appleheads

seem to be my thing as of late.

these little old time hard candies made by Ferrara Pan.

-- think lemonheads.

essentially the same thing, just apple.

and green, not yellow.

get it?

and they get me writing.

which is a good thing. need to punch out some pages this evening and the morrow.

a long night with Ellroy on my lap.

he gets so peaceful.

eyes quiet and grinning.

dreaming of cottontails on the run.

almost don't wanna disturb him, but i've got to.

work to be done.

pissed off christoff @ eblogger.com is on hiatus.

...for a short period of time.

and now:

three glowing green globes of glucose popped in the kisser.

time to work.

Annabelle

she was this little furry face behind bars.

pound puppy wanting a touch.

now she's got Annika;

and Ellroy;

and me.

fat finger

can't use my 99¢ barber shop comb because i'm all swollen up.

middle finger dinged by a devil rooster.

they call him 'Clem.'

and i'm tempted to ring his neck.

'lil bastard.

see, he's a fighter.

kid's got these spurs -- two-inch long spines above his feet.

long, tapering to a needle-like point.

and like the Viet Cong, he smears his punji sticks with feces.

-- his own.

double edged sword of sorts.

you got the laceration, and the infection.

and i got both.

swoll up like retired tennessee coal miner, my finger is.

hurts, too.

nothing to write home about, but an amazingly effective defense.

got the finger to prove it.

the "pakistani"

we called it the "pakistani."

a curved dagger-type knife, purchased in Tijuana.

my Dad bought it, i think.

my mom protested, of course.

a very early memory -- clouded, disjointed.

selective...

kids.

thirteen going on 30. peddling chiclets -- cellophane wrapped white gum.

and the Indians -- sitting crossed-legged on the concrete, hawking beads and thatched baskets.

cheap shit, something undoubtedly found in a dumpster, reclaimed for the gringos' and their rumpus rooms.

tossed a few pennies their way, but they didn't look up -- just kept stringing beads.

big broad brown faces.

high-cheeked, deadpan.

wondered where they slept.

saw a small shanty town near an open sewer -- their only safe haven.

and it stunk to high hell, probably keeping the Federali's @ bay.

random debris floating by, coalescing around an abandoned VW Bug.

ceramic mickey mice baking in the sun high above on the bridge, overseeing the squalor.

but this was about my "pakistani" knife.

i lost it years ago.

shame, it was a good knife.

nearly got a wild hair up my ass and bought this thing...nearly.

A Review of Operation In Their Boots, Pt. 2 - On Violence

A Review of Operation In Their Boots, Pt. 2 - On Violence
tiny little review of my docuementry, 'the academic front.'

Ahhh, TJ

'I crossed the border at dawn. Tijuana was just coming awake as I turned onto Revolucion, it's main drag. Child beggars were digging for breakfast in trash cans, taco vendors were stirring pots of dog-meat stew, sailors and marines were being escorted out of whorehouses at the end of their five-spot all nighters. The smarter ones stumbled over to Calle Colon and the penicillin pushers; the stupidos hotfooted toward East TJ, the Blue Fox and the Chicago Club--no doubt eager to catch the early morning donkey show. Tourist cars were already lined up outside the cut-rate upholstery joints; Rurales driving prewar Chevys cruised like vultures, wearing black uniforms that looked almost like Nazi issue.'

--James Ellroy
The Black Dhalia

101 @ night

is a lonely place.

street theatre

man screaming @ woman, right now.
there's a scuffle outside.
woman is yelling...more like yelping.
man; the guy; the peasant-reincarnate, is ordering her into his truck.
but she doesn't wanna go.
"NO!""
and she's up the street now.
he's in hot pursuit.
there's more yelling and i've chambered my .45ACP.
no -- i'm not actually that crazy.
but when you deal with this...jackassery on a near daily basis, you prepare yourself.
and as a matter of fact, it really doesn't bother me much.
not that much.
just the initial realization -- man and woman re-enacting kitchen sink drama on street.
for free.
with really bad dialogue by way of an angry co-ed.
piss and vinegar and some jersey shore.
and woman, well, she's taking cues from Friday the 13th.
yelping loudly.
screeching.
running -- no, not running -- slow jogging away.
mating ritual of sorts?

have half a mind to walk outside and intercede.
but you know what?
Ellroy needs his foodies...

wet...rooster

oh, and he got a bath.
shoulda seen him.
eyes closed.
warm agua.
if a beak could smile...

monday night cock fights

Clementine Fluff vs. Stuffed Duck

Hey, I took a break from writing. Don't judge....

LAPD the Compound

the ghetto bird is real close tonight.
too close.

flying low, spotlighting the canyon.

circling.

dipping.

coming in, then pulling out.

fast -- like it's going outa style.

shaking the house -- an old house.

