10 April 2010


We moved back to Burbank. I swear this place is like a tar pit I always find myself back in. The reason we moved is because we were evicted from our lovely Toluca Lake location because of our neighbors who gave the property manager the ultimatum of us or them. One of our new neighbors is a chunky black man named Frank. Frank plays in a jazz band at night but won't tell us where, he must think we're going to go heckle him; "boooo! You sound like a sober Miles Davis! boooo!!" I hear jazz coming from his pad in the afternoon, I don't mind because I groove on his kind of junky jazz, it's that he always looks at me like I'm about to flip out, like I'm going to lose it and what's near him that he can take cover under. Frank wears a bow tie that looks like it's always strangling his fat neck, weird, because his bow tie is a clip-on. he always says "O.K. baby" that to me sounds like it translates to "Whatever fucked up trip you're on." I'd take a pic of him to put on this post, but I don't want him to read this, so I don't want him to think I want a pic to masturbate to.


  1. Tell him you and Russ will promise only to show
    up at the club in black face and Raybans.

  2. Frank would laugh, and then try to run me over with his gold Cadillac when I'm trying to water my lemon tree (that fucking tree gives me one lemon a year).

  3. Sads for getting evicted. That would bite. Hope you are okay.

  4. We're doing great, our manager did us a favor. It so happens we got a place that fell in our laps, hardwood floors, crown moulding, and it's pretty secluded, granted it came at the cost of the previous owner falling and bleeding to death in the hallway, but you can't beat the price (she was dead on the floor for a week before the cleaning ladies found her).


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