I watched a scene tonight on the street which goddamned pissed me off. Closing time at this bar. Shitty-British themed pub in Santa Monica. Yes bad. But anyway. I was outside, having a puff on a Bali-Shag, and I see this kid come out the bar, stretch his arms up high. There's something about him which separates the boy, from the scene around him. A soccer shirