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Sunday, April 01, 2007  
Venetian Blinds
Living in Los Angeles for 13 years or so, I've become accustomed to the veritable characters who live in this city. Being on the cusp of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, I've seen my share of kooks and crazies. There's the crazy Russian lady in the red jumpsuit who yells at cars and people on Wilshire. There's the homeless guy on rollerskates with the boombox on Burton Way. There's anyone who walks on Melrose. There's the customers who purvey Gay Target. And then there's where all these personalities congregate: on the boardwalk of Venice Beach.

I frequently go to Venice Beach to walk around or have lunch at Baja Cantina (free tortilla chips made in-house!) and have become used to the people who populate the area. The Naked Cowboy, the rappers peddling their CDs and the countless other people who enjoy having conversations with themselves. It wasn't until I visited the place with my girlfriend, someone who hadn't been exposed to the oddities of Venice Beach, that I became cogniscent of how confrontational and crazy this people actually were.

It seemed as if we had just set foot on the boardwalk when an up and coming (or more accurately, down and going) rapper handed me his CD. I took it from him, thanked him and kept walking. Oh it wasn't a free sample? Whoops.

"Bro, just have a listen. You ain't never heard anything like this." Trying to seem like a calm and collected boyfriend, taking an awkward situation head on seemed the best course of action.
"Shit, ok."
"You like hip hop?"
"Yeah sure sure." He places the headphones on my head. It wasn't until that night when I woke up in a cold sweat that I realized that those headphones must have been in contact with god knows how many other infected ear canals of unhygenic oddballs on Venice.
"It's pretty cool," after having listened for upwards of 4 seconds.
"Aight, I got two more to sell. How much you wanna give me for one?"
"Dude, I'll catch you when I come back around."
"Aw c'mon man. How you gonna play me like that?!"
"I'm not gonna carry around a CD all day. I'll get you when I'm walkin back." I begin pushing my companion as I walk away.
"Aight, I'm gonna hold you to it!"
"Alright, whatever you say man."

Not FOUR PACES beyond the previous rapper do I hear....
"YO BLUE SHIRT PI-YIMP!! BLUE SHIRT PIMP!!" It's at this point that I should mention I was wearing a blue shirt and blue jacket.
"Blue shirt pimp! YO you gots ta listen to this man. C'mawn." This guy was definitely more colorful and not as depressed as the last guy. But I wasn't as gullible. I did the most chivalric thing a guy could do: I placed all the attention on my girlfriend.
"You know what man? It ain't up to me. You gotta talk to my girl over here." She flashes a worried look at me. I divert the headphones towards her head. Sure it wasn't the nicest thing I could do but it was an experience she had to share with me.
"What you think girl??" She begins laughing but enables him by dancing ever so slightly to his "rhymes."
"Yeh-yuh, hot momma knows where it's at." She takes the headphones off.
"So how much you want for my rhymesss?!"
"I dunno man, it's up to the lady." She begins pulling me away as she starts to walk away.
"Uhh it was good but I'm fine."
"Aight momma. You know where to come if you change yoh mind!"

Gathering our bearings after being hustled by two rappers, we continued our promenade. Passing smoke shops (i.e. bong shops), bikini shops (i.e. thong shops) and hot dog stands (i.e. late night munchie stands), we notice a dog in a window of a house (?) looking extremely depressed. We look and laugh. As we do so, a street artist yells at me, "HEY BLUE SHIRT!" I should not have worn a blue jacket/shirt combo that day. I ignore him, as my girlfriend doesn't seem to notice. "Yeah keep lookin at that there dawg." Is this supposed to attract me into buying his revolutionary art? "Haha that dawg is so funny, blue shirt!" We keep on walking. Other than going in and out of bikini shops (for the lady...ok and for the guy too) and encountering pushy shop keepers who may or may not have had emphyzema, nothing notable occured....until we came to Muscle Beach. For those not familiar, this is a part of Venice where overly muscle-bound, steroid injected beasts come to work out, in plain view of everyone. This day however, there were no specimens of genetic engineering to be seen. Just one shirtless Polynesian man. In a thong.

Stretching.

It was then I decided it was time to leave Venice Beach.

On the way back on the boardwalk, I spotted the first rapper we encountered that day. Remembering that I had foolishly told him I would catch him when I came back around, I quickly took a detour around some basketball courts, completely missing the perimeter he was prowling.

We were approaching the end of the boardwalk and when it seemed all our encounters with Venetian personas had ended, a muscular black man wearing nothing but a loin cloth and a small headress crouched on a stool and began playing the recorder.

Living in this city numbs you to the unique personalities that dominate it. We tend to turn a blind eye to the wacky characters who roam this colorful city and its many dark corners. It's when we explore it with one who hasn't experienced what we've become used to that we come to realize that we live in an insane and rich city that is ugly and disgusting to some, but fun and beautiful to others who have become as blind and bold to call it home.

So here's to you Naked Cowboy and crazy Russian lady and aspiring rappers of Los Angeles. Thank you for calling this city home as well. It wouldn't be as mental without you.
2:52 AM
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