bag, started in with me. Now, there is nothing more in this world that I would want than to pummel this loser to a pulp. But I'm on the clock, and as an employee, I feel it's not a good idea to throw the first punch. Now as for the second punch, that one is all mine. In any case, the guy got in my face, begging me to hit him. I refused. At this point, Cunt Face, probably her real name, was trying to tell Dick Bag to shut up. With the cops on their way, and Dick Bag being a small in stature Dick Bag, I tell him to listen to Cunt Face. In fact, I said, "You should listen to her tough guy." I love riling douche bags, small ones mind you, and Dick Bag was no exception.

At one point, four customers were leaving and stood to watch. I pointed out to Dick Bag as he got in my grill, that these gentlemen were all witnesses. Dick Bag said, "These four douche bags?" Oh, pots and kettles, how black are thee? One of the customers was ready to pound Dick Bag, but I told them it wasn't worth it. Long story short: Dick Bag spat on me. I felt it hit my head and figured it was his cigarette, until I looked down and saw some loogie on my shirt...my good shirt. I called the police again and apprised them of the situation. A couple minutes later, Dick Bag and Cunt Face walked away. I followed them and updated the police over the phone, when I finally saw a police car. I showed the officer the loogie and described the assholes. He took off after them. Now this is where the story gets good.

I don't know what I expected when my friend, Jamie, and I headed down Second Street to see it all go down. I figured that since I still had evidential loogie on my shirt and head, I needed to be there. When we arrived, about fifty yards North of Rose, the officer was getting their information. And wouldn't you know it, Dick Bag still had his sunglasses on at eight-thirty at night. No, scratch that. He must've put them on because he didn't have them on when he was fucking with me. Personally, I'd want to be on my best behavior when questioned by a police officer, but, hey, I'm no Dick Bag. You'd tell me if I was, right? Next came the cuffs. After, Dick Bag was cuffed and walked around the police car, he fell to the ground. Maybe Dick Bag was forced to watch Gandhi in his community college film class and thought it was time to exercise that civil disobedience that worked so well for India. Alas, Dick Bag didn't realize that it was actually criminal disobedience he was exercising. The officer shouted, "Get up! Get up!" Dick Bag, oh so clever, said, "Pick me up!" At this point Cunt Face leaned in to explain to Dick Bag that he should "shut the fuck up!" (My words) The officer told her to move away which she didn't. I don't know how it happened but Dick Bag had a burst of human strength and stood up. The officer tried to put him in the back of the police car and spunky, little Dick Bag couldn't help but resist. Now it was time for Cunt Face. While resisting, Dick Bag told Cunt Face to call someone which she did. While trying to talk on the phone, the Officer attempted to arrest her, too. She remained on the phone until he was able to get he hands behind her back. Lights could be seen and sirens could be heard off in the distance. While Cunt Face's face rested on the trunk of the squad car and her arms behind her back, five other police cars arrived at the scene.

I still had my evidential loogie and I gave my statement. The officer gave me a wet nap, explaining they didn't need my "evidence." I asked about assault charges and he explained that they have him for resisting arrest. I could press charges, but Dick Bag committed a significant enough crime that he'll be prosecuted and I won't need to be involved. The justice was swift and I hope it will be harsh. While I wasn't happy that Dick Bag spat on me, it was, oh so, worth it to see him get done for resisting arrest.

Foodies

Kara, a friend from the gym, would say, and I’m paraphrasing, “If you love food, we’re on our way to becoming good friends.” I carried that belief with me today at the Haiti Food Truck fundraiser at T-Lofts. I woke up this morning at quarter to eleven knowing that in fifteen minutes, twenty-one trucks would be gathering in one spot. I thought I should really go to the gym, especially after a heart-stopping lunch at Baby Blues, where my dear friend, Marv, nearly lost a limb trying to take a bite of the macaroni and cheese I ordered for the table. Look people, I’m all for sharing food, but if I order something for the table, pancakes, fettucini alfredo, or a Vermonster, I’m saying that I’m gonna eat it all, but since it’s for the table, it has no calories. Got it? Now that we have that rule to live by cleared up, let’s move on.

