An Unfinished Draft

Guest writer from NYC: hmm...

after a year and a half of being away, i returned to la la land for thanksgiving. the flight was awful because on top of being a direct flight the person behind me couldn't grasp the concept of touch screen and was pounding his tv set the whole time, not caring that on the other side of the tv was my head. while i walked by him, on my way to the bathroom..because i thought i was going to vomit, i was shocked back into the reality that i came to loathe...that he probably wouldn't have understood me anyway.

we landed around 1, an hour late, for reasons too stupid to write about and i was shocked back into my personal reality and one of the reasons i don't live here anymore. i can't stand arguing. even though it was minor i felt like getting back on the plane and going home because after, not even, 5 minutes my parents were arguing over why they couldn't see each other at the airport. lovely. i was greeted by me ooooh maia! and we stayed up for a couple of hours talking. my body was a little messed up, time wise, and being up til 3 in la la land meant that it was 6 in the big apple and that i had been up for 24 hours.

when i woke up thursday morning, i wondered what time it was because it was so sunny. then i remembered where i was, the sun is different here. the sun likes to shine here, even on it's brightest day, the sun isn't as nice there as it is here. i saw jessica yvette a couple of hours later..she rolled in at about 430a, it must be nice to be so young. we milled around, my mom cooked (which she never did) breakfast, we ate and talked and started cooking around noon. it was a group effort, as it always is.

my sister has a boyfriend now. a real one, not an on the sly-no point to meet the family-only around for one reason one. it's weird to see my sisters as grown people. i have a head full of childhood memories but have been gone for their entire adult development and it's odd to see the kiddy faces get taller and older. they make me feel older and remind me that if they are adults that means that i must also be one, they put things back into perspective.

i ventured out of the house on friday with an old friend and her husband. she's a different kind of reality check because at 24, she is married and on baby number two and i seem to be no closer. i don't understand why la la land is so into making themselves metropolitan. people don't come here to see what they see in other cities but everytime i come back here, the efforts seem to be increased towards connecting the pockets of people who thrive on being separate. i don't come here to ride the metro with other people and be fakely new york social, i come here to get into a car and drive around staring at all the 'beautiful' people. la la land is cars not subways. i found myself constantly comparing the two and i really liked having the two places completely separate in my head, and they are now converging. la la land is a place to have a car or bum rides from your friends and be screwed by the bus if you're in a pinch. my sister is having problems with the whole getting a job thing because she doesn't have a license. while walking down the stairs at union station i thought, 'what is she talking about, all she has to do is take the bus to the metro and she'd be set.' that's a new york thought, not an LA thought. she should be screwed as a non-member of the social heirarchy that car ownership is here. staring at the housing developments that are being built around the metro stations, i was left unsettled about what la la land will look like in another year..and even in 20. i fear it will become just another city.

i got to bathe in normalcy with novak. we got into her tacoma and drove to our destination, like nature intended. our drive through silver lake let me see that hully gully is gone, but i delight in the fact that was able to remember the name that used to be on it's walls. novak always settles my equilibrium, i wish we could be around each other more. she is la la land, who you hope to see when you come home. the person who always knows where to go and who always knows someone. she's connected in a way that is not play dates and babies or the perpetual euro whinings of complacency, the type of person who cares that her home is morphing into something different and not necessarily better.

i took a trip into the familiar [ ]...
the face of la la land is constantly changing and my anger about that keeps me from wanting to come back here. i love seeing areas becoming more alive and filled with creativity, since that's why people think they want to come to calipornia. i become bitter when i think of what people may begin thinking of the city of my rearing. it then becomes the place that i had to move out of in order to be able to breathe and speak and be.

MEET THE STAFF

Remember our faces, burn a mental picture of us in your mind, think of us fondly as we sit in jail over the many illegal activities we have yet to partake in, in order to get this bitch off the ground.
This is the Dor-I, she is a fat girl in a skinny girls' body. She has been building muscle for the past six weeks and enjoys kicking your ass in her spare time. She also enjoys taking long walks around Barney's New York as she struts her hot ass in her school bus yellow golashes by Marc Jacobs. Don't be deceived by her sweet Korean face, she's a nasty little pirate. She can take out your peg leg with one swift kick (just ask Kid Vicious). She doesn't mind driving in traffic as long as she gets to degrade those around her, and often throws tantrums when the elderly and cars are involved. Dor-I can put any Vegas buffet out of business and revels in her pristine knowledge of EVERY eatery in Los Angeles County. She has three children; Paris, London, and Franc (all of which she dresses accordingly).

This, my blarney readers is Brainpanic. He enjoys doing gansta' impersonations, but will also oblige you with his cholo gang signs (if you ask nicely or feed him). He was last seen running the streets of Dublin (for no particular reason) in running attire. Convinced that he was running a marathon, Brainpanic posed for some photos with a medal around his neck to paparazzi (who were actually trying to take pictures of Sean Connery). He later confessed that he drank copious amounts of Guinness and began hallucinating. He further states that he had no idea where he got the running clothes from or why he was the only one running in this so-called 'marathon'.

