Hiking in Franklin Canyon always makes me feel like I’m out of the city and in the woods. Roughing it, you know. It’s nice every once and a while to get smacked in the face by a bush or climb a dirt trail then slip on a dry leaf in your Chucks. On the way back to the car we stopped in at the park’s Sooky Goldman Nature Center to check things out. “I wanna get pictures of nature,” I said as I snapped away at all the savaged beasts. “Yeah, nature,” he said as he pet the stuffed raccoon’s head. I guess I could have taken a picture of the lizard we saw on the trail or the turtles in the pond, but that’s not exciting.
I’m kicking off Memorial Day weekend with a hike in Franklin Canyon with a friend; a new friend that I’ve powdered my ass for just in case. I’m having a cup of tea while I wait for him to arrive. I’m drinking it out of the new mug Linda gave me. Due to the recession, her gold mine investments have “taken a nosedive” and she’s worried about money, which is something she’s not used to. So after an eight year sabbatical, she’s decided to go back to work! She’s made all new business cards, mugs, and mouse pads for her real estate business. The picture she’s chosen for her business card is one she took of her and I at the bar one day, you can see my shoulder cropped out. It’s my new favorite mug! She’s really taking this real estate gig seriously. Even though she was hungover the other day she made the trek to Malibu at 9 a.m. to check a piece of property, but was back in time for our 11 a.m. opening. Three hours later she was telling me how her niece from Canada, “who is a whale, like 500 lbs.,” was concerned about her weight and needed Linda’s help. Linda told her, “Sweetie, come stay with me in Beverly Hills and we’ll just get it sucked out.” The woman sitting three stools down almost choked on her chicken and avocado club.
Stefani and I were chatting about the Georgian Boy using the plunger to unclog my sink when the conversation led to more grossness. Being a mother of three, two of which are boys under the age of 8, she’s starting to see just how gross boys really are.
My brothers and I were prime examples. Taking advantage of the fact that Dad was passed out by 11, and lightening the situation, we’d play tricks on him. My brother, who had eaten 4 bowls of clam chowder that night, would go in the other room, fart in a jar, seal it, then go into the living room where Dad was bobbing his head and gently wake him up to smell the jar. In a stupor, he’d stick his nose inside, take a whiff, then jerk his head back in disgust and yell, “Jesus! Get that poison away from me!” We’d all cripple over in laughter as he fell back asleep.
Keeping things interesting and ideas evolving, we came up with new ways to preserve the smell. We discovered that cotton balls at the bottom of the jar helped absorb the scent. Then we discovered that plastic peanut butter jars were better than glass jars because you could squeeze them upon impact.
When farting in jars became juvenile, we switched to more mature tactics like using a brown marker to draw skid marks on a paper plate then wiping our ass on it and telling Dad to “Scratch N’ Sniff.” You should have seen the way his neck snapped sideways when he smelt his finger. Looking back at it now, it’s obvious that he knew what we were up to, just how gross we really were, but would play along because he knew how much it meant that his boys were happily entertained.
Mom always said that boys were easier to raise than girls, but they’re definitely grosser. I told Stefani to expect her boys to do a lot of gross things, especially the older they get, but to never worry about it because it’s completely natural. Boys are just gross.
We were lounging around my place after the night of debauchery when the one with the fish tattooed on his neck grabbed my computer and started surfing YouTube.
”You sure like Madonna,” he said as he searched my video history. A few nights earlier I got sucked into a two hour Madonna marathon that started when I was looking for her nip slip in the Papa Don’t Preach video. “Have you ever heard of Benji Brown? He’s a comedian from Georgia.”
”No,” I said.
”You gotta watch this video, it’s hysterical,” he said as he slid the computer my way. “Her name is Kiki. She’s your typical ratchet ass bitch from Georgia. I seen a million of ‘em every day catching the bus.”
Kiki is brilliant. I think she’s the first one to do the tongue-pop that all the drag queens are trying to copy nowadays. Her other video, Kiki at Myammee’s Health Spa, is even better.
The Georgian boys are my co-workers. The one from Macon, whose momma was a boozer, had a handle of Suaza Silver in his trunk and planned on drinking it after work in his car so I invited him to my place to drink it. Even though he thinks I’m bougie, he still likes my company because I’m real with him. I’ll listen to his bullshit and either call him out on it or agree with it. As we sipped tequila he told me about his high school sweetheart (an immigrant from Nigeria who got a scholarship to Duke) who came to visit him in L.A. when he first moved out here. The trip didn’t turn out well. But he doesn’t need no lady in his life and has been toying with the idea of becoming a single, adoptive father. Either way, this video is interesting dialogue. After this we went to WeHo, which wasn’t his first choice because the last time he was there some dude tried to grab his junk while he was peeing in the urinal at Revolver. He was a trooper, though, and drank through it. By the end of the night we found him slumped over on a bench in the park next to The Abbey with a huge scrape on his forehead and muddy shoes. He doesn’t remember what happened.
Two weeks ago my bathroom sink got clogged. Last time it got clogged I called my landlord, Mr. Prinz, and he ended up charging me for the plumber’s bill because apparently it’s in the lease that “clogs” are my problem. I was furious. I’m already paying him enough to slum it in Beverly Hills so this time around I called and left a message saying, “The bathroom sink is leaking. The pipes are old.” He had his handyman come the next day while I was at work and check it out. When I got home the sink was still clogged but there was a new shower head! There must have been a communication error, but I was still happy because the old one was rusty as fuck.
After a night of partying with the Georgian Boys and them sleeping over, I woke up the next morning and the sink was unclogged. The skinny one with the fish tattoo said, “Yeah, I noticed it was clogged so I just poured some CLR down that shit and suctioned it with the plunger.”
”Oh,” I said thinking about shit particles floating in my sink. “Thanks?” As gross as it was, the sink was no longer clogged. I noticed his empty pack of Newports in the garbage so I bought him a new pack as a little thank-you.
Friends in L.A.
He’s from Macon, Georgia, and came here to pursue a career in gorilla filmmaking (urban, raw, brutal storytelling promoted at places like swap meets). He’s the second oldest of 4 boys raised by their father. His mother, who the very mention of her name makes the vein on his neck bulge, was an alcoholic who left the family and bounced around from man to man and jail to jail until she eventually drank herself to death when he was just 12. He admits that she is the reason he struggles with relationships and why no matter how hard he tries to love a woman he’ll always just see her as a bitch. He’s got emotions, though, and is sensitive and likes to cuddle. That’s when he’ll turn to his gay friend.
His friend is also from Georgia, Atlanta to be exact, and moved out here to be a dancer. He came out of the closet when he was 14 and has a fish tattooed on his neck, as well as his name on the side of his arm that a friend did in the backyard using a pair of clippers and a razor blade. He said he was riding the bus home from work the other day and got a text from a friend telling him about an audition for back-up dancers just a block away. He didn’t have time to go home and change, so he just danced in his work jeans. “They were so tight I couldn’t even bend my knee. When I went to kick my leg over my head, I straight fell on my ass. On my ass! I was so embarrassed. I called my Momma and cried. Lord, I cried. I told her, ‘Momma, I straight fell on my ASS!’ She said, ‘Child, get back on your feet and dance.”’
They’re just a pair of Southern boys trying to do their thing in Los Angeles and every once and a while cuddling to keep from going under.
