Gunnerrific

Downtown LA is not a nice place.  I can’t really say this with any authority, as I was only there for about 2 hours, however I did drive through the heart of it.  And driving through the heart of Downtown LA is like driving to hell and back.  I think I must have seen more than a thousand homeless people.  They were out in droves.  It was kind of surreal, how they shifted about the sidewalks lit by only streetlights, like some sort of zombie movie.  Minus the open sores and whole undead thing.  We also drove by parks that were full of hundreds of people, at 9pm at night, which was also pretty weird.  The party itself was pretty low-key but I had a good time.  Morale of the story: don’t go Downtown unless there is a specific entry plan, an exact well-mapped destination, and a swift exit strategy. 

After the party, it was decided we would go to another work related party, this one in The Valley.  The girl who drove had a fair amount to drink, so I took the reins of the BMW and began driving through parts of LA at night that I did not know even existed.  It was good that I drove because the girl from work, lets call her ‘Jane’, was a barrel of fun.  Jane is probably in her late thirties, has a thick boston accent, and is a tan, big, beautiful woman.  She is not at all the kind of person that I would be interested in with the age and personality difference, but I regularly rely on her for things at work, so we are good buds.  Back to the drive: the 101 at 11pm was practically bumper-to-bumper, which absolutely blew my mind.  Taking directions from the other girl in the backseat, we finally made it to our destination, a ghetto Latin dance club.  WTF.

Me and my other buddy from work are the only white guys in this place, which is mixed with Israeli’s and Latinos.  So now that I’m at the UN dance club summit, I take my place at the table of Whitey Nation and began to examine the scene.  And then wham, the waitress shows up and says "That girl over there wants to buy you a drink, what’ll you have?".  She points to a crowd of about 20 girls, so I’m like "Which one?"  "The one in the skirt."  Oh great.  So the waittress isn’t helping, but now I’ve got a free drink coming.  "I’ll take a Sapphire and Tonic." 

Minutes pass and the group I’m with and I are attempting to dissect the situation.  Being completely new to the singles scene, I have absolutley no idea what is going on.  However, I know its good.  The waitress returns with the drink, and re-examination of the witness begins. "So who did you point at that bought me the drink?"  "That girl behind those three, in the black and white shirt, with the skirt."  Great, now that I’ve got this hammered out, I reply "Thanks very much."  Alright then, let the games begin.

So its just me and Mary White-And-Black-Shirt, or so I was hoping.  My friends and I began to discuss the situation.  I am in the best position to see who this girl is so I keep an eye out for the crowd to break.  As eager as eager can be, I patiently await for a view of who it is.  Finally these other girls get out of the way, and I catch a glimpse.  Who is this mystery girl, waiting there waiving with a grin on her face?  JANE!  So much for that.  With my hopes dashed, I continue the evening with Jane and my friends, while a fog machine belches out fumes and lasers and lights spin about us.

In other news, its a whopping 87 degrees here, which officially constitutes as ‘hot’. 

Just click the minibar below to see pics of my house warming par-tae.

As stated previously, all-in-all a wonderful night.  So thats it for today, nothing else of interest.  Move along, nothing to see hear.

Par-tae.

I would classify lasts night house-warming party as a resounding success.  My place did not reach maximum occupancy, however it was certainly an impressive get-together.  Lots of people spilled out into the patio area, even a couple of smokers but I guess that’s okay.  All told I think about 31 people showed up, most with liquor or wine.  In other words, I now have about a year’s worth of booze.  All of which I will never drink, as I have sworn I will never drink again.  This morning I felt like someone had murdered me in my sleep, but some how resurrected me in some sort of evil experiment.  Instead of pumping me full with my own blood, they used a combination of cobra venom, corrosive waste, and pipe cleaner.  It’s been a hard day at work.

However, I very much enjoyed hosting a party.  I know, I know, friends and family alike are probably gasping for air at this statement.  However I assure its true.  In fact, I think I will start having parties fairly frequently.  Perhaps I can become *the* party guy of Beverly Hills.  I’ll have to get a bouncer, and people will try to lie their way in by saying they know me.  I won’t really be satisfied until there is a roped-off line down the sidewalk with 50+ people clamoring to get in.  Then, maybe then, will I be able to get Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan to recline in the transformer chairs. 

Stay tuned for the pics.

This is my last entry in the poetry war with C-po.  My words stand for themselves.

Come into my apartment and my home and my place,
Oh who is this tiny pale man, this filthy disgrace?
Do I recognize who this person is that I behold?
Yes it is he, Cody Powell, who smells like mold.

So why is he here, I thought he moved out?
Ugh, I can’t take another day with this trout.
Call me a jerk or you can call me a prude,
Know you that he plays XBox in the nude?

I say "Hey Cody, what are you doing here buddy?"
"Thanks for having me back, I got your carpet all muddy!"