As you can probably guess, this post isn’t about my time at the gym today. I arrived at the T-Lofts on Tennessee Avenue in West L.A. just before noon. I plugged an hour into the meter thinking I’d be in and out in no time. I should’ve realized then and there that this isn’t sex. This might actually take a minute. I was overwhelmed to say the least. I’d read about @WilloughbyRoad, so I started there. I lead off with brisket tacos which came with cheese and Asian slaw. I started talking with a couple of fellows there who had a strategy of hitting as many trucks as possible and sharing. Sounded like a great idea to me. I got my tacos and gave them one. It was good, a little greasy, but the salty cheese (feta I believe) and the sweet slaw gave it a nice flavor. My next stop was the @nomnomtruck, whose specialty is banh mi. A banh mi is a Vietnamese Sub or a Cambodian Hoagie, let’s call it a South East Asian Grinder. What the fuck is up with all these names for a god damn po’ boy sandwich?! In any case, I left my choice in the hands of the cashier who ordered me a grilled pork banh mi. I had them cut it in half and shared it with my new friends. It was tasty, if heavy on the mayo. Me and my Red Sea pedestrian friends agree on a lot, but we tend to diverge on Mayonnaise. Personally, emulsified egg yolks and oil never hurt anyone, except through heart disease and arterial clogging. My new friends gave me a chicken wing from the @WilloughbyRoad truck. I grabbed it by the greasy, crunchy fried skin and it slipped through my fingers, landing splat on the ground. Everyone within a fifteen food radius stopped what they were doing and watched. “Five second rule.” “Ten Second Rule.” “I’d eat it at Sunset!” They shouted. I waited until a centipede circumnavigated my sidewalk wing, before picking it up. I was going at that bone like Cody Lane in “Big Cock Crisis” before realizing that I had eaten a leaf. I must say, leaf and all, it was a delicious chicken wing. I highly recommend it and would love to try one that never touched the sidewalk.

At the end of the street was @flyingpigtruck. Again I left my choice in the hands of the cashier who ordered me a pork belly bun and tamarind duck taco. While the pork belly was good, the bun, or bao-like tortilla was too much. I would like to try it on a corn tortilla next time. Now the tamarind duck taco was amazing. Best thing I have had at any truck. If you see the Flying Pig truck, get a tamarind duck taco, nuff’ said. I passed @fishlipssushi and headed for the @LA_Fuxion truck. I wasn’t going to get anything there until I saw Al Pastor tacos with Kimchi. Alas, they were out of the Al Pastor so I settled for a short rib taco with kimchi. It was like Avatar for me, just kind of eh. I passed by the @ButtermilkTruck, which had a healthy line, as did the @grlldcheesetruck. I had the @grlldcheesetruck on Tuesday after eating dinner at Whole Foods. What?! It’s not gluttony if you call it “dessert.” I decided on the grilled sharp cheddar with pork and caramelized onions. Loved the grilled cheese part, but the onions were too sweet and the pork didn’t add much.

I was getting full, but that wasn’t about to stop me. I’m a big fan of all food Mediterranean and Middle Eastern and saw the @LouksToGo truck. I don’t know what compelled me to get a Gyros, but I did. While I waited I chatted with one dude who was just like me except tatted, Mexican, and morbidly obese(r). This guy raved about the pulled pork sandwich with Asian slaw at the @WilloughbyRoad truck. Now with the exception of my few friends who rave about Point Break, which I haven’t seen, I’m curious about things that float other people’s boats. And how can I not try out a sandwich that a fat guy is endorsing? I took a few bites of my gyros, which low and behold, tasted like gyros. It was fine. If I had eaten it somewhere in my first twelve-thousand calories of the morning, I may have rated it higher. It was time for the pulled pork. My Mexican mirror image watched with a child’s amazement while I took my first bite. It was good, but a little too sweet for me. Again it may have suffered from being consumed pre-vomitorium visit.

