NOT PRETTI GOOD, MARCHERS GET “NOT PRETTI GOOD” SIGNS

NOT PRETTI GOOD

 It would be pretty good and actually pretty damn easy to lower the tensions, the cuss word outrage emanating from Minnesota after the shooting death of Alex Pretti.

If that person in the White House simply called out the scaredy cat gutless coward Border Patrol agents who shot Pretti on a Minneapolis street last Saturday morning, that alone would help the country. In fact, if the President just immediately fired these people, it would be the greatest act of his presidency. Even more than acquiring Greenland. Just call the border agents cowards and it would help this nation. As in, “Well at least they called these guys what they are and fired them.”

I’m an old school gang reporter in Los Angeles, the gang capital of America. If Raymond Washington, the founder of the Crips, had seen what these punk ass border agents had done, he woulda called them cowards plus and beat the shit out of them.

When I saw the video, Pretti protecting the woman and then within two seconds, the five or six or seven agents against him and saw him get shot, it was maddening. But when I heard Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse at the Veteran’s Administration hospital my anger my outrage redlined.  I can’t remember when I felt like this about a single shooting. And I’ve been around my share of shootings.

If Alex Pretti worked at candy store or a gas station it would be horrible too, of course. But that VA thing seems to turbo charge the madness of all of this. The VA! He took care of our soldiers who were ill. My father and uncles were at the VA many, many times. My dad, a World War 2 Army Air Corps pilot, died at the VA in Westwood. And here is a ICU nurse from the VA getting shot by United States agents.

Bruce Springsteen – the only star I have heard speak out against this ICE stuff, telling them to “get the fuck outta Minnesota”  – came out with a song Wednesday called “Streets of Minneapolis.” Thank you, Bruce.

Shiftin gears, less than an hour after first seeing the video last Saturday afternoon, I had to get ready to meet my girlfriend at a benefit for the fire victims. I put on a shirt that didn’t work then tried on a maroon pullover that worked. I thought to myself “that looks pretty good.”

 Immediately it hit me. Pretti Good. Renee Good had been the woman shot to death by ICE agent 17 days before Pretti. And now Pretti had been killed. Pretti. Good. Not pretty good.

Not Pretti Good. I kept thinking that. And I thought, I don’t know, frustrated that I couldn’t really do anything, I figured about the only thing I could do was write this and hope maybe people would start protesting with signs that read Not Pretti Good. Not Pretti Good.

I went to our garage, found a cardboard box and spray painted it. Clearly, I’m rusty. But i envisioned hundreds, thousands of cardboard or wooded signs that read that. Billboards. A movement. Not Pretti Good. I see an aerial shot of demonstrations with a sea of Not Pretti Good.

Everyone should be against this one. Even the Border Guards should speak out themselves against this. At the Veteran’s Administration in Minneapolis, maybe someday they might name something after Alex Pretti. And no, that won’t be pretty good.

FAREWELL TO GREGORY "BATMAN" DAVIS, AN OG BEFORE THERE WERE OGs

“It was never about the destination. It was always about the journey.” - Bogard, aka George Thomas talking about Gregory “Batman” Davis

On the streets of Greater Los Angeles – and most of the United States now -  “OG” means Original Gangster. But those initials - and those words - are thrown about without the proper respect the term really  implies and deserves. There are 19-year-olds who are labeled OGs who, tough as they may, are not OGs.

There are even what is known as Triple OGs. Many of them are old friends. These are gang members who have been around 20, 30, even 40 years.

 However, truth be told, the truly Original Gangsters from Watts, South Central, Compton, Gardena and Inglewood were around long before the term OG was even invented.

 I say all this to get to Gregory “Batman” Davis. There would have to be a new term invented to properly classify him.

 No one disputes that the Crips were founded by Raymond Washington, a 16-year-old who grew up on 76th street and Wadsworth Avenue, which is a block west of Central Avenue,  around 1969. Check this 2005 LA Weekly article https://www.laweekly.com/tookies-mistaken-identity/. 

 One of the founding members with Raymond of the gang that was originally titled Baby Cribs, (too long a story to explain here, but read that above article I wrote) was Gregory Davis. Make that Gregory “Batman” Davis.