Just then I realized I had somehow previously decided,
Evidently the other night my booze and decision-making collided.
Remembering that evening, Cody asked if he could move back,
Knowing now my mistake I give my forehead a smack.

For me Cody Powell is God’s first mistake,
Am I coming to realize that I am not awake?
Cursing his name, with him gone I offer prayer,
Elation! I realize it was just a nightmare.

Tomorrow I will have an old tale about Hollywood colliding with a soccer match.

Get a load of the nerve of this guy.  I guess its on.  My answer is in the same structure and rhyming style, I can play it any way he wants.

Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell

Those four words are filthier than your stank,
Which is worse than a rotten sewage tank.
So put down that burrito,
I’m the natural mosquito,
And now I’m gonna cut you with a prison shank.

I don’t think this quite matches my previous masterpiece, Sweet Wooden Rafters.  However, I have succesfully called this ruffian smelly, pointed out his affinity for flatulence-inducing burritos, and threatened his life with a sharpened end of a toothbrush.  W 1 – C 1.

In other news, I’m holding a houseparty on Tuesday evening.  Right now the tally is 23 guests and climbing.  This is my first forray into the lively world of entertaining a large number of house guests, so I am over preparing and eager to see how things will go.  I have already prepared the music and obtained more than half of the food and drinks.  I just need to iron out a couple of more details and attempt to locate an appropriate guacamole recipe. 

So I have this like-minded 24yo girl living in the apartment right behind me (wall-mates), and another 32yo girl living above her.  I don’t see them very often because I am secluded in the front with my nice patio and street parking.  However, one house over, are my neighbors.  After talking with my wall-mate this afternoon for quite some time I believe that the story of my neighbors might be of interest to you, because it was a tale of much interest for myself.  Be warned, this story does include sweet wooden rafters.

I met the mother and father a week after I had moved in.  I could tell they spoke very little english.  Upon discovering what I do and that I am living in my apartment alone, he exclaimed, "Oh so you are a professional!".  I replied with a confident: "Yes, I’m a professional."  It was an interesting interaction and I believe the first time that I have been regarded as a professional.  Regardless, they were both very kind and told me that they will henceforth consider me like a member of their family.  So now my Persian Dentist neighbor is my surrogate father.  Just what I have always wanted!

I come to find out they have three children, ranging from 16-30ish.  I have yet to meet the youngest two, however, I do know that the oldest lives in the garage.   He has thoroughly insulated the garage door so don’t you worry about that.  Upon meeting him, I asked him what he did, and his answer was everything in the world except what he actually did for a living.  This leaves me to believe that he does nothing, which must be quite thrilling.  My wall-mate confirmed my suspicions in a very secretive whisper.  However, he does drive a rather nice Mercedes.  My one goal while I am living in this apartment, for who knows how long, is to get into that Garage.  I must know what that place is like.  I picture a weight bench with a couple of bayntay (twenty for the laypesron) pounders on each end.  Maybe a goldfish bowl in the corner, with Goldy floating up top on his side.  And if this garage is anything like ours, he’s got sweet wooden rafters to hang things on, like model planes and mobiles.  Man I wish I had some sweet wooden rafters.  If I had sweet wooden rafters I would have to buy a pet monkey to swing between them.  And I’d give him an eye-patch and a knife so he could be pirate monkey.  I’m sure my garage neighbor has a pirate monkey.  After all he’s got sweet wooden rafters, and I don’t. 

Another worthwhile point of interest is their 8′x12′ gigantic Persian rug in their backyard.  It’s faded, ripped, and dog stained.  I just paid a hefty fee for a rug that size, and I can’t ever imagine why I would just lay it out on the concrete to weather and die.  Maybe if I tripped on the rug, and got angry at it, I would want to punish it.  So I would throw my rug outside and say "That’s it, you’re out."  However, I wonder what else a rug could do to be disowned like that.  Maybe if a rug was continually spilled on and didn’t fight the stains with the vigor that it should it could be tossed to the curb.  In either case, lets all agree to treat our rugs a little nicer.  This rug in their backyard has suffered enough for all the rugs in the world several times over. 

God I wish I had me some sweet wooden rafters and a pet pirate monkey. 

Sweet wooden rafters and a pet pirate monkey.
Give monkey eye patch and an extra long knifey.
Swings through the rafters and all through my place,
Why wont pirate monkey stop slinging poo at my face.

"Thats it monkey its time for a fight,"
I pull out my sword and turn out the light.
Pirate monkey and I battle in dark for days,
But pirate monkey won’t stop his poo flinging ways.

I swing to the right and I change up my stance,
And then I wear monkey down as he pants and he pants.
I cut him in two and with stench downright funky,
Sweet wooden rafters and one less pirate monkey.