I saw a guy deep throating a meatball sandwich from @VesuvioLA. In between gasping for breaths of sweet, sweet air, I believe he gave it three thumbs up. I was tempted, but figured gluttony is one thing...I forget what the other one is. In any case, stick a fork in my, I’m done. I usually associate the therm “foodie” with upper-middle class white people who fork over huge money to eat tiny portions of food in palatial settings. I was reminded today that being a foodie is just about loving food, whether it’s Wagyu Filet Mignon from Cut or a chorizo and cheese taco from Tacos Por Favor. The thing I love about a large gathering of food trucks is that it brings out the foodies.

310-458-8201

I woke up at the crack of noon. Prior to working late five nights a week, I used to get seven to eight hours of sleep easily. Something about racing to bed before the sun comes up prevents me from getting more than six hours. So far in Twenty-Dime, I’ve slept eight hours, two out of four nights. Can anything go wrong in this bright and shiny decade? Unfortunately, my friends, the answer is a resounding “YES!”

I learned the news from Caroline on Carck, blogger extraordinaire, her retweet read, “We’ve been shutdown... The land owner was mistaken on some zoning issues...” And yesterday, I had so much hope for this decade, nay, millennium. Ten years in and I’m already googling anti-depressants. I called the visitors bureau of Santa Monica and notified them. Turns out they were surprised, too.

Something about December makes me stop working out and start eating fifteen times my body weight every meal. Well it’s the first Monday of the year. (Oh, shit, my calendar informed me that it’s Tuesday.) It’s the first Tuesday of the year, time for the gym. You know how you can tell that it’s been a while since you’ve been to Equinox? The G.M. sends you an e-mail asking if every thing is alright. Now there are a couple of employees at Equinox that if they sent me the same letter, I would be touched, because I know them. But I’m not really sure if I would recognize Darrin if he sat on my face. In any case, I completed a vigorous, albeit brief, workout. It was now time to meet Tim for lunch.

We met at Fromin’s, which I believe is Yiddish for “ugly.” I can’t begin tell you how unattractive the people that walk through that door are, but I’ll try. I’m not talking about the paralytic, droolers in wheel chairs. Rarely, do I enter a deli looking to get laid. (Nate n’ Al’s is the exception.) But, Fromin’s, I wouldn’t fuck a chick there if I had a bag full of dicks. It resembles a morgue with booths. Their food tends to be alright. I had the soup and salad, which was good. Their split pea soup is so thick you can stand your spoon up in it. It’s more of a soup you chew rather than slurp.

On my way home I stopped at the scene of the crime, the corner formerly known as “the Santa Monica Food Truck Lot.” I was greeted by Scott, who I recognized as the cue master from the Barbie’s Q truck the day before. I gave him props on his chicken, not mentioning the eons I waited for it. I got down to business, telling him, “What mother fucker do I have to kill about this?!” Scott suggested that I call the City Council. He told me that nine, count that, NINE cop cars came in to shut them down. One more time, NINE, I’m not talking about the movie that I wouldn’t watch if it were playing on the inside of my eyelids. NINE COP CARS. First of all, I didn’t know Santa Monica had that many police vehicles. Second of all, it’s not like these people were armed. I happen to like the Santa Monica Police. I see them quite often while I’m working. And I’m sure it’s not their fault, but, seriously folks, isn’t there a better use of public resources?

I got home and called the Santa Monica City Council. I spoke to a lovely woman who had no idea what I was talking about. She said she’d get back to me. I felt that we really had a connection. I asked her if she was seeing anyone, she said “no.” I asked her out for Wednesday night. She told me she’s free after ten when she finishes her shift at Fromin’s. Click! Just my luck. For those who live and/or work in the area, please call the City Council at 310-458-8201.

Twenty-Dime

Guess who’s back, bitches?!!!!! Yes, I missed you, too. Well, it’s a new year and something happened today that I had to write about. Food trucks. I know what you’re thinking. You’re so two-thousand late, you corpulent, Jew! It’s not so much about the actual food trucks but a place they are congregating, Santa Monica and 14th. Before I discuss the trucks, I want to tell you a little something from work last night.

