Shade at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market


Turn your head and cough...

Turn your head and cough…


The seedy underbelly of the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market that goes unnoticed

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Make a Fucking List and Check it Fucking Twice, Part 2

Now you see it.  Now you don't.

Now you see it. Now you don’t.



Dear Sleepless in Barcelona,



So after getting the wine, I tell Adam I’m tired, I’m not at all, and bee line for the ATM I saw on the walk over. It’s do or die at this point. I can feel sweat start to bead up behind my knees. When sweat rolls down your calf, things are not going well for you. If I wasn’t so constipated I’d be scared shitless. I come to the conclusion either 100% of the credit card readers in Spain are faulty and broken, or in the time it took me to get from the airport to my apartment, Union Bank had shut off my card.


Swipe. Type. Declined.


Good job, Union Bank. Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing. They’re like a tiny miniature Buddha.


I slam the door to my loft and now feel a steady stream of perspiration running down my back like one of those baby-angel fountains is taking a piss down my spine. I scramble to figure things out. Before I was thinking, ‘What the fuck do I do?’ like in a macro sense. Now I’m thinking ‘What the fuck do I do?’ in the micro sense. My phone is useless. My credit card is shut off. I can’t call my bank because I have no phone. I can’t really do much online to figure this shit out because my laptop is dying and the genius I am left my charger in Los Angeles. (Probably still plugged in) And the cash I have, melting away faster than the ice sculpture Kanye West had at his wedding. (Probably of himself no less.)


Half a glass of wine matures into a half a bottle, and I slip on the banana peel known as exhaustion and into sleep for a decade. My headphones and the random playlist of songs on my iTunes dictate the extremely weird dreams I have. I’m in my grandma’s living room, who’s been dead for years, with my ex? What the fuck!? I don’t even want to begin to analyze that bullshit. (Some stones are better left unturned) From my decades long slumber, ‘Rip Van Winkle’ gently awakes with astonishment, disbelief, and questions sliding off my tongue. ‘Where am I?’ is the first question as I slowly open my eyes as the romantic musings of Wiz Khalifa play on my headphones. ‘What time is it?’ 3:15. Three-fifteen in the morning!? ‘What the fuck is jabbing me in the back?’ My knife kit and all my camera equipment. Aside from my words, these are the two things I think will make me a success. And at this present moment all three of these motherfuckers are keeping me from sleeping.


Now I’m wide awake.


Have I mentioned, fuck my life?


Anyway, I’m going to try and sleep.  Write back soon.




Rick Scott

Making Life More Palatable





Why do they do this? 


Why did Rachel Tepper write a good article, about a great place, making something signature to their establishment, detail the people behind the movement, and then at the end of the article give you a recipe on how to make it yourself?  I know the recipe is added so the people not living in or around the Los Angeles area can make their own.  But for the few million living near LA, you’re basically telling everyone the exact way to do it themselves and taking business away from the place you just highlighted.  I just think maybe she should link to the recipe and put more into the article itself.


All I can say is, I will guarantee whatever comes out of your kitchen won’t compare to the churro ice cream sandwiches served to you at Churro Borough, but if this article get’s you cooking, then job well done Rachel Tepper.