Davis passed away a month ago at age 69 and this Saturday, May 3, is his funeral. However, the cemetery he is to be buried in, Corona Sunnyslope, needs more money than the family currently has to dig the dirt and put it back, his sister told me

 “We have the plot, but it’s more money than we have to do the actually digging and putting his casket in the ground,” said Deborah Davis-Sampson.   “Anyone who can help out will be truly appreciated.”

Anything will help, she said.

Briefly on Batman, who was born in 1955 and got his name from his love of the television show “Batman” which was on ABC Channel 7 from 1966 to 1968 and starred Adam West as Batman, aka Bruce Wayne.  Gregory loved that show.

 And when Raymond formed the Crips, Gregory was an original member and, after a brief run with another nickname, became Batman. He envisioned himself like the fictional Batman, someone coming to the rescue.

Batman fought and shot for his hood. He did time for his crimes. But Gregory Batman Davis was one of those classic cases who turned his life around and became devoted to, classically, not wanting the younger ones to go through what he and Raymond and everyone in the “Crips” and “Bloods” went through.

“Batman dispised the gang culture of today and things done in the past glorifying death,” said Melvin Farmer, aka Skull, an original Westside Crip and co-founder of Gangster Crips. “He didn’t want today’s youth going through what we went through.”

 He fervently taught kids that education was the way to go.

 So much so that he was honored in 2000 by President Bill Clinton for his work in trying to keep kids out of gangs. Along with Chiquita Tolton, Gregory was honored at “Let’s Save the Babies” as Man of the Year. “With your additive involvement, you have brought hope and help to many families in need.”

 OG?  Yeah, Gregory “Batman” Davis was an OG, but way before there were OGs.  

 To help, call Yvonne Vargas at the Corona Cemetery at (951) 736-0460.

ERIC NAZARIAN'S "DIE LIKE A MAN" RESTORES MY FAITH IN GOING TO THE MOVIES

This Wednesday night I was at Chi Spacca restaurant on the Mozza Korner when a diner, going from the bathroom back to his table, bumped into me and quickly apologized with a “I’m so sorry. I am really sorry.”

My first thought was it wasn’t that much of a bump to warrant being that sorry.  A few seconds later, the wine guy Daniel Kfoury asked me “Do you know who bumped into you?” No, I told him. “That was Dev Patel. Ya know, Slumdog Millionaire.”

That immediately brought a very pleasant memory. It was in November, 2008 when Nancy and I went to the Arclight Cinemas in Hollywood and saw a movie we had never even heard of called Slumdog Millionaire. We zero idea what it was about and I can’t remember why we chose it. But to this day, the mention of Slumdog Millionaire brings us the joy of going to the movies.

A minute or so after that sweet remembrance, I felt, kinda strangely, there was a reason Dev Patel bumped into me. About six hours earlier I had walked into the Million Dollar Theater on Broadway near 3rd Street in downtown L.A., paid my twenty, and watched a movie called “Die Like a Man”.

As I watched this riveting, powerful, magnificently acted film, I was trying to determine, to enunciate to myself what was it about this movie that struck me so. I couldn’t quite understand why I was so enthralled until Dev Patel bumped into me. I suddenly realized I had not been in a movie theater and been so moved, so impressed, so concerned about the characters in Die Like a Man since i watched Slumdog Millionaire almost 17 years ago.

Yeah. Die Like a Man, henceforth known her as DLAM, was that good. And as a disclaimer, the way Jonathan Gold would rave about a Nancy restaurant then admit she was a family fiend, I’ll say I’ll say the writer and director of DLAM, Eric Nazarian, is a good friend.

I, clearly, am no movie critic. The only other movie I ever wrote about was “Midnight Cowboy” - another rave - for my Gardena High School newspaper way back when. Still, I gotta at least mention these actors in DLAM. Miguel Angel Garcia is the star, playing 17-year-old Freddy. His love Luna is played by Mariel Molino. His moms is Bernice Valle. His gang/father figure is Cory Hardrict. Cesar Garcia is Boxer. And Frankie Loyal, who plays Freddy’s mom’s boyfriend was so good the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences should create a new Academy Award called “Best Performance in Two Scenes.”