Now, I know most of you like the NFL, but I’m kind of glad the season’s coming to a close. Because now, my dear friends, you can put back the other three-quarters of your brain you take out from September to February and wipe your drool off the bar. In any case, Kimi was a little down since her mighty Eagles got butt raped by the Dallas Cowboys. I told her to just chase her blues away with liquid depressant and I would cover her shift. It’s no big deal to me. I go in an hour and a half earlier and it allows Gator to smoke weed in the privacy of his own cave prior to the setting of the sun. (He hates smoking at night. Or is it when he’s asleep? Silly me. It’s neither.) It was a tale of two tables. Table five was pleasant, but table four complained more than the interned of Bergen-Belsen. First of all, nothing tasted right. No, I’m not talking about the shrimp that sometimes exudes the aroma of dead pussy. (How do I know what dead pussy smells like? Let’s just say you shouldn’t patronize a pimp who markets half off coupons in the penny saver. Nuff’ said.) I’m talking about Bacardi. I can understand if she didn’t like the taste of the Tommy Bahama rum, which is so fucking old they did product placement for it in the Falcon Crest premier, but this is fresh rum. At least, she settled on cider. Her friend, who was tall and blonde, sent back her French onion soup because it wasn’t browned on top, which was totally understandable. It was when she sent back her Kobe burger because she found a hair in it. I took the burger to the window and removed the long blonde hair, not unlike her own. I looked at the two Oaxacans in the kitchen, one shaved head, the other short jet back hair. Now unless one of them, myself, or Chino, were just banging Morgan Fairchild, that was her mother fucking hair. I pointed this out to the cuntstomer who proceeded to tie her hair back. On to bigger and better things.

When I read on Eater L.A. that the empty lot on Santa Monica and 14th would house food trucks, I knew it would be a great year. One major problem with Los Angeles is that it’s too spread out. Combine that with seventy-five degree weather (take that New York!) and no one wants to journey more than a few blocks for sustenance. I hit up the lot after journeying to the Time Warner office. If you haven’t been, it’s like the DMV with bullet proof glass and cable boxes. There were four trucks when I arrived: Fish Lips Sushi (@fishlips_sushi), Barbie’s Q (@barbiesq), Border Grill (@bordergrill), and India Jones (@indiajonesct). There was a good crowd. I started off at Fish Lips Sushi where I ran into my friend Chris Connelly. (Yes, I’ll pick that name up.) When he’s not telling the saddest sports stories on earth, he’s picking up bbq and a spicy tuna roll for his family. In any case, I got an order of yellow tail and salmon sushi, half a California Roll an half a Spicy Tuna Roll. It was a half a notch better than what you get at a market. If you’re in the middle of nowhere and hungry, you could do worse. Then again you’re in the middle of nowhere. I was sated, but not done eating. I moved on to Barbie’s Q, which I believe is Mayan for you’ll get your food when our calendar ends. I’m not saying it took long but I watched my pubes turn gray while I waited for my combo plate. Some old fucktard who ordered after me wanted to cancel his order so they moved him up the line. I should’ve complained but it is oh-ten, so I cut them some slack. Just before mine came up, the woman said, “It’s worth the wait.” I could’ve walked to Baby Blues on my knees in the same amount of time. My combo showed up. The beef and pork were dry and stringy, but the chicken was amazing. I know it’s just chicken, and maybe the beef and pork sucked so much moisture out of my mouth, but it was juicy and delicious. I would go back for that. I was stuffed but not finished eating. I moved on to India Jones. Alas, they were out of rice. I asked, “Will you be making more?” The sweaty, Pakistani complained, “We’ve been serving four hours straight. I’ll probably take a break.” It’s not like he’s making all the dishes by hand. It’s a rolling, fucking buffet just keep ladling. Actually, the food looked delicious and NBC news raved about the butter chicken. Fuckers took the last of the rice.