I am Novak, the scumiest of the whores and the brightest of pirates. I have a mediocre job that pays shit but allows me to focus on more creative activities (like learning how to roll my own cigarettes into animal shapes). I enjoy shoving people into parked cars and drinking at the diviest of bars. I understand the time-space continuum, but I don't believe in it. I constantly attempt to break Newton's Laws, but alas I haven't succeeded...YET! :( I wish that friction didn't exist, (just think about THAT for a second).............................whatever, I think it's funny ;P IF I ever make it to heaven I'd want to fuck Gregory Peck, George Peppard, and Mao Tse-Tung (all at the same time).

We here at Walk The Plank just want our jerk-off readers to know that we are an equal opportunity institution, that is why we employ fat people, wack-jobs, and physics-challenged sluts.

THE EDITORS (this project is so DOOMED!)

Brainpanic and Novak

on

way

too

much

WHISKEY...

HOME.

photo courtesy of bjorkstar

Parakeet Genocide aka Operation Die Birdie Die

I whole heartedly apologize to all bird lovers and tree huggers...I plan on orchestrating the mass destruction of about three massive trees that surround my block. From the corner of Aldama and Avenue 54 to Aldama and Avenue 55 thrive about 40 billion green and red parakeets. These little shitbags start their rampage at the crack of dawn and are undauntedly relentless till dusk. Sleeping in is no longer an option, and people who were once regular guests at my house have decided to stay elsewhere in hopes of sleeping past seven in the morning. Others have opted to migrate towards the front of the house, since listening to road traffic is so much more soothing than cawing birds.

I recall the morning that I actually saw 'them' for the first time. I was sitting on the back balcony of my house enjoying a nice Saturday morning coffee and smoke when the piercing cawing of birds began to make my ears bleed. I figured it was the crows that lived down the street and attempted to pay no attention to my busted ear drums. As the cawing became louder and louder, my nose began to bleed and as I squinted, I saw a swarm of something paint the sky green. It almost looked like God ran a green highlighter across the sky just for me...(as God proceeded to let me bleed to death via my ear canal). I knew I wasn't completely insane when a friend of mine joined me on the balcony rubbing his eyes and asking me, "What the FUCK are you doing out here, clubbing a chicken with a snack sized salami?" I'm serious...that is exactly what came out of his mouth. I gestured towards the sky, and his mouth opened ever so slightly, he reached for my smoke, took a hit, and proceeded to go back into the house and sleep for a few more hours with ear plugs in.

There's some old wives tale going around the block that some 'bird-lady' use to live around these parts a while ago and she was dumb enough to not lock her cages. La-la, her birds eventually began procreating like rabbits, and with all that inbreeding I'm really surprised that these god damn parakeets don't have more visible mutations. Although the one that I saw the other day did ask my neighbor for a slice of french bread and opted for no cream in its tea. But, what the fuck? These birds have become a serious problem and someone (primarily me) is going to have to take the law into their own hands. I have already decided to take out the two main trees on my block that house the central flocks. If I can take out the main nest, I may be able to take out 'mother'. I hear things around the 'hood, and I heard that 'mother' has been around since the very beginning. Rumors have it that 'mother' was the bird that was let out of the 'bird-lady's' cage. I doubt that the flock will be able to sustain itself with 'mother' gone. It would be a lovely day in the 'hood if neon green birds began falling from the sky. The crazy Mexican Catholic grandmothers may take it as a sign from the Virgin Mary herself that Jebus is comin' home. Compromiso abuelita (that means sorry grandma), your boy is not comin' home. But at least you'll have some nice feathers to decorate your homes with, and enough sopa con salsa verde (soup with green salsa) to last you until Feliz Navidad 2007.

I figure if I take a rocket launcher to both of those trees all of my problems should be solved. Actually nix that, I'd like to leave the abuelitas with something to salvage, blowing up the trees would just leave a mess. With all this talk of death and destruction, I would like to take a time-out and say that if I knew of an organization that would be willing to climb these huge trees and catch each of these birds individually (for their [the birds] own protection) then I would be more than willing to cease all efforts to kill the motherfuckers. But alas, no one is making the effort but myself to alleviate the problem. Now, back on track...I am attempting to put together my 'pit crew' for Operation Die Birdie Die, it goes without being said that the Dor-I will be glued to my side with her bee-bee gun (which by the way she has had years of practice on) as well as Brainpanic, who so happens to live across the street and also suffers from sleepless nights and bloody pillow cases. His job has yet to be specified, but I figure that we could put his marathon running experience to use and make him our munitions specialists and civilian protector. This will entail Brainpanic running back and forth reloading the Dor-I's bee-bee gun as well as supplying refreshments to the both of us. During reloading he will also he held responsible for the lives of innocents that may be caught in the crossfire as well as in the path of destruction (primarily in the blasting area where an innocent may get knocked unconscious by a falling enemy).

