Everyone Looks Sad in Koreatown

and they do not look up, usually.
but if they do, it is past you.
with hard eyes or lust...for who knows what? heron? meth? some...body?
it's diverse for sure. there's a Mosque down the street -- biggest one in Los Angeles. and Koreans, of course. many, many Koreans. Asians of all sorts. Phillipinos. African Americans. Mexicans, El Salvadorians...Hispanics from every nook and cranny -- descendants of Aztecs and the ancient Maya. "Made" white folks -- suppose we can just lump them into one nebulous doughy ball.
cruising by in air-conditioned cars, shuffling past the concrete and pigeons...hoping to reach their doors without incident.
and white folks or lesser means.
homeless. many, many homeless.

there are the angry homeless -- they wander the streets yelling profanities. arguing with long lost lovers or mothers who never cared...fathers who maybe cared a bit too much.
the mentally disabled homeless -- with their shopping carts turned gypsy vardos. armed with grocery bag bombs filled with god-knows-what. tarps to keep the wet out.
i give them change when they ask. sometimes even a buck.
once, a man came up to me and said: "gimme a buck."
"why?" i said.
"i'm hungry."
"i have a granola bar," i said.
"i want a buck."
"well, what's your story?" i said.
his eyes were bloodshot and his face hard. this man was not to be fucked with.
"i just got outa prison," he said.
so i gave him a buck, he walked off.
most of the time the homeless don't really look at you -- just like everyone else in Koreatown.
but the mentally disabled homeless, they're in a different world.
they can't be concerned with you...or the 10-ton metro-link buses speeding by. the posturing glances from 18th Street gang-members. or anything.
they've got a a secret plan and they're keeping it all to themselves.
goodbye Koreatown, farewell and good luck... 

la metropolitan courthouse on a gray day

It's an old building with loads of marble and tile. Yellowed and gray brown, like puss. Influenza phlegm. A long line of men/women wind their way along the floor-- polished smooth from years of foot-draggers. Essentialy one massive cluster-fuck of inner-city street life. A microsm of Los Angeles all gathered together to pay the piper. Care of some fat cop with a qouta to fill. Wife at home, 50 lbs over weight -- counting calories, noshing a king-sized kit kat bar. But back to the courthouse. I paid eight dollars to park. Wandered around a bit, watching the deputy sheriffs' eyeball my USMC cap. Most not bothering to get up from their swivel chairs. Just sat there. Looking up from a copy of the funny pages, to flash a contemptous glare at all us degenerates. Well, it's been about two hours -- looks like I'm up.

light blue and lavender

outside.

yesterday.

here in San Pedro, CA.

took Ellroy on a walk.

soon as i stepped out in the world, my pulse slowed.

lowered, because everything was draped in light blue and lavender.

and it made Rancho San Pedro look like a town, instead of a run-down borough of Los Angeles.

everything looked so...nice.

the graffiti; the low-riders; the well-muscled curs.

even Annika's vanilla latte from coffee bean, left on the corner like some styrofoam obelisk.

(wishing she was there by my side.)

(wishing i could look into those eyes.)

nevertheless, we; Ellroy and I, walked a new path.

down towards the harbor -- aesthetics calling.

the pooch pulling.

Mandia on cruise control -- taking it all in.

rounded a corner, past the ankle-biters.

the Tamale Man.

and a fettered pit bull sporting a sweater.

cute pup.

fangs -- foaming.

eyes -- bugging.

sweater -- soiled with blood and God knows what.

so up and around the block.

light blue and lavender gradually fading.

getting dark.

getting not so nice.

ominous, even.

fortunately the compound in sight.

Marine Corps flag draped and faded.

lawn green, green.

and a pulverized privy languishing nearby.

but hey i can't complain.

80 degrees today.

dead o' winter.

and her by my side...

a salamander

i found a salamander in los angeles today. under all the filth. this little guy, black and gray with tiny arms.

a little salamander, probably the last of his kind.

i debated on taking him. you know, provide a nice warm terrarium with crickets or whatever it is the hell he eats.

but i left him. right under this cinder block.

i pick things up. just like a kid.

always have. rocks. cinder blocks. bricks. shit like that. always hoping to find something.

usually i don't. not a damn thing but some ants and rollie pollies.

once...no, twice, i found rattlesnakes up @ the ranch, near hemet.

remember i picked up a piece of corrugated steel, and low and behold, life stirred.

under trash. this kid, this rattler, waited.

a pacific rattlesnake. they are black. and speckled white. and eyes...eyes angry.

beautiful in a way...

and all of a sudden he started shaking. rattling. like holy shit, animals really exist.

los angeles proper has yet to exterminate.

so i got a stick and placed it against his head.

tight.

scales bending, buckling.

reached down...seemed like hours, really.

well maybe several minutes.

and-

WHAM!

grabbed his neck.

his head rolled near my thumb. very surreal.

but he didn't get me. this pacific rattler.

nope.

kept holding.

squeezed.

and he relented.

submitted, like one of Gracie's opponents.

-hope i didn't hurt him much.

but i kept the rattler.

feed fat w/lab rats and pigeons; once a week.

"bitey," we called him.

but he would yawn, and those fangs; opaque hypodermic needles, would fluctuate like little arms waving hello.

sometimes i'd watch the effect his vemon would have on prey...it wasn't pretty.

in fact, it got very ugly.

VERY.

spasms. gasps for breath. seizures.

just ugly.

we released him several months later.

"bitey."

started to get nervous - his enclosure wasn't too secure .

but goddamn, what power that little creature had. this little piece of gristle and flesh, scales and a brain too small.

anyways, i found a salamander in los angeles.

i left him under the cinder block.

figured he survived thus far, why steal his thunder?

the last of his kind.

a little salamander in LA.

UPDATE: 'on the front lines: three generations of soldiers' voices'

'On The Front Lines:  Three Generations of Soldiers' Voices will be held at the USVAA Theater on Saturday, July 11th at 2pm. --On The Front Linesfeatures the stories of a diverse group of California veterans from World War II through Iraq: gathered from interviews by Los Angeles actors/writers and told in a dramatic narrative to be shared with the veterans themselves and with us, the citizens they served. Their experiences touch on issues of civil rights, self-identity, and the long-lasting consequences of war in the hearts and minds of the soldiers who fought in them. This project was generated by a California Council for the Humanities “California Stories” grant and matching support from Loyola Marymount University.'

-Judith Royer, director

a night in hollyweird

you know, i've lived in LA most of my life, but i've yet to do the whole hollyweird thing. 

so we did, tina and me. mann's chinese; the walk of fame; the famous wax musem; and one of my personal must-eat's : miceli's italian restaurante.

in the process we found Jesus.

and Charles Bronson - two of my faves.

a good day

the getty.

a pretty girl. 

van gogh's "irises, saint-remy." 

and drinks @ barney's beanery.

life in so-cal -  sometimes you can't beat it.

a slice of life 2009

in l.a., near the sea. 1.3 miles to be exact. 90 degrees. w/blocked parotid gland. 2009.

(Rosa multiflora)

(Geochelone sulcata w/Converse)

(Coastal Prickly Pear Cactus)

 

[Spineless cactus (Opuntia ficus indica f. inermis)]

(homo sapien, w/vicodin & friend)

(Cucurbita Pepo)

(aloe barbadensis)