[Short Story] The A.C. Express


I’m drinking with a gentleman named Noel in West Hollywood. Okay, so a couple of lies is no way to get started. Noel is no gentleman and we are at the corner of Melrose and North Fairfax so we are in Fairfax. People on their way up will refer to this as West Hollywood, but we are not on our way up. We are drinking in Fairfax.

No job and drinking in the early afternoon is fun the first time and that’s about it. My last job, blogging about eating spaghetti didn’t last long. I didn’t have one reader for a whole month, not one! Still, it got myself and Noel in to a blogger’s BBQ earlier in the day where we drank Mexican beer and ate meat in a parking lot surrounded by souvenir shops, strip clubs and a Dunkin Donuts. No surprise, where there is a Dunkin Donuts there is certain to be a strip club nearby.  Okay, so back to the bar in Fairfax. Eventually Noel passes out in the bathroom and a redhead sits next to me. I buy her a drink and instead of receiving a thank you her reply is “let me tell you about my Jesus.” I turn the other way and there is a guy wearing an Iron Maiden tee with a black trucker hat. No logo, it’s worn off. Bored, I ask him his name. He tells me “Busta Tool” and that’s the end of that conversation. I stare straight ahead, finish my drink and adjourn to the bathroom where Noel is still passed out. There are no mirrors in this bar because no one in this bar wants to see what they look like. Self-hatred is high on this particular afternoon in Fairfax.

Back at the bar the trucker has left and I can feel someone else sit next to me. It’s Noel. He looks at me and tells me the drinks just aren’t working. He takes out a plastic bag of pills. It’s got all colors. He smiles and asks me if I’ve ever climbed a rainbow. You know what, the drinks obviously aren’t working for me either. I put out my hand and he places a blue, red, orange and yellow pill in my hand. I take them all down and wait. The bartender approaches. He is reading a magazine and is trying to solve a question that reads like an SAT question written by Eminem – “If Billy is taller than Margaret and Jack, and Margaret is taller than Richard and Anna, but not Sam, and Sam is the same height as Billy, which came in handy when Billy murdered Sam in cold blood for the love of Anna and then drove around wearing his clothes for a week while chain-smoking, will the dry-cleaning bill cost more or less than the cigarettes?” I don’t remember if I answered, but it’s the last thing I remember about that bar in Fairfax.

When I wake up Noel is nowhere to be found and someone is jamming something up my ass. I look back and it’s a guy in a white coat, a doctor giving me some type of enema to eradicate the pills. There is a lot of yelling all around me and this doctor is really working hard. The pain is so awful I pass out.

When I wake up I’m next to a guy who smells like whisky, hamburgers and Newport cigarettes. He opens his eyes and tells me “sobriety is best when the years line up.” I begin to focus and look around. A door opens and a guy in a uniform grabs me. He tells me I will need to make a payment and I tell him I don’t have health insurance. He looks at me and just says, “bail.” He can see from my reaction my confusion. He hands me a sombrero and says that I was found passed out, wearing the sombrero, blocking traffic on Atlantic Avenue. I explain to him that I was in Fairfax and now he looks confused. I look down at the papers he has handed me and see ATLANTIC CITY DETENTION CENTER on the heading. I look around. There is a guy wearing a shirt that reads: Atlantic City – give us your weak, desperate and addicted. “So I’m in Atlantic City?” I ask. He nods and points again to the fine. “Fucking New Jersey?” I start to chuckle and nod in agreement. At this point I just want to get out of here, get a coffee and figure out how to get back to L.A. Then I look back toward the holding cell.

In the corner is a guy wearing a long white coat. He looks very familiar. I immediately crave more yellow pills…





[Short Story] Walking Through Duane Reade On Acid

duane reade

The acid kicks in as soon as I walk through the doors of Duane Reade. I walk straight into a seasonal isle and am blocked by two guys having a conversation about what it takes in order to be considered a king pin in the drug world. They agree that once you move product across state lines you have reached this status. They notice me and let me pass by.

The fluorescent lights are freaking me out so I take a left and find myself in the beer aisle. Two guys (one wearing a cape, the other a scarf and tee shirt) grab a six pack, then a twelve pack and then decide on a thirty pack because they can send in a for a blow up chair. “Dude, always take a free chair.” Says the guy wearing a cape. The guy in a tee shirt and scarf nods approvingly.

Next, I find myself in some random aisle with a lamp so I rub it just in case a genie pops out. Next to the lamps are the condoms. A girl is looking at them with her friends and says “It’s not exactly date night, it’s more like rape night!” She says this excitingly though so no need of concern. She then says something about Morrissey. A voice inside me says stay away from any girl that likes Morrissey, she is likely insane.

