Homeless Dave...The Adventure Continues!

Homeless Dave meets the REAL homeless

So I left the fancy Larry Fishburne hotel, because nice as it was, it was expensive. Three nights was fine.

Also, the sauteed spinach I got from room service as a side dish to my lobster bisque last night REALLY disagreed with me. Like, badly. Let’s just say the maid who opens the door to that bathroom is going to self-deport because next to what I did to that toilet, the slums of Tijuana will smell like roses.

“¡Ay la caca diablo!”

BTW, spinach IS a powerful laxative. Wish I’d Googled that before ordering it. What you never see in a Popeye cartoon is that after he eats a full can of spinach and defeats Bluto, he has to spend two hours in the can.

Me anus is swollen
I blew out me colon
I'm Popeye the Sailor Man (SPLAT SPLAT!)

I was supposed to do this week at an Airbnb by the La Brea Tar Pits. It’s where I spent my youth. My mom was an admin there, and every day she’d leave work, pick me up from elementary school, take me back to her work, and I’d just wander the museum until 5pm (6pm during the King Tut exhibit in ‘78, which my mom oversaw).

I hate what they’ve done to the museum…all the cool things from the ‘70s — the waterfall, the reflecting pools, the tadpoles and fish and giant outdoor pavilion — are long gone. Still, I looked forward to walking the grounds again, because at least the tar pits themselves are still there.

For those of you who know the layout of the city, Fairfax n’ Wilshire is NOT Westside. Too east for me, but it was just gonna be for one week.

However…

The Airbnb was run by one of those companies that rents units just to rent them out (i.e., it wasn’t someone’s home but a permanent rental), and this particular company is so fucking inept, as I found out to my chagrin, their rep couldn’t get into the damn building or the damn apartment. Two hours I waited with my friend (who was there to help carry my stuff) while this woman tried and failed to gain entry.

In a way, it was for the better. The unit, advertised as having a sunny balcony, was instead basement-level, adjoining the parking garage.

Had I stayed there, I’d have certainly died from carbon monoxide poisoning, and yet STILL deniers would say “you can’t gas anyone with exhaust!”

I’d have died as I lived — failing to educate idiots.

So the rental company, I Am Sam Rentals (a division of Rain Man Properties) rebooked me all the way in Santa Monica. Fairfax is too east, but SM? Too west. Worse still, it’s the ONLY part of West L.A. that actually IS what MAGAs think all of L.A. is: crawling with homeless, poop everywhere, urine smell abounds. I mean, it’s fine during the day; the cops chase the nutcases away.

But at night?

Well, I was curious. My place is fine. Roomy and on the 6th floor, three blocks from the strand. And at 1am tonight, feeling restless, I thought I’d take a stroll. I’ve never spent overnight in SM, and I genuinely wanted to know if it’s as bad as I fear.

I’ll say this…I survived. But my blood pressure didn’t. Schizos, shriekers, hollerers, everywhere. I did a four block round-trip and, my curiosity sated, fled to the safety of the 6th floor.

Santa Monica — a great place to see at night…from six stories up.

Plus, I used to live in the good beach city — El Segundo, where it’s safe 24/7. I’d go back there now, but it’s too far south. Too far from my small circle of friends. I only went there in 2003 because I was fleeing the psychotic blonde who was trying to kill me. That’s the point of El Segundo; you go there to hide, because nobody knows about it.

BTW, I won’t show you the view from my room tonight because I have none, which is good. Santa Monica is NOT where you want an ocean-facing room, because that means your balcony faces the city street or strand, which means you can’t open your window at night unless you want the full schizo symphony.

My view is of the side of the building next door, and I’m fine with that; nice n’ quiet.

Anyway, I am looking for a new permanent place, a 6-month rental in BH or nearby.

And BH is surely where I’ll spend next week. I need a place where I can walk at night. I can do Santa Monica for a week…only.

Shit, I never did get to revisit the tar pits.

Speaking of fossils, as some of you were so cruelly judgmental about my appearance in my last photo, here, I cleaned up. Happy? Seriously, though, this is the best I can do without hair coloring, a Boreing-style front-piece toupee, and a chin tuck. And I ONLY did it because I’m meeting landlords this week, so I can’t look TOO disheveled.

With 56-year-old Dave, this is as good as it gets.