no panties

its too hot for this i keep whispering.
she loves fighting and i hate it.
she loves to scream and it frightens me.
all the noises from my home make the neighbors wonder, i wonder
when shes happy shes loud, when shes thrilled shes loud, when shes you know
shes really loud.
and when she shrieks out of anger
all of it, i imagine, sounds like im killing her.
black man + little pale white girl + only the woman screaming
doesnt look good for the black man.
so i whisper
keep yr voice down or i shut the windows
i dont have ac.
and i dont have a camera battery else youd all love to see her
in this velvety purple bra and and super short and striped miniskirt
neck all red from screaming but rest of her skin coconut white
bangles flailing black fingernails screaming
everything loud and dramatic and now shes throwing things
if she hits my tv there will be sudden silence, so i move into the living room
and think what i will tell the cops if they come
id just lie to them and tell them she caught me with her sister.
cuz no one would believe that when shes happy she starts fights.
when shes complete she tries to end it.
everything is upndown. everythings inandout. everythings hotncold.
everythings self-schadenfreude
i move the coffee table and lay on the carpet.
i say you get to throw one thing on me but then you hafta be quiet all night.
she looks at the couch. she wishes she could lift that.
sees the tv, but its a 35 inch mits.
oh fuck she sees the 20 lb dumbbells and goes for them.
i say just one dear.
she gets both and holds them over her head menacingly.
i think maybe ive been making out with the devil himself all weekend
disguised as paleskinned radiohead fanatic.
i remind her that even one of those dumbbells at that height could crush my skull
and i dont dare close my eyes because what if she aims lower.
all i know is she isnt screaming any more
and i have the most amazing view up that skirt

stuff white people like should edit their entry on bicycles

to include, riding bikes as a form of social activism.

i dont know when riding a bicycle became punk rock (to some people) but ive never bought it.

critical mass in frisco, midnight ridazz here in la, all it is to me is a way to say look at me look at me. which i suppose is what a mohawk was for, but i never wanted to run over a person with a mohawk before, or ever.

with that said i do like the super tall bike in this video (via mickipedia). that, is punk rock.

santa monica cut down their ficus

last fall i wrote one of my favorite posts for LAist (“Ficus? Ficyou…”), a piece about how santa monica wanted to tear down 50 of their most beautiful trees because they were buckling the sidewalks, because busses scraped up on them, and because they wanted to expand the outdoor mall.

one of my dearest friends runs all the parks in santa monica and even though she has nothing to do with this week’s destruction she told me that the ficuses were screwed. so i gave up hope.

LAist and the LAT of course had the story and our boy Adam Rose had the pics. like the one above.

LA Now even has video.

summer just cant stand in line

she likes butterflies and rainbows, frappucinos and prettyboys
pop music and diet coke, hearts pierced with arrows
she fiddles when we have to wait
not everything is super great
woke up this morning and it was already hot,
she had pretty woman on the non hd channel
topless like it aint no thing
winked at me, licked her candy ring
i said ive never seen pretty woman if you can believe it
she flicked it off
said lemme
tell you
about it.