Next I walk by the pharmacy offering free flu shots. I wonder if it’s the “shot” like a heroin junkie or just the mist like a light cocaine bump. I look closer and realize the pharmacy is closed and move on, almost knocking over a sunglasses display. I stare at a pair of aviators and wonder if I should wear sunglasses more often. Maybe I’d feel like a rock star, or I could wear a hat pulled down and be incognito. Of course, no one knows me, so… I notice a brunette dressed in a United Airlines flight attendant outfit, she is next to a pilot who is looking at aviators. I’m assuming he is a pilot because he looks like the dad from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Regardless, I hope they have a good date night and not a rape night. For what seems like an hour I’m lost inside a paradox of nail polish. Eventually someone guides me away.

A voice tells me to walk left and there is some cheap jewelry. Why is it whenever I walk by jewelry I fantasize about robbing all of it? There is a mirror and I catch myself in my hoodie, I put up the hood and briefly fantasize about being in a rap battle. Someone is pulling my arm…

“Dude, what are you doing?” It’s my friend James. I just look at him and tell him it’s the acid.

He stares at me and tells me that I didn’t take acid, he was with me all day. “Dude, this is the just the way it is at Duane Reade.” He nods.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“You wanted tissues.” He points one aisle over. “Oh yeah, I always like to have tissues in case someone is bleeding. Makes me feel like a doctor.”

James stops me and says, “Did you even hear what I said about Morrissey?”

[Fiction] Hero


I’m sitting at a bar called Graffiti’s that has no graffiti. I’m taking it easy, drinking Corona beer, my version of a night off and nothing is happening. Nothing ever happens.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Last week someone called the cops on me. When the cops showed up they took me into custody and didn’t say anything. Down at the precinct they said I was a suspect in a serial murder case due to my appearance. I am white, wearing glasses, light thinning hair and was wearing a short-sleeve buttoned up shirt. They asked me three times why I was wearing such a shirt, after two hours I was released. So you see, I guess sometimes things happen.

Next to me is a guy who introduces himself as Tequila and says he was a leash baby and hates tequila. I quickly get up to use the restroom, but when I return he knows because I’m carrying over two dollars in change and it sounds like a tap class in my pocket. Not exactly incognito. I order another Corona and we both stare at a guy that walks in suspiciously wearing a trench coat. He walks right in front of an intense game of darts and almost gets hit.

I’m sort of hoping he’s a hitman and he’s going to take someone out, that would be something. Unless of course he’s looking to take out guys that have the appearance of a serial killer, that wouldn’t be good. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe hitmen should always carry their weapon in a flower box or guitar case. After he sits down he pulls out a carton of cigarettes and inspects them, bummer, not a hitman, just a shoplifter. Nothing is going to happen tonight. I order another Corona. The bartender, who is drinking tequila straight brings it over.

I look over at the cork dartboard and remember when I hit a hat trick a couple years back at this bar. That was something, I guess. Two guys are playing Cricket, one is wearing a leather jacket, the other a tank top that says BRO. I’m pretty sure I can beat both of them. My good thoughts quickly vanish as my arm is pulled. Tequila tells me about a reoccurring dream he has where a helicopter lands in front of his house and his family is kidnapped. They are taken to a non-active volcano where inside Nic Cage lives. Someone hands him a samurai sword and tells him “it’s time.” I wonder if Tequila owns a trench coat.

I order another Corona; pretty sure nothing is going to happen when something happens. Over at the dart game leather jacket throws a dart at tank top guy, hitting him in the neck, the dart doesn’t stick, but he starts choking. The whole bar just watches for what seems like minutes, but it’s just a few seconds until someone yells “Is there a doctor here?” This is Graffiti’s. There are no doctor’s here. Then the bartender looks and points at me, “This guy is only drinking Corona, he can help!”

I freeze for a second and then shrug and get off my stool and walk over. Tank top guy is on his back (BRO is staring at me) and is still choking so I kick his head to the side. He vomits everywhere and is okay. Everyone cheers even though all I really did was assault the guy. I feel like an artist praised for creating a mural of a whore being slapped by a pimp. Well, maybe not a mural, this is Graffiti’s after all. I go back to my stool. The bartender approaches tells me he is okay with my short-sleeve button down and asks me if I’d like a drink on the house.

I order a Corona.

[Fiction] The Night I Met Melvin


Tonight I’m less stressed than usual, maybe it’s the extra drinking, regardless, I’m at ease.

