Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Boy Writes Los Angeles: The Beverly

Every time I go to LA I witness a fight at a club. Last time it was at Supperclub, this time it was at The Beverly in West Hollywood.

Upon arriving to LA, my cousin was a very gracious host. At his home in Long Beach, he would serve us drinks and enchant us with music. “This song is called ‘Fat Pussy’,” he said. The song was about large vaginas. You get exactly what’s stated with him. He had never been to the Beverly but apparently heard some good things about it and decided to take us (my sister, girlfriend, her friend, and me) there. For the record, last year he took my little sister to Mai Tai in Long Beach where like six people got shot that night, then he took me to Supperclub where someone smashed a bottle over someone at our table’s head. So, you know, my guard was up.

“This song is called ‘Fat Pussy’,” he said.

We just had dinner at the Sherbourne right next door (which was legitimate) and made our way to our table, but not before I was patted down like a common hooligan. How dare that motherfucker pat me down? Do I look like a criminal? What, am I some kind of loser who takes a flask or some shit into a club? Well, I am, but he didn’t find my flask so he’s a terrible security guard.

Once inside, two things: one, this place is tinier than Mynt; and two, there are only like 12 people here and it’s almost midnight. “Almost midnight” means dick in Miami, but in Los Angeles where alcohol must stop flowing at two, this is a night killer. Why the fuck does LA go dry at two AM anyway? I feel like it’s some shit like in Game of Thrones where that daughter-fucker guy gives his newborn sons to the Whitewalkers so they’ll leave him alone. LA gives all their alcohol post-two AM to the underground civilization of crab people in exchange for them not causing massive earthquakes in the area. The next time a big one hits, it was probably some club refusing to pay tribute.

Is that a fact?

In 1994, some club forgot to pay tribute.

But whatever, we’re having a good time in there, and it’s gangsta as shit, which I definitely didn’t expect. By “gangsta as shit” I don’t mean “there are a lot of black people”, which there were, what I mean is “there was a huge group of guys in one side smoking weed and rapping with a microphone over the soundtrack.” Then I start seeing more and more bottle rats congregating. And, wait a minute, they keep playing the same song while the guys rapping are being recorded with an impressive-looking video camera. I was beginning to wonder if we had stumbled into a rap video recording session when that song about multitasking came on, you know the one that’s like “on the phone, cookin’ dope, at the same damn time, selling white, selling mid, at the same damn time” and I lost my train of thought.

Then I start seeing more and more bottle rats congregating.

This goes on until crab people tribute time, and that’s when someone taps me on the shoulder and tells me to look. A fight broke out and there’s weave-pulling going on and everything. It’s vicious as hell; a girl got slammed onto the floor by another girl via a weave-pull, then another girl started kicking her with heels while she was on the floor, and another then started pulling the weave of the girl who was kicking. The fight started moving more and more toward us but luckily security came and broke it up. Some guy who was walking out of the club then leaned into me and goes, “I’m tired of niggas, man.”

A few moments later, some bottle rats are posing for a photo, contorting their bodies in weird positions for it, and the guy who is supposed to take the picture comes up to me and goes “Look at them posing. They think I’m gonna take the picture. I’mma wait a few minutes while they hold that pose.” That was funny. Then my little sister, for some unknown reason, decides she wants to get in on that photo and starts heading toward them. They all make stank faces and one of them goes, “I ain’t takin’ a picture with this ho.” Eventually she did it anyway, because hood rats and cameras go together like Gucci and Prada at the same damn time.

I probably wouldn’t go back there, but I had fun.


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