I had been in a movie going slump, but Die Like a Man brought the magic of going to the movies back for me. It’s not playing much longer at the theaters, but it is coming out I think this weekend on streaming on Apple TV+ and some others.

JESSE KATZ'S "THE RENT COLLECTORS" BECOMES FIRST BOOK EVER TO BE AWARDED A MICHELIN STAR

Recently, at the bar of famed The French Laundry in Yountville, California, three solo diners were all reading a book while relishing the three Michelin star cuisine of Thomas Keller. It is not unusual to see solo diners reading at this nearly mythical restaurant. What was striking that early Spring evening was that the three were all reading the same book, Jesse Katz’s “The Rent Collector.”

Perhaps those three diners slash readers felt the book and the restaurant had something in common. Turns out they do; Michelin stars

Monday, The Rent Collectors became the first book in the 99-year history of the Michelin Guide ever to be awarded a star Yes, you read that right. A book has been awarded a Michelin Star.

A little history is in order. The Michelin Tire company, to promote automobile travel - and hence tire useage - first began publishing a restaurant guide in France that gave out stars in 1926. By 1931 their Michelin Guide had expanded to giving out up to three stars.

With the 100th anniversary of the stars approaching. Michelin felt it was time to branch out beyond fine dining. After over three years of internal discussions - which sources say often became very heated - the Michelin board decided to promote something that goes with dining alone, reading.

Katz’s book The Rent Collectors was not the obvious choice for Michelin. It deals with the inner workings of a notorious Los Angeles street gang, the Columbia Li’l Cycos of 18th Street and everything that goes with them; killing, brutality, desperation but, ultimately, also some redemption.

As is customary for Michelin, Katz has not been notified of the honor and might even find out when he reads this story. If he is not busy reporting on another book.

HEAVEN'S MAITRE 'D ST. PETER THREATENS TO RESIGN AFTER ENCOUNTER WITH “VISITOR” MICHAEL SINGER

EDITOR’S NOTE - The first 65, 70% of this story was written one year ago when Michael Singer was down and out and the referee had counted “eight……. nine…” and was just about to reach a knockout. A year later, we are, what’s the word, grateful, I guess, that Paul Newman jumped the gun. Read on and maybe that will make some sense.

*************************

For over 1,900 years, Simon Peter, aka St. Peter, one of the 12 Apostles of Jesus Christ, has been in charge of the entrance to Heaven which is beloved as The Pearly Gates.

Since 576 AD, Peter, a Syrian national, has also been the Maitre ‘De Hotel of “The First Supper”, the finest restaurant in all of heaven, hell and Earth. Peter has sat history’s most renowned people including Alexander the Great and Frank Sinatra, who both have their own booths.

The chef de cuisine is Auguste Escoffier. The garde manger is Antoine Carame. Fernand Point is the sous and line cooks include Joel Robuchon, my grandmothers, Anthony Bourdain, Masataka Kobayashi, Charlie Trotter, Jean and Pierre Troisgros.

The bartender is Winston Churchill. who is often toasted.

Muhammad Ali is the bouncer.

And yes, St. Peter runs the front of the house.

But, this week, St. Peter was frazzled to the point that he threatened to resign after a maddening encounter with a supposedly new resident of Heaven. one Michael Singer of St. Louis, USA, Earth. Peter was so frustrated in the encounter with Singer that he sent a long text to his bosses, Jesus Christ and his father, God.

The Mozza Tribune, though sources that requested full anonymity, found part of the message Peter sent to his superiors. “I’ve had it. I can’t do this anymore. Can I just go back to the Pearly Gates and welcome folks to Heaven? This restaurant stuff is not for me. This guy Michael Singer. Ay yi yi.“

The First Supper’s security footage obtained by the Mozza Tribune reveals much of the encounter between St. Peter and the guest, this Michael Singer, an investigative news producer based in Earth. Some audio accompanies.

The footage begins with St. Peter leading Mother Teresa and a group of beggars and lepers to a table, pour them some 1921 Dom Perignon and then returning to the host stand and greeting Mr. Singer.

“Mama T drink?” asks Singer.

“Excuse me?” says St. Peter. “Oh, you mean Mother Teresa, the Saint of the Kolkata Gutters. She indulges a touch. Can I help you?”.

