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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Adventures In Los Angeles

With Rock The Bells: Southern California Edition just around the corner, I’ve treated the preceding weekend as a sort of a tune up to the whole thing via hitting up the local happenings and – actually willingly – indulging in some random acts of fuckery, just to get used the imminent, rampant foolishness that will likely accompany the concert. Case in point: while I was waiting to get into the venue last year, a good amount of dumb-ass YTs were slumped out cold in the lines because – since they were unwilling to pay for an $8 red cup of beer (and I don’t blame them!) – they drank their own weight in firewater prior to arriving to the show.

For those 3 people that actually know me, getting me out of my tilt is easier said than done on account of a: I’m lazy; b: I’m Nigerian, meaning I’m naturally hot, which makes me lazier; and c: the most randomnest of shit continually happens when I do leave the confines of my no-room mansion. Another case in point: while trying to watch Baby Boy in theatres (I know) a few years ago, some slack-jawed yokel decided that he’d try to take his vengeance – or maybe it was due to his willingness to follow a gang whose ass-backward code of is to clap anybody wearing the wrong color – on another patron there, pulling out a heater in the fucking theatre.

Needless to say, I don’t really frequent that place anymore.

So I do go out, and like clockwork random shit happens. Allow me to reintroduce myself…

Friday: I hit up the Sneaker Pimps show, which had been moved to a smaller, crappier venue because the first spot lost their liquor license. Aside from the opening act and seeing Street Fighter 4 for the first time (I gotta play that game one day), the entire thing failed to generate or keep my interest throughout, despite the fact that Ghostface Killah and Public Enemy were scheduled to perform. However, if you’ve seen one GFK show you’ve seen them all: he comes out all extra late with his harem of piff pocketers, screams the first verse of a bunch of songs, tries to get slores to come to his hotel room afterward, exits stage left. I eventually left before both acts even performed to another random party across the street, but not before I catch some White chick go apeshit over seeing perennial crackhead Flavor Flav in the parking lot. And did I mention the Latino rock/rap hybrid group that chewed off the head of a bat – or maybe it was a Chihuahua? – off in the middle of their performance?

Saturday: Speaking of crackheads, this one dingy-looking muh’fucka was trying his damndest to spit weak bars at this reasonably attractive female my friend and I walked past, where I cracked the fuck up in front of their faces. The woman then asked why I laughed, to which I responded, “This crackhead-looking muh’fucka trying to talk to you is the funniest thing I’ve seen all night,” while duke was still standing there.

Sunday: Once again, if you’re not a resident of Southern California you may want to skip past West Hollywood if you visit, lest your inner homophobe (don’t front) comes out. In one square mile I saw a good five fruitbags, and way too many cross-dressers and transsexuals to want to remember. It goes without mention that most of these tangy peoples were Black, so that if anything should tell us how well single-parent households in the urban communities are working. This is why I hurt for my people sometimes. On an unrelated note I did find a bicycle lying on the street, and that’s something I’ve wanted for a while now.

If this past weekend didn’t prepare me for the shit that’s about to invade California in a few days, I don’t know what will. Still, I can’t front like my interest isn’t piquing as Rock The Bells draws near. Maybe I’ll get lucky like that guy who was drilling some broad on the fence during an intermission last year. I doubt it, though.

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