Ozzy & The Unnatural Hillbilly

Finally, I found the balls to sit down and write. I haven't done anything too bizarre and what energy I've mustered lately was used to work on The Mouse War. I've been working hard peddling pesto and haven't had time for much else. I have, however, been traveling all around this city, from Venice to Beverly Hills to Pasadena to Burbank and experienced some of the funky, unexpected shit this city has to offer.

Fake New York taxis at Warner Bros Studio

One day I literally saw a hobo whip his dirty pink dick out and start pissing into the road and the next I met a guitarist from Nirvana (Pat Smear). Thursday, I was at Fox Studios setting up a market and realized I was parked in a reserved spot for Jake Johnson from the T.V. show New Girl. I'd never heard of him, but he's apparently some famous person, which makes stealing his spot almost worth mentioning.

The kitchen, where I pack and clean the supplies for markets, is in the alley between Beverly and Rodeo Drive, so when I'm not at a market, I'm working in Beverly Hills. The alley is also where the the valet parking is for all the high end shoppers; so when I'm working I regularly spot Rolls Royce, Bugatti's, Maserati's and just about every other absurd, exotic car you could ever think of. And of course I get to see the filthily rich folks who drive them.


 In this part of town, the Snoot's all walk around with an easily identifiable and thoroughly infuriating Moneybag sneer. Seeing the worst of them strut around with a bloated sense of overwhelming self importance is rather fucking hilarious and sad. Due to an instinctual fondness for spite, the most horrid of the Snoots have forced my personality to revert it's inordinately Hillbilly state. Amidst all the elegance of Beverly Hills, I find deranged and peculiar joy in walking down Rodeo Drive, sweaty, unshaven, in a dirty plaid shirt and jeans and blasting great folk music, like this, in my headphones. I apparently get such delight from being an outsider that I've even subconsciously acquired a thick, inexplicable Southern accent. I have never accidentally said the word "y'all" so much in my entire life. And now when I tell people I'm from Virginia, it now comes dripping out of my mouth like fucking molasses,

Beverly Hills, early as fuck in the morning.

"I just moved he-uh from Vuhhjiinya."

And when I try to fight the involuntary Southern vernacular, it gets worse. Then I become more frustrated and ultimately snowball down a steep slope of lunacy.

"Virjee...Fuck!!"

"VAHJEEN...FUUCK,"

"VUHHJEEENYUUHHHH!!!"

Followed by an ear splitting rebel yell,
"WOOOO WOOOOOP," which I cannot help but to emit with an instinctual ferocity. 

Needless to say, as I walk down Rodeo Drive loudly soliloquizing this vernacular struggle against my Hillbilly subconscious, the Snoots and Tourists are equally horrified. I, on the other hand, bask in the depraved hilarity and have embraced my apparently demented backwoods roots with open arms.

This past weekend, in Pasadena, I was try to sell an old woman a jar sun-dried tomatoes imported from Italy. She asked me why she would want tomatoes from Italy since they technically originated in the Americas'.

Pasadena Farmers Market

"Ehh, because they taste better?" I guessed.

"You can't find tomatoes anywhere in THIS country that taste that good?! That's absolutely ridiculous!"

 I tried to tell her that it wasn't my job to pick the tomatoes, but before I could say finish she started screaming,

"YOU ARE A DENIER OF GLOBAL WARMING, YOUR GENERATION IS MURDERING OUR PLANET, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US?!?"

As a liberal, I interpreted this accusation as proof that my white trash transformation must nearly be complete. Then, there was the incident with the fat, gay British man at a Hollywood farmers market, who informed me that I had a Southern accent he "could listen to all day long," which disturbingly confirmed my suspicions.

There has, however, been some other forms entertainment. Earlier this week I was in Beverly Hills working and was looking for a Hispanic guy named Martin (mar-teen), to ask him something. I was walking down the alley and came up behind a running Jaguar, blasting music, and saw Martin coming up the alley toward me. He was carrying bags for an impressive looking man with long, dark hair. I stood by the car as the man walked up, glanced at me, opened the passenger door and got in. He looked familiar, but I was more or less zoned out and although he seemed important, I honestly wasn't paying too close attention. Martin handed him the bags and the Jaguar sped off.

This Crow appeared on the street I live on the day after I saw Ozzy...

“Who was that ?” I asked Martin
.
“Uzzy” he responded, in a thick Spanish accent.

"Who?"

"Uzzyy!"

It took a second to process, then it hit me, 'Good God...' I realized, I just came face to face with the Prince of fucking Darkness, Ozzy Osbourne.

I am now going to chug 5 or 6 Redbulls and work on finishing Part IV of The Mouse War. Those of you who already know what happens know that shit is about to get real...