“Oh, no,” says Singer. “It’s Calcutta not this Kolkata shit. Same for this Mumbai crap. It’s Bombay. Bombay and Calcutta.”

“Sir, can I be of some assistance regarding you being her at The First Supper?”

“Yeah, Pete, I gotta a res for two. Me and my boy Howard Weiztman.”

“Hmmmmm..” says Peter as he looks through the reservation book. “Don’t see it.”

“I made it while back.”

Saint Peter looks and looks. Going back some time. Until.., “Oh, here it is. But you are late. Quite late. You were suppose to be here 10 years ago. We hold the table for 8,760 hours, that’s the equivilent of one of your Earth years. But then we have to cancel.”

Singer pounds the reservation/ host stand. “That’s some bullshit!”

“Watch your language. You are in Heaven, may I remind you.”

“Oh, you can only cuss in Hell? Gimme a Goddamn break.”

“Mister Singer.”

“Don’t Mister Singer me. Look , Pete, maybe i did have a reservation 10 years ago. Maybe I was supposed to kick off in 2014 or whatever. But I couldn’t leave my wife. I could not leave my Ruthie. I love her. She loves me. We are a team. You feel me? And I sure couldn’t skadaddle on my son Nick. I tell you about him? The filmmaker. Moving to Harlem. Believe that shit. Ruth and my boy moving to Harlem.”

Just then a beautiful saxaphone solo begins at the restaurant. Singer’s ears perk.

“Wait. Is that John Coltrane?”

“Mister Coltrane plays here every Sunday.”

‘Well, I’ll be.”

At this point Rembrandt arrives with Caravaggio and Leonardo da Vinci. St. Peter excuses himself and seats them. He returns to the stand and Singer,

“Oh,” says Singer. “I see how it works. I’ll go get my goddamn paint brush and maybe I’ll get a table. Jeez. The three of them are drawers. They draw! I exposed injustice. Let me repeat that. They drew. Glorified crayon guys. I woke the world’s eyes to oppression. Who wins? A guy who paints a chubster lady who barely smiles. Another motherfucker who paints a bunch of guards on the night shift? Some stabber boy who knows the difference between light and dark? Or the journalist who exposes the rich betraying the downtrodden?”

“Sir,” says a quickly getting upset St. Peter, “Those three gentleman who walked in are arguably the greatest painters of the history of your very own planet. Leonardo da Vinci,…

“The Last Supper and Mona Lisa,” grunts Singer as his fingers drum the host stand.

“Rembrandt,” says St. Peter

“The Night Watch guy,” mumbles Singer, his eyes rolling,

“And Caravaggio.”

“Yeah, Caravaggio,” says Singer. “Remind me what did he paint?”

St. Peter shakes his head and says “The Calling of Saint Matthew.”

“I’m about to be calling St. Matthew if I don’t get a goddamn table pretty devil damn soon.”

“Here, I will say it slower,” says Saint Peter. “You. Do. NOT. Have. A. Reservation.” Hey look, Mike,,,,”

“Don’t Mike me,” Singer snarls back.

“Ever see Heaven Can Wait. Or here comes Mister Jordan?,” asks St. Peter. “Maybe someone fucked up and brought you here too early.”

“Jesus,” Singer says.

“I’ll call him.”

“I’m too early? A minute ago I was too late. You people need to get your act together.”

“Hold on, Mike. Sorry, I mean Michael.”

At that, St. Peter confers with several angels, and several other rather important people who asked the Tribune for anonymity.

Here’s what happened, according to those sources. Michael Singer was in a bad way a year ago. Real bad. His wife Ruth’s heart was near ruins. An angel, yeah, trying hard to get his wings, made arrangements to have Singer moved from Earth to Heaven. However. the angel, one Paul Newman, in his memo to get the deed done, spelled the word “arrangements” as “arraignments”, as in a court situation. Some think Newman, an actor on Earth who once wonderfully played Frank Galvin, a drunkard attorney on a redemption mission in “The Verdict”, had a flashback to that movie And while Singer was transferred to Heaven, but with faulty paperwork. (A little known fact about heaven is the place is way anal about paperwork.)