Knock, Knock

At my door is a guy wearing Elvis sunglasses, but it’s not Elvis. It’s a guy named Melvin that I sort of remember meeting a couple weeks ago at a party. He’s holding a dozen eggs. “Got a frying pan? Let’s cook these fucking chicks up?” It’s not midnight yet so I let him in.

I open two beers, hand him one and he finds a frying pan. He proceeds to crack six eggs and then asks me how I like them. Before I can ask he murders them and scrambled it is. Two minutes and two more beers pass and he asks me for hot sauce. I don’t have any. He looks at me, shrugs and proceeds to empty the eggs into the sink. “Can’t eat eggs at this time of night without hot sauce.”

We grab two more beers and adjourn to the living room. He is still wearing the Elvis sunglasses and starts telling about how he has been spending his days at Starbucks waiting for something to happen. He is coming to the conclusion it isn’t going to happen. He then receives a text message and says a guy he knows just took a lot of pills and is planning to shoot some guy his girlfriend is cheating him on with. I ask him if we should stop him and he says there’s nothing he can do – low on gas and spent his last three dollars on eggs. I get the name of the bar, grab four beers and we drive down to the bar where he thinks his friend is. He’s not there, but since we are already drunk the four beers on the drive over I decide to buy Melvin a drink and tell him to text his friend.

The name of the bar is The Horizon and Melvin tells me they are known for their wings. “Seriously, they are 10 for six dollars, but here’s the thing. You can get 40 wings for $24!” I just look at him and then he gets a text and says his friend is going to be okay, he decided to go home, turn up some Coltrane and just ride it out. Then Melvin asks me if I want to go eat chocolate chip cookies. I ask him how high he is and just nods.

At the end of the bar is a very strange girl who motions me to come over. I yank my head to have her come my way. She’s wearing a shirt that says SHIT and that’s seems like a sign to not get up from my spot. Sure enough she comes over. I order another beer and she reaches in her bag and pulls out a tennis ball. It’s cut in half and has a picture of her inside. She tells me it was from her boyfriend. “Should I stay with him?” I do some strange non-committal nod that could mean anything and then she asks me if I play tennis. I tell her no and she leaves and goes back to her spot.

The bartender approaches and tells me I need to take care of my friend. At first I look at him blankly and then realize he means Melvin. The bartender points over to the Golden Tee video game in the corner where Melvin is standing. He has removed his pants and appears to be pleasuring himself. The Elvis glasses are still on. “We can’t have that in here.” I agree and walk over and tell Melvin to pull up his pants and that it’s time to go.

On the way home Melvin and I stop off to buy one more six pack. Inside the deli Melvin stops and touches my shoulder, “Can you buy some hot sauce? I’d like to eat the rest of the eggs tomorrow morning.” I buy the beer and hot sauce. Back home I point Melvin to the fold out couch and decide to pour myself a bath and enjoy one more beer. Overall I’m still not too stressed. Not a bad night, not bad at all…


15 Richest NBA Players

Michael Jordan of the Chicago Bulls (L) looks to m

The NBA and the salaries of their players is always a hot topic. Are the players making too much? Are the players making too little? Overall a debatable topic; however, our list of the top 15 showcases the top talents that have delivered for their teams, cities, and the NBA. They are super rich and it’s deserved.

Looking into what factors in to a player’s net worth is not only salary, but also business ventures as well as sponsorships. Most of the players on this list have made healthy salaries playing and the truly elite have gone beyond. Which players just missed the list? Oh, there are a few, some truly not deserving of the top 15.

First, there’s Dwayne Wade, the cornerstone of for the Miami Heat and their three championships. Valued with a net worth of $90 million dollars, he just falls short, but in my opinion has been worth every penny. Now, three dishonorable mentions. First, Dwight Howard ($100 million), a great player that has yet delivered greatness on a team level. Currently on the Atlanta Hawks, he will have another chance this season in the playoffs, but don’t hold your breath. Then there’s Juwan Howard ($80 million), the first NBA player to be awarded a $100-million-dollar contract and it’s safe to say not worthy. Finally, we have Alan Houston who received a six-year $100-million-dollar contract because his agent convinced the New York Knicks he was the next Michael Jordan. Sadly, he was not.

Ready to see the richest NBA players? We’ve got current stars, ex-stars that are now in the broadcast booth, and, of course, Michael Jordan, who should probably be on here twice given his influence and net worth. Here are the 15 richest NBA stars today.

