barcade, our first super-secret adventure

so laura is like this boy magnet. it's ridic. she walks into a place and they get all retarded. especially this one guy from lebanon. and australia. he wanted to tell her secrets but was so fucked up by her lauraness that he was awkwardly shouting while I was awkwardly trying to have an awkward conversation with his pasadena/lebanese cousin. it was not like parker posey in party girl.

anyway, one night we went out with this aussie/lebanese guy and his cousin (not the awkward one). and just so you know, the one who liked laura was really good looking. I mean really. like his uncle gave him this awkward leather blazer and he sweetly wore it to make his uncle happy, but he still managed to look good. really. like he had these amazing white shoes that are really hard to pull off. anyway...


l.a. is so fucking ridiculously secretive. I mean, c'mon people, what do you think is going to happen? the hoi polloi will find out about your secret spot and gawk at you? whatever. anyway, the point is, after 6 months in NY I knew where I wanted to live/work/go out/etc. But nothing about L.A. is intuitive. Everything is in a strip mall and unless you have someone to tell you that this strip mall is better than the one down the street, well, you'll just have to figure it out for yourself.

so, obviously I was super-psyched to hear about the super-secret bar/arcade, barcade.

and it's absurd. and it's so much harder to find that you think it will be. it's on second, just west of western, but the monkey everyone tells you to look for is not so noticeable as you would think it would be. but it's there. and once you get past the strange bouncer you enter into a world of dorkiness beyond your dorkiest dreams. for serious. I mean these people have fucking joust. do you have joust?. No, you most certainly do not.

and they have a fierce pinball machine. (actually, they have three, but two suck.)

look, if you need a reason to go, they have jameson on the rocks for $3. three dollars. and that, my friend, is hard to beat.

how do you say...squalor?

so everyone is always all excited about aero beds. "they're so fantastic! it's just like a real bed! you'd never know it was an air mattress!"

unless, of course, it leaks.

and you can't do the usual submerge-and-detetect that one might do on a leaky pool float, etc. because, you see, this luxurious "bed" comes complete with a fuzzy coating. despite the fact you cover it with sheets. so this fuzz serves only to keep you from dunking it in the bath to find the goddamn leak. because the only thing worse than a leaky air mattress is sleeping on a layer of damp, stinky, sweaty, matted fuzz. or yoga mats. but I'll laura tell you about that.

so, what can you do but wake up each morning sweating and suffocating, ass on the floor, in a puddle of vinyl.

this is not a bed.

lemon trees and homeless people

outside my window i can pick lemons and see noah's ark
and that homeless drunk guy stumbling by
(i think he hates me)

welcome to the banana plantation

what good is melrose place if all you can afford is four walls and an industrial blue carpet?

craig's list said "urban oasis."
mapquest said "ghetto."
we said "why the fuck not?"

do you have a fireplace? a sunken living room? ten closets? a dining room with a brass chandelier? mouldings? do you even know what a dentil is? how about vaulted ceilings, motherfucker? or a courtyard espoused by a yellow graceland? no, you certainly do not, especially if you're reading this in new york --or hollywood for that matter.