A decision was made to have Singer sent back to Earth.

At that point, St. Peter motions over to his bouncer and Muhammad Ali comes over to the host stand.

“Your the Greatest, Muhammad,” said St. Pete. “So I need you to do this one right. Punch this Singer guy so hard he goes back to Earth and lives with this Ruth woman he keeps talking about. I do not want him up here. Maybe one of these days, but not now.”

Ali walks over to Michael Singer and says “I hear you’re like me, a troublemaker.

“Well, I’m not good a taking shit,” Singer says..

“Here’s a poem I wrote about Sonny Liston. I might apply it to you. This is back when they called me Cassius Clay.”

Singer mumbles, “Yeah before you went Shiite.”

“What you say?”

“Nothing Champ.”

Ali takes the stage from Coltrane and unleashes his poem.

Now Clay swings with a right,
What a beautiful swing,
And the punch raises the bear,
Clear out of the ring.

Liston is still rising
And the ref wears a frown,
For he can't start counting,
Till Sonny comes down.

Now Liston disappears from view.
The crowd is getting frantic,
But our radar stations have picked him up.
He's somewhere over the Atlantic.

Who would have thought
When they came to the fight
That they'd witness the launching
of a human satellite!

Yes, the crowd did not dream
When they laid down their money
That they would see
A total eclipse of the Sonny!
I am the greatest!

With that Muhammada Ali punches Michael Singer and he goes sailing out the restaurant out the heavens and all the way back to Earth and lands. with a thud. on the kitchen floor of the home he lives with with Ruth Reichl.

Ruth is startled no little and rushes into the kitchen. She is flabbergasted, stunned. and thrilled beyond to see her husband back on Earth.

“I feel again. But this one was a special fall.

Ruth helps him get up, kisses and hugs him and says “Come back to bed and tell me about it. I gotta a feeling it’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Doozy doesn’t begin to describe this one,” says Singer who takes Ruth’s hand and the two walk to off to the bedroom

.

99 MINUTES, NANCY SILVERTON SHATTERS WORLD RECORD FOR GOING FROM SURGERY TO SHOPPING

An American woman utterly demolished the long-standing world record for going from a hospital bed for surgery to a clothing store for shopping when she left Cedars Sinai Medical Center in West Hollywood on Friday at 10:00 am and was at Noodle Stories on 3rd Street trying on their new line from Italian clothing designer Daniela Gregis at 11:39 am..,

Just in 99 minutes from surgery to shopping.

The mythical 100 minute mark had been broken.

Nancy Silverton, a revered chef from Los Angeles, had been “put under” at 8:00 am for a operation to remove a minuscule lump on her breast. After extremely upbeat news from her renowned surgeon Dr. Giuliano, she quickly returned to her normal self.

As Michael Krikorian picked up her up to take her home, Silverton ordered him to Noodle Stories.

“You just had surgery and now you are going shopping?” said an incredulous Krikorian.

“Yes. What do you think i should do?,” Nancy said. “Go to sleep. You don’t sleep after good news. You celebrate. and Caryl just told me Daniela Griges is in town.”

“I thought we were gonna watch a movie?”

“We will but later,” said Nancy. “First to Noodle Stories. Your “Casablanca” and your “On the Waterfront” can wait.

THE FICTIONAL TRIBUNE IS OPEN TO THE PUBLIC

The original newspaper The Fictional Tribune, based on the the mythical “Mozza Tribune”, is going public,

Find it here at https://www.thefictionaltribune.com and check it out. To let you know a front page article about someone you care about is $75. and the name of each paper can change to where your loved one lives. It could the Hollywood Tribune or the Encino Times or the Bakersfield Examiner.

The Tribune will feature a "front page article" about someone you care about, complete with a banner headline and photographs.  This article will be written by me, Michael Krikorian, an award winning journalist, formerly of the Los Angeles Times, Fresno Bee and freelancer for L.A. Weekly, the Armenian news CivilNet and some others. 

As you have figured out by my "fictional journalism", which has been trademarked, the story will be made up, but with your essential help.  I will interview you and whoever else you might suggest and incorporate this into the story.  Among my questions would be “What are a few of our subject's favorite things in life?   By "things" I may mean hobbies, activities, songs, singers movies, actors, historical eras and people. Anything they love.  Then I will write the FJ, fictional journalism about them.  