1930s, i believe.

the walls are thick, but the windows -- the windows, old n' brittle. i can see them flex and ripple.
and it reminds me of camp pendleton.

but that was a military base.

and this is a suburb of Los Angeles.

albeit devalued.

ghetto bird just shined it's light into my house.

right now, this very instant.

Ellroy going ape.

fanging it, snarling.

i go to touch him.

calm him.

he lunges @ me in the melee.

car alarms blaring like nobody's business.

and it's been going on for nearly dos horas.

you'd think the cops would have some goddamn consideration.

you know, like perhaps a budding screenwriter is trying to hash out some 'motivational' issues with his script.

you'd think.

well maybe you wouldn't.

maybe you think the cops are just doing their job.
true, true.

nevertheless, it's distracting as all hell.

respect cops, sure -- but when these flatfoots forget they work for us, it's a whole other story.

solve Ronni Chasen's murder;

-- and the Black Dhalia's for that matter.

get MS-13 off the street;

crack down on Pedro's crackheads.

oh wait -- the sirens.

they've kicked on.

bellowing.

chasing down some criminal.

well good. go get 'em fellas!

just try not to run over some kid in the process...please.

as for me, think i'll watch Scarface.

the original.

never liked De Palma's version.

Paul Muni all the way.

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...

Mr. Hellroy

down near his crotch, he doesn't like to be touched.

he'll growl.

and show his teeth, just for a bit.

but Ellroy's normally simpatico -- a happy grinning pooch with an ever wagging tail.

eye's bright, shiny, alert.

now throw in Annabel; his wire-haired girlfriend of sorts, and we've got Mr. Hell-roy.

as if he's embarrassed. doesn't want anyone near his man parts.

'cept Annabell.

i can respect that.

who'd want a grown man itching around their crotch with the wife standing near-by?

not me.

but now -- an uneventful Monday afternoon -- with writing calling, Ellroy's back to his old self.

Mr. Hunky-Dory.

jumping on my lap for kisses.

and some huggin's.

burying his head behind my ear.

currently snugged up against me as i type.

looking up ever so often, making sure i'm still there.

he'll smile, an honest to God doggy smile.

few pats on the back, flip of the ear, a "good boy."

he's longer now. and his coat is deep deep brown like rust.

no more peach fuzz.

and that's how it goes.

because the kid's growing up.

-- matter of fact, he's looking @ me right now. eye's big and bold. letting me know it's time for dinner.

and yep, it sure is.

andy warhol

kinda cool, yeah?

andy warhol prints.

South Bay Open Carry

if you didn't know, now you do: it's legal to open carry a handgun in the State of CA.

-- if you're legally able to purchase a handgun in the State of CA, you're legally able to open carry it.

-- ammunition must be separate.

-- and of course, check your local laws. certain places don't allow it.

it's your ass. and trust me, obtuse cops are just waiting to bust you.

their website: southbayopencarry.org

gotta Wiki

found it a few months back.

chris mandia via wikipedia

care of Clint Van Winkle -- fellow hard-charging Jarhead turned scribe.

indeed, very cool.

cloud 9 -- just for a bit.

and no, i didn't create it.

and yes, i've thought about it many times.

and no, i'm not really that ostentatious.

and yes, i'm willing to pinky swear.

click here

Vitriolic as she smoked a Camel Light

and it was strange.

but it was burbank -- the valley.

home to MILF porn stars and one-beat character actors.

screenwriters from Florida State and a small town called nowhere.

round the block, a place dubbed "porn star karaoke.'

-- went with my girl. three haggard porn stars, 257 frat boys, in case you're wondering.

nevertheless, the raining had stopped, passed the pool -- 1960s azure blue -- smoker upstairs dug my carhart jacket.

"thanks," i said.

kept walking.

then i heard yelling.

screaming and yelling. mucho vitriolic.

sounded like it came from mouth of an embittered hard-knocks female.

some chick you'd rather not have as a cellmate.

she's got bad tattoos/claims people are "fake"/Raider Nation all the way.

scanned the area. did some impromptu recon and despite the constant stream of vulgarities being spewed, i couldn't nail the spewer.

that is, until i reached my girl's door.

and i was taken aback.

the progenator of this rant belonged to a "little person."

you know, a midget.

-- they prefer "little people," nowadays. i think.

but this little lady -- doppelganger to Diego Velazquez's painting "Las Meninas," was chomping @ the bit.

giving john doe a piece of her mind. and the rest of the apartment complex.

-- spare ya the details on the foul phraseology. made a former Jarhead blush, i'll tell ya that much.

regardless, it caught me off guard. always delegated "little people," into some characature-like existence.

under a mushroom.

walking the tight-rope.

but she was in sweatpants, smoking a Camel Light.

in burbank.

yes, quite a revelation, i know.

the little lady finished her screed. i smiled.

she leered.

me; Christoff, went inside.

into a nice warm condo with nice warm people,

and i've been thinking about this lady's life ever since.

"las meninas." 1656