Check out the full list at TheRichest.com

15 Shocking Facts About Kurt Cobain


Kurt Cobain was more than a musician. For many, he was a voice of a generation, in a time when hope was dwindling and music was too manufactured. Enter Cobain and his stripped down guitar, lyrics, and a message that was always high on revolution, challenging the status quo, and love, always full of love.

A lot was written during his ascent to stardom, during the ups and downs of his band Nirvana as well as after his death by suicide. Some is shocking, some strange, but regardless, it’s very interesting. Cobain was a unique individual that, despite being quiet, was always the center of attention once he entered a room or took the stage.

So what didn’t make the list? There was a rumor that Cobain auditioned for the Melvins prior to forming Nirvana. This is not true. Did you know what Cobain did the first time he saw his video “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on television? He called his mom. See, stars are just like us! Cobain also wrote about sexual assault, but it’s not the song “Rape Me” that many associate to this. That song is more about the media and their relationship with his band. The song “Polly” was based on a sexual assault story he heard about, written from the perspective of the woman who was assaulted.

Ready to learn more about the grunge god Kurt Cobain? We’ve got dedicated songs, some of Cobain’s favorite people and even a petting zoo? Say what? That’s right, it’s time to get started. Here are 15 shocking facts you didn’t know about Kurt Cobain.

Read the full list at TheRichest.com

The Mugging, a short story


His breath smelled of fried rice and Budweiser, definitely not Bud Light, it was Budweiser. With his beer rice breath on my neck I could only look down and that’s when I knew I was fucked. The guy was wearing several pair of socks, one over another and so on, no shoes.

“Hey, you’re going to break one of my ribs”, I barely speak while trying to wiggle a little room between my side and his gun. I was thirty seconds into the mugging and quite honestly something needed to happen. He wasn’t demanding or trying to take my wallet he just had me in a headlock, gun jammed into my side, beer rice breath occasionally tickling my ear. My rib comment didn’t go over well; instead, he jammed it harder into my side. “You can have what I want.” He doesn’t budge. “I have cigarettes.” Immediately he pulls away the gun and backs off. I turn around and we stare at each other, he puts his gun into the back of his pants like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop.

Ten minutes ago I was walking by the alley, trying to decide between Mexican and Italian for dinner. Italian is usually better, but often too filling especially if I go anything chicken parmigiana route. Mexican is tacos which rule. I was leaning toward tacos when I was grabbed and thrown into the alley, totally fucking up my dinner decision.

Now I’m in an alley that has old plastic crates littered throughout and am still hungry. He grabs a seat on a red-like colored crate and motions for me to do the same. I consider running, but there’s still the issue of the gun so I pull up an ocean blue colored crate. “Cigarette” He says so I give him one and pull one out for myself. They are Winstons’ which draws a look of disgust from beer rice breath as he stares at the pack while putting one into his mouth. I pull out a book of matches, he snatches them and lights his cigarette and throws away the match. I take the matchbook back and light another one for myself. In between drags beer rice breath keeps bending down as if he’s in pain. Each time he bends down I can see the gun stuck in the back of his pants. The next time he bends he says, “Messed Up.”

“Don’t worry about it, just let me go and I won’t say anything.” I say and he perks up, “No, shit-guy, not this”, he waves his hands, “Everything.” Why am I shit guy? He continues and says, “It was the shoes, the stinky shoes.”

I take a final drag off my cigarette, consider the risk of putting it out in his eye and instead throw it down and step on it. “What job?”

“Listen up shit-guy, you see over there –“ He points at a bowling alley across the street. “Sure, Rusty’s Bowl-O-Rama, what about it?”

“That was my job, I cleaned the shoes. I cleaned the shoes for 10 years and then they fired me. I have not worked since.” He bends down again, exposing the gun.

I move a little bit closer, pull out another cigarette and light it. “How long ago was that?” During one of his bends beer rice guy says, “Five years shit-guy.”

I take a drag, the next time beer rice breath bends forward I offer him a cigarette, when he reaches I step on his socks and go for the gun. It’s heavy, I don’t know how you can stick that in the back of your pants. Sure it looks fucking tits, but it’s just not very practical. Beer rice breath puts up no resistance and doesn’t even turn around. I think about what would happen if I shot him in the back of the head. It would probably be loud. As I contemplate the sound the gun actually falls apart, the handle falling to the ground. I throw down the other piece. Beer rice breath starts crying, mumbles something about shoes and slides forward off the crate that now appears more orange than red, maybe rust if that’s a color. Yeah, I’d go with rust. His crate was rust colored.

I decide on Chinese food, yeah, Chinese and a good cold beer.