As an example, recently. my girlfriend's 5-year-old grandson Ike won a trophy at a soccer camp.  I wrote about that with FJ added to include he beat out soccer great Lionel Messi, who was "quoted" in the article.  I like to think that 20, 30 years from now when Ike stumbles on the Tribune article in a desk drawer, he will have a fond memory.

That is part of what I am offering you; A fond memory years from now and a good smile and warmth in your heart the day the Tribune on your loved one comes out.

But more than that, the Trib is for someone who might be down and out, might even be quite sick.  I am here with my Fictional Journalism to lift them up. Maybe the story I am proudest of was one about Paul Schrade, a friend of Nancy and mine and the former head of the United Auto Workers. Paul was shot in the head in 1968 along with Robert F. Kennedy at the Ambassador Hotel. Paul lived 54 years before he showed up for his “Reservation” for dinner with Bobby at heaven’s greatest restaurant. Read it below and hopefully you’ll understand what FJ is about.

And as you can see below, the Tribune is not always fictional. The frightening tale of a car crashing into chef Walter Manske was for reals.

A full front-page article with photos is $75. However, a story can go on for pages, if so desired.

HISTORY - The beginning of Fictional Journalism, at least when I first got paid for it, goes back to 1974 when Cycle News published a piece I wrote about motocross. What made me most proud, well, after seeing my byline, was that Cycle News never published fiction. Yet here was my story about the Motocross Mafia conspiring against Belgian champion Joel Robert. That was 50 years ago. Crazy.

Since then I have dabbled at FJ, including a series of stories about Nancy and our friends entitled “Our Dysfunctional Family” which provided an often needed laugh to our, well, our dysfunctional families.

PRESENT - What really kicked my fictional journalism into high gear was writing The Mozza Tribune, an in-house newspaper for Nancy Silverton’s restaurants Pizzeria Mozza, Osteria Mozza, Chi Spacca and Mozza2Go. I would and still do, write about the staff and what’s going on. It’s a lotta fun for me and the staff loves it.

I think you’ll get a kick out of it as well.

A KILLING ON BEVERLY BLVD. & A REVIEW OF THE GOLDEN GLOBES, ANOTHER ONLY IN L.A. STORY

A little more than a week ago, on  the day after the Golden Globe Awards, I was having coffee at Go Get Em Tiger on Larchmont Boulevard when I heard a story that made the word “surreal” come alive for me and exemplified the worst and best of L.A. 

I was  at a four-top surrounded by  10 other people on the sidewalk patio, most of us semi-regulars who frequent the coffeeshop  for our morning world news report.

Off to my left, some folks were reviewing the awards show.  “The Bear” did well. Jo Koy soldiered on despite several duds.  DeNiro, Meryl were there. That Ali Wong, from “Beef” showed up It was a mediocre review.  

As they compared notes,  the guy to my right,  David Strah, said, ‘Man, I had an experience last night I gotta tell you about.”

Strah, a psychotherapist and author of “Gay Dads”, was returning home Sunday night around 6:30 p.m. with his partner Brad and a friend from “a wonderful, uplifting, fantastical experience” at Luna Luna, on exhibit on 6th Street. It’s an amusement park/art installation by David Hockney, Jean-Michel Basquiat and others, including the artist I think of whenever I hear the word “surrealism”, Salvador Dali. First assembled in the 1980s, then mothballed, it has been brought back into existence in L.A. by Drake, the Canadian rapper. 

As Strah and his companions  drove home west-bound on Beverly Boulevard  near Hoover Street, the car in front of them swerved to go around something in the road. Strah’s group realized it was a man in the street. Their first thought was that a drunk had passed out. They  pulled over and called 911. 

“Is he moving?” the operator asked. No, they said, but it was dark. “Can you get out of the car and see what’s going on?” They did and reported back. He was  barely conscious, in a bad way.   “Can you start doing chest compressions?”

Strah went into action. “I straddled him and started pumping away. It was pretty gruesome. His mouth was moving and his eyes were open but not looking at me.”

