310-458-8201
I woke up at the crack of noon. Prior to working late five nights a week, I used to get seven to eight hours of sleep easily. Something about racing to bed before the sun comes up prevents me from getting more than six hours. So far in Twenty-Dime, I’ve slept eight hours, two out of four nights. Can anything go wrong in this bright and shiny decade? Unfortunately, my friends, the answer is a resounding “YES!”
I learned the news from Caroline on Crack, blogger extraordinaire, her retweet read, “We’ve been shutdown… The land owner was mistaken on some zoning issues…” And yesterday, I had so much hope for this decade, nay, millennium. Ten years in and I’m already googling anti-depressants. I called the visitors bureau of Santa Monica and notified them. Turns out they were surprised, too.
Something about December makes me stop working out and start eating fifteen times my body weight every meal. Well it’s the first Monday of the year. (Oh, shit, my calendar informed me that it’s Tuesday.) It’s the first Tuesday of the year, time for the gym. You know how you can tell that it’s been a while since you’ve been to Equinox? The G.M. sends you an e-mail asking if every thing is alright. Now there are a couple of employees at Equinox that if they sent me the same letter, I would be touched, because I know them. But I’m not really sure if I would recognize Darrin if he sat on my face. In any case, I completed a vigorous, albeit brief, workout. It was now time to meet Tim for lunch.
We met at Fromin’s, which I believe is Yiddish for “ugly.” I can’t begin tell you how unattractive the people that walk through that door are, but I’ll try. I’m not talking about the paralytic, droolers in wheel chairs. Rarely, do I enter a deli looking to get laid. (Nate n’ Al’s is the exception.) But, Fromin’s, I wouldn’t fuck a chick there if I had a bag full of dicks. It resembles a morgue with booths. Their food tends to be alright. I had the soup and salad, which was good. Their split pea soup is so thick you can stand your spoon up in it. It’s more of a soup you chew rather than slurp.
On my way home I stopped at the scene of the crime, the corner formerly known as “the Santa Monica Food Truck Lot.” I was greeted by Scott, who I recognized as the cue master from the Barbie’s Q truck the day before. I gave him props on his chicken, not mentioning the eons I waited for it. I got down to business, telling him, “What mother fucker do I have to kill about this?!” Scott suggested that I call the City Council. He told me that nine, count that, NINE cop cars came in to shut them down. One more time, NINE, I’m not talking about the movie that I wouldn’t watch if it were playing on the inside of my eyelids. NINE COP CARS. First of all, I didn’t know Santa Monica had that many police vehicles. Second of all, it’s not like these people were armed. I happen to like the Santa Monica Police. I see them quite often while I’m working. And I’m sure it’s not their fault, but, seriously folks, isn’t there a better use of public resources?
I got home and called the Santa Monica City Council. I spoke to a lovely woman who had no idea what I was talking about. She said she’d get back to me. I felt that we really had a connection. I asked her if she was seeing anyone, she said “no.” I asked her out for Wednesday night. She told me she’s free after ten when she finishes her shift at Fromin’s. Click! Just my luck. For those who live and/or work in the area, please call the City Council at 310-458-8201.