I spoke with the owner of the lot and the woman in charge of the Southern California Mobile Food Vendors Association. They envision a rotation of seven or eight trucks, six days a week. Having eight cuisines on one corner gives me a culinary boner. Speaking of food preparation erections, I’m gonna rub mine out. In the infamous words of Adrian Mansbridge, soon to be resident of Green Bay, Wisconsin, “It’s my knob and I’ll wash it as fast as I like!” Happy Twenty-Dime!

This Is Great

Change Candidate Wanted For California Interview

My buddy, Steve Fowler, interviewed me for his site: Change Candidate Wanted For California.

To Protect And Serve?

Sunday night was a good night. There were quite a few regulars in the bar. I wanted to hang out with them, but since they had been drinking for twelve hours and I hadn’t had a drink in nearly twenty-four, I chose to sequester myself in the office. It was about one ayem when I got the call from Brandon. The police were downstairs in Main and wanted to see me.

Growing up as a rebellious teen on the mean streets of Beverly Hills, I hated cops. I had no reason to dislike them, but it seemed like the thing to do at that age. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to appreciate the police. Sure my sphincter constricts to three microns in diameter any time one of them begins to follow me while I’m driving, but like the servers here at O’ Brien’s, they have a thankless job. As a bartender and manager of a bar, I realize that it is in my best interest to cooperate in any way possible with law enforcement. So when I got the call, I glossed my lips, strapped on my knee pads, and ran downstairs. Now Saturday night, there was a scuffle at Main and one of the scufflers fell on some broken glass. Allegedly, he told the paramedic he was stabbed so a large police presence appeared. Understandable. We shut down the bar and everyone went home. In light of this incident, the officer informed me that they respond to many calls at our address. Personally, I know it was a problem months ago, but it seems to have been quiet as of late, but he’d know better than I. I told him if there was anything going on that was wrong in any way, I’d shut down the club, immediately. He informed me that there wasn’t a problem at the moment, but that quite a bit of the city’s resources were devoted to calls to our establishment. At this point, two other police cars pulled up with their lights on. I had to wonder: who’s depleting city resources now? It’s understandable. They get one look at me and know their dealing with America’s biggest nightmare: a thirty-nine year old Jew in a hoodie who doesn’t give a fuck.

The officer just asked to go inside and look at our liquor license and store room. I didn’t gloss my face labia and pad my knees for nothing. “Please, come right in,” I said. They say that the first thing you say when a cop asks to search your car is “No.” I figure, we’re part of the community, their part of the community, no problem. The officer walks behind the bar, picks up a bottle, and shines a light through the bottom. Ahhhhh SHIT! I know exactly what this is. It was about eight or nine years ago. I got back from a wedding and went straight to O’ Brien’s. The bar was shut down. Turns out the fire department, police, or A.B.C. came in because of an occupancy issue, checked the bottles, found fruit flies, and proceeded to close the bar on a Saturday night. So here I am, watching the police searching bottles for fruit flies. All I can think is that I’m the underpaid schlub who let the cops in and is about to get the place shut down. He set aside one bottle, then asked to see the store room. I let him in and he checked some of our stock which are all sealed, unopened bottles. Now I don’t know much about fruit flies, but if they can get into bottles that have never been opened, then maybe the F.D.A. should be looking into this issue, because, and I’m sure I’m not alone here, there should be higher standards for food and beverage packaging if insects can get inside a sealed bottle.

In the end, it was a courtesy call. The officer was very nice and I told him that I’d do anything to make his life easier. I get the feeling they’re gonna crawl up our asses for the next few weeks, which is fine, because we have nothing to hide. I’ve been a resident of Santa Monica for fifteen years and I can pretty much tell you that on weekends people tend to revel in two places: Main Street and The Promenade; ergo, I don’t know why there isn’t a bigger police presence in both places. Like I said earlier, I appreciate and respect police. But I have to wonder. Is it their responsibility to check for fruit flies? Shouldn’t it be the A.B.C. (Alcohol Beverage Control) or the Health Department? Again, we have nothing to hide, but by doing this, are they living up to their motto: to protect and serve?