Then they saw how much blood there was.  On the sidewalk 10 feet away. On the man’s shoulder and all the way down to his waist, and now all over  Strah’s hands. Dark, nearly black blood.

The coffee drinkers across from Strah and me were still talking about the TV show.  Taylor Swift apparently was not very pleased with a dig Koy delivered  about her. Only in L.A. does a man found bleeding in the street compete with an awards show review for attention around a coffee shop table. 

After about six minutes, Strah continued,  paramedics and LAPD showed up and took over. Strah and friends left. One , circled back after he dropped of the other two. He learned that the man had died. This was not text news, so he drove back to tell his friends. 

Damn,” I said to Dave. “After Luna Luna, and Salvador Dali,  you come across surreal for real. Turbocharged surreal.” 

The next day, I went to the northeast corner of Beverly and Hoover and tried to find out something more about the man who died. To humanize him. 

Calls to the homicide detective from Central Bureau who is handling the case  and the L.A. County Coroner’s press office confirmed the incident, but not much more. Same with LAPD press relations. The victim was white, about 45- 50 and had been shot multiple times. 

Where he died, there is an abandoned minimall scrawled with graffiti. I found a homeless man in a tent who said he  knew the victim. “Yeah, he was homeless, and he was always nice to me. But I know he was aggressive with a lot of people down the block. It’s sad.”

All homicides tell a sad story. But for me, this story was more about David, Brad and Kirby, the guys who stopped. Out of dozens of cars that sped by the corner, some surely close enough to see the altercation or the result, these three tried to help a stranger. 

They inspired me.  Not that what I did next  remotely compares. 

On my way to an ATM at the corner of 1st Street and Larchmont on Friday, I saw  a car with its hood up and a guy looking at the engine.  After I did my banking  the man  was still there. I  asked what was wrong. 

The engine had overheated  and he couldn’t open the radiator cap to put in some coolant.   I am something  of an expert on overheated cars. I  got the radiator cap off, the coolant got administered.  The man asked my name as I was walking away and said, “Thank you, Mister Mike.”

I thought, “No, thank David Strah and his friends.  

Yesterday, Tuesday, I heard agaon from the coroner’s office. They still hadn’t found any of the victim’s family.

Anyway, did you happen to see the Emmys on Monday?      

WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION DOWNGRADES BRAIN CANCER TO ‘A MINOR ANNOYANCE’ AFTER SUSAN BRINK KICKS ITS FUCKIN’ ASS

Up until about two weeks ago, the mere mention of “brain cancer” was enough to send a bone chill through anyone’s body. Around the world, brain cancer was thought to be the bad ass of diseases, a condition so numbing that the most complex of all things - the actual human brain - could not deal with it.

Not anymore.

A Los Angeles woman, Susan Brink O’Flaherty, known as “Sista Suzie” has so convincingly kicked the motherfuckin’ shit out of some brain cancer that foolishly stumbled her way that the very mystique of the illness has been shattered.

“Brain who?” smirked Sista Suzie as she relaxed after getting some treatment to completely squash the cowardly cancer. “I’ll admit when I first heard I had some melanoma and some brain issues, I freaked. Who wouldn’t back then?”

(For the record by “back then”, Brink O’Flaherty is referring to around Sept 23, 2023, more than 400 hours ago.)

But since, with the brilliant doctoring of Dr. Ray Chu of Cedars Sinai and Dr. Omid Hamid at the Angelis Clinic and Research Center, Susan Brink has paved the way for others from the myriad of streets throughout the world - from Success Avenue in Watts, America to Jonathan Gold Avenue in Tel Aviv, Israel to Rhino Row, in Bangui, Central African Republic, to Mother Teresa Blvd in old Calcutta, India to Shisk Kebab Lane in Yerevan, Armenia, to Baba Ghanouj Street in Beirut, Lebanon to Chicken Kiev Square in Bakhmut, Ukraine to Sophia Loren Piazza in Naples, Italy and Ayrton Senna Freeway in Rio de Janiero Brazil, to Seven Samurai Avenue in Gardena, Japan that it’s not a death sentence anymore to get some brain cancer..

It’s just a pain in the ass. An annoyance. Now pass the 1947 Chateau Cheval Blanc and tell me about your life.