Dinner For One

Tonights choice of curry house turned out to be a poor one. After getting off work at 7pm, I was hungry and didn't fancy the old stand by, a bag of Funyuns and some big cans of beer.
I have been trying to eat well and lately have been stopping by Safeways to pick up some salad or some cooked chicken. I didn't feel like that though and since I am still 0 of 8 towards my free deli sandwich (0 of 8 what? Million dollars?) I am boycotting them until they lower the bar on their BS free sandwich gimmick. I must have been in that fuckin' store 10 times over the past 5 weeks and I still only have 0 of 8 towards my free sandwich. They don't even specify what 'kind' of free sandwich you get. Is it pimento loaf? If it is I don't want it as I don't care for pimento loaf. Jam would be preferable but it probably wouldn't be that good. I have been tempted to call the 800 number to clear things up but I'm not sure it would be worth the hold time listening to some shite soft jazz version of Love On The Rocks. Do I actually have a choice of free sandwich? I wouldn't think so. They have, I am sure, a large pile of ready made sandwiches piled high with the end bits from a loaf of processed, compressed chicken parts that they couldn't sell. In fact, I'm not sure I even want my free sandwich, should I ever atain the "Diamond Elite" level of Safeway Club membership that allows me to claim it. Maybe the cash equivalent (0.0001 cents) would be more edible.

So, I decided on the other old stand by, a curry. Foolishly I passed up a curry house that I know to perfectly good in favour of an untried establishment which I failed to notice until I left, was located next to a feed store. In I go, it looked okay, it was clean and didn't smell much. There was nobody else there which is always a good sign because it means that the service is quick. I order a big Kingfisher and some lamb dish, taar something or other. When it arrived, quickly, the first couple of mouthfulls were rapidly washed down with the Kingfisher. This was going to be a long meal. I usually don't mind spicy, hot flavourful food. This however was the hottest, sourest, stuff I have ever tasted. I sat there with sweat running down my brow as I ate. I looked like a dog chewing a caramel. I know because I caught sight of myself in the classy mirrorred wall that I was facing. While watching myself eat, I noticed that behind me was a bar with a TV in the corner. The waiter was watching a show on Animal Planet in which a dog appeared to be having it's spleen removed. Nice! I don't even know for sure if dogs have spleens. If they don't, maybe that's why this one was on telly and the waiter was so interested in watching it. It may have been a miracle dog....

So, it was a tough meal and the first time in my life that I have been unable to finish a curry. I think that I should be okay to retain my membership of "Hard Man Curry Eaters of America" as it was the dog's fault, not mine.

I'm not going to lower the tone of this post by getting into the goings on in the bathroom suffice to say that it could do with a coat of paint. I had barely closed the door of the van when the pressure valve opened and overpowered even the smell of rotting fruit (that's where that apple went to...) and sour milk (don't know where that came from.)

As this week's random act of kindness and in the interest of serving the community, I shall be leaving a note inside the microwave in my hotel room. "Avoid The Heritage of India", hopefully somebody will find it before they go.

An Army Of One

Call them what you will Tramps, Bums, Hobo’s, The Homeless, they intrigue me. If I see one of them exhibiting particularly strange behaviour I am fascinated and usually can’t put them out of my mind for at least a day or two until something else catches my eye and my attention. They always leave me with more questions than answers…

There used to be this bloke who lived on the corner or Broadway and 1^st St for at least 5 years that I know of, who each morning would perform his exercises (jumping jacks) in his terrible arseless pants. It was truly a sight to amaze and horrify passers by. Every now and again they would cart him off (presumably to a mission) while they hosed down the pavement and got rid of all his rubbish. Next day he would be back, clean shaven and obviously washed yet still wearing the pants with no arse in them. Why the fuck did they not give him new pants? Or did they offer him new ones only for him to refuse? I suppose that wearing pants with no arse in them has its advantages, especially if you never get up to go and shit. One day he was gone for good. Dead? Relocated? Eaten by wild dogs? Who the fuck knows?

Then there was the lad who stood at the corner of Broadway & Temple every afternoon reading aloud from a three ring binder into a microphone, the wire of which led into his back pocket. I was determined to stop and listen to what the hell he had to say that was so important to him but parking was never possible and I would just drive right by. On the day that I said to myself “Okay, this is it. I’m going to risk a ticket and hear him out,” he was gone, never to be seen again. I will never know what was in the binder. Could have been blank pages, could have been the ranting of a mad man, could have been the secret to life, the universe and everything.

There was the bloke in the gas mask who would dance like a fuckin’ maniac outside the various discoteca stores that pump out loud banda, norteña, and salsa music down on Broadway, south of 4^th St. What the fuck happened to that guy? Did he like the music that much? Did the store owners employ him to draw attention? I suspect he was just crazy as every now and again I would see him dancing outside Clifton’s to the sound of traffic and police sirens.

Since someone realized that they could convert all the old buildings downtown into high rent lofts and make millions, the LAPD have been cleaning up the area and getting rid of all the loonies, shadow fighters, screamers and urine reeking prophets. Causing dismay to dedicated people watchers like me. Luckily I will always have Hollywood. Santa Monica is fertile ground for jakeys too, but I don’t get out there that often. Hollywood is closer and to be honest, is home to a different breed of nutcase. There was this one lad who seemed to keep crossing the same street, backwards and forwards. Over his shoulder, he carried a black hold-all which held probably all he owned, a blanket and a stereo from which he was blasting what sounded like Smokey Robinson, but was, I was reliably informed, The Temptations. Every now and then he would stop, do a bit of a shuffle and mess with the volume, then cross the street again. The hold-all bore the legend “US ARMY – An Army Of One”, this was no doubt his free gift for his application to enlist (rejected). As interesting as this behaviour was, even more intriguing to me was what he carried in his right hand….a blue cellulose sponge. The kind that you wash dishes with, well the kind that the wife washes dishes with, I don’t do dishes. It didn’t appear to be wet, it was dried out. What the fuck was he doing with it? Did he like the texture? Was it his comfort sponge? Was it his favourite thing in the entire world? Could “the man” have taken his home, his pride, his dignity but not his sponge? I should have fuckin’ well asked him when I had the chance…..

This shit has my mind in a spin. I may not sleep tonight.

By the way, I commented on the lad with the furry yellow bike’s blog. It was moderated but he put up my comment anyway, he just didn’t answer my questions. He did not offer an explanation for the protest and did not offer his favourite remedy for saddle rash. So I still do not have closure on that bizarre event.