I am willing to take on more soldiers for this mission, but it would have to be by invitation only. If you so decide to take on this responsibility of protecting our neighborhood, I don't promise that you will return the same person as when you began this dog-fight. I invite the following occupants of HP to join our crusade against the defecating green shitbags:

Tina (call sign Guatemalan Kitchen Tagger)
Justin (call sign Yo-Yo Master)
Hazel (call sign Tecate)

*considering the fact that the two of you have a newborn baby I will be willing to take only one of you. Hazel can't lose both of her parents to the enemy. I do promise that if anything does happen to either of you, she will carry on the legacy.

I will be as presumptuous to say that this will be a swift victory, it will be sudden and unrelenting. I ADVISE ALL CIVILIANS TO: Please avoid all commuting within this area preferably on Saturday and Sunday between the hours of 11 am and 4 pm. That will give us enough time to sleep off any liquor clouds from the night before as well as place us indoors before it gets too cold and dark. I decided that it wouldn't be in the best interest of civilians to strike during the week since there is a local high school down the street. The fewer lives lost the better. God speed to my soldiers as we approach the day of our reckoning and take back all those hours of lost z's, and Hazel I do promise that one day you will wake up in a world free of inbred wild shitbag parakeets.

Robert Osborne is definitely NOT pepperjack.

I loathe Robert Osborne. I envy Robert Osborne. I loathe him because he is the ultimate of tools, and I envy him because I want his job. Robert Osborne is the suit with the white hair before and after each movie that plays on TCM. He can more or less be considered the FJ (film-jay) of the station since he is the one and only person that consistently introduces films, and closes them with his oh-so interesting remarks that he gets some intern to write on a daily basis. By the way, whoever his intern is, is a MORON, (here's the deal buddy, I have a twelve year old dog that could come up with more interesting film facts without using their first year film studies anthology.) Yeah, yeah, if you are a frequent visitor to this channel, I don't want to hear your shit about how on the weekends there's Peter Bogdonavich, Ben Mankiewicz (wanker), or occasionally Sydney Pollack, for they are the equivalents to Kurt Loder, Suchin Pak, and Gideon Yago [respectively] (so get over it) we only see them on the weekends when people are home and prepared to sit down and watch a movie from beginning to end. (Sorry Bob you have to share custody of the weekends with the other white, male, film-people that know more than you.)

Anyway, back to the tool...

I suppose that an audience demographics would show that the majority of people that watch TCM range from their mid-forties to their mid-sixties, are most likely Caucasian, and find themselves in the mid to upper class of our elitist society. That being said, I would agree that Robert Osborne is the perfect candidate for the job, he's like a block of cheddar, not intrusive like a slice of aged asiago, and reliable like shaved parmesan, when people see him on a cheese platter they tend to skip him and head for the brie or the havarti (the much more interesting members of the dairy family). Cheddar is nice and all, but in the end, rendered as dull and completely unexciting to the scenses. Cheddar could be nicer if paired with a nice deli meat like ham, but alas TCM won't even spring for the ham. So the cheddar is once again all alone with his cue cards written by his incompetent intern who probably still has trouble writing a fifteen page paper on why Birth of a Nation can be considered a racially motivated film, and cheddar just goes about his routine, knowing that he will always be the cheese that everyone acknowledges but no one ever remembers to eat.

What I propose to TCM is to kick the cheddar down the cheese line in a nice spot next to the individually wrapped slices of American and go and fill your hors deurve plate with some warm pita and hummus, a few ripe strawberries, and a nice crudite with some brushetta. I need options, I need something other than dairy, I need to be drawn into an experience wholly and not half-assed. You give me a channel on my television (no less) without commercials and films that I could watch on loop for days on end (granted if I had blow it would be easier) and you have the audacity to get me to like your cheddar? FUCK YOU! Don't offer me Krug's Clos du Mesnil and proceed to pour it in a styrofoam cup, because guess what?, I'm going to sip slowly and spit it back into your face.

Ah, any-who...heh...that was the topic of conversation I was having one night with 'brainpanic', who by the way suggested that we should take over the hosting and occasionally have special guests like chimps. It seemed like an excellent idea at the time, but now that I think about it...it may be a tad too much. These are the types of ideas that we come up with when boredom strikes, and there are beers in the fridge. That is more or less how we came up with the idea to start writing about our neighborhood. The very last frontier of Los Angeles property that has yet to be developed by outdoor shopping areas and and Olive Garden-esque eateries. This is a place where 99 cent stores still outnumber the number of grocery stores, nail and hair salons outnumber the 99 cent stores, and Mexican restaurants outnumber the salons.

This is the HP, where all the young, starving artist and their families have been migrating to in the last couple of years. Up and coming musicians by day, bartenders at night live right down the street. A film producer and his writer wife live directly across the street, and a housefull of boys that are attempting to start their own clothing line can be seen silk screening late at night by the sidewalk. I've noticed that ER seems to have the rejuvenation project down pat, but what about us HPers? We seem to be hitting a few rough patches here and there with no real guidance of any kind. So why not attempt at being the LA Weekly for HP? Why the FUCK not I ask? So here goes, I don't promise the world, and I don't promise to always be right, but I promise not to feed you cheddar and that's about all I can promise right now. Cheers.