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Thursday, July 06, 2017

The Once Happy Couch

In Los Angeles, there is a terrible habit of people dragging their unwanted furniture from their over-priced apartments and leaving the stuff on the sidewalk for others to take, or to rot there until someone calls the city to have it taken away.

Where does the unwanted furniture go when the city takes it away? I haven’t a clue. Maybe Mar-a-Lago? All I know is that I wake up one day and look out the window and see that the junk is gone.

Last week one of my neighbors dragged onto the sidewalk a black fake leather couch. That poor couch had definitely seen better days. It looked tired and worn and desperate for some love and attention.

I imagine it was a rather handsome fake leather couch when it was first purchased some thirty years ago, but neglect sent into a state of sadness and total disarray. The fake leather was frayed, and I can only imagine how it got that way. 

I imagined it broke its springs when its owner romped too hard while having incoherent sex with the druggie girl who lived upstairs. Or maybe it’s leather frayed from hours of its owner rubbing himself against it while watching re-runs of the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I even imagined his pet rats fornicating with total abandon within its crevices.

So, there it was, a once happy couch, now tossed to the curb light a plastic bag full of dog shit.

A few days later, I looked out the window and saw a man on the ground examining the couch carefully. At first, I thought he was a homeless person planning on making it his temporary bed for an afternoon siesta, but then I noticed him taking out fluorescent colored tubes… tubes which looked like big Crayons.

He then he started creating… jabbing the frayed fake leather with his colored tubes… and as he created, I could see the couch transform…  

I went outside to meet the artist and tell him how much I liked what he was doing but he ignored me. So I stood there and watched him create, and at one point, I swear I saw the painted eye wink at me.


This artist transformed the frayed fake leather couch into a piece of whimsical urban trash street art. Sure, the couch has a frown, but I think underneath the paint, the couch is happy to be remembered… 

RIP frayed fake leather couch.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

My Ancestry DNA

Ever since I was a little boy, I have been in awe of the Native Americans and have always felt like I was somehow part of them.  I study their culture, read Native American authors, attend powwows, and listen frequently to Native American music. Anyone who knows me knows it’s my desire to be of Native American descent.

Growing up I was always told on my mother’s side I’m Irish, and on my father’s side I’m Italian.  There didn’t seem to be anywhere where the Native American could fit in.

So, when I heard that ancestry.com was offering DNA tests to determine one’s heritage, I sent for the kit.  Here was my one chance to find Native American in my DNA. I wasn’t looking to be 55% Native American. All I wanted was to be 10% or maybe 26% Native American. That’s not asking too much of my DNA, is it?


I remember fondly the day (a sunny Sunday afternoon) when I spit saliva in the tube to capture my DNA. While spitting I imagined all the possibilities… and convinced myself that one of my grandmothers hooked up with a Native American and had a love child who turned out to be either my mother or my father.  As wild as that thought was, I held on hoping… and with that hope tucked deep inside my heart I walked to the nearest mailbox to mail my spit to the DNA lab.

After nearly eight torturous weeks of waiting, the email arrived with a link to my ancestry DNA results.

I was immediately filled with excitement and a touch of anxiety. Just a click away would reveal who I am and where I come from.  

I closed my eyes and clicked the link, and after a moment of quick prayers, I opened my eyes and this is what I saw: Not one iota of Native American in my DNA!

After the wave of dizzying disappointment ran its course, I looked closely at the results and saw that I do have more than just Irish and Italian in my DNA. I’m also Greek and Iberian Peninsula and European Jew and Middle Eastern, too. There’s also a tad Finish/Russian in me and a minute bit of British and Dutch.

I’m a mongrel pup… a little bit of this and a little bit of that… a sort of man of the people... and that suits me fine.   

As for the Native American that’s not in me, I have decided that in a previous lifetime I was indeed a Native American.  Maybe a Cree or a Navajo or a Hopi or a Pima or a Cherokee.

And to prove it, I will soon participate in a past-life regression to find out what tribe and when.

I am determined to find my Native America connection.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Kim Readies for War

Today I was talking headline World News with a few people when I read the title of a new story that had just appeared on the Internet. The headline was “Kim Readies for War.”  


One of the group, a twenty-something girl, became quite upset and immediately started searching on her phone. I was impressed she was concerned about the world and the potential threat of nuclear weapons.

And then she said, “Oh my God, who is Kim Kardashian fighting with? I’ve got to know.”


You can only imagine what I wanted to say to her… but I can’t type it here… and lucky for her, I didn’t say it…


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Thursday, April 20, 2017

A Bag of Sh*t

Sometimes your eyes see something that causes you to blink repeatedly, asking yourself if you really saw what you think you just saw.

That’s exactly what happened to me the other day.

I was looking out my window and saw a man walking his dog. When they were directly in front of my window I saw the medium-sized dog squat for a bowel movement.

I kept watching because I wanted to know if the owner had any intention of picking the dog poop up and throwing it in the nearby trash barrel. 

Luckily for other walkers, once the dog was done, the owner did indeed reach into his pocket and pull out a small blue plastic bag. He inserted his hand into the bag, bent over, and picked up the dog poop.

Yeah. This man is a good dog owner. He picks up the shit so other don’t step in it.

Then the strangest thing happened….

Instead of going to the nearby trash barrel to throw the bag of dog shit out, he folded the bag and put it in his jacket pocket. His designer-looking high-end (i.e.: expensive looking) jacket pocket!

I blinked and blinked again. Did he just put a bag of dog shit into his jacket pocket?

He sure did.

Is that the same pocket he puts his little box of Tic Tacs or his pack of chewing gum or tissues he uses to blow his nose or his keys or his wallet or… well, just imagine what you put in your pocket and if you’d want to put those items in a pocket where you store bags of shit.

What happens if the bag breaks… or leaks?  Ugh!

Pity the poor pickpocket who pickpockets his pocket. 

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Marching... Marching... Marching...

The streets were alive with protesters on April 15th demanding (President) Donald Trump release his tax returns to the American public.

I was there, in Los Angeles, and these are photos I took:


Chicken Trump. 


If I have to pay. Trump has toupee. 


Release your taxes, Chicken! 


Resist. Impeach.


Are Russian prostitutes deductible? 

Will Donald Trump release his tax returns? He should, but he's defiant (and a liar) and he won't. 

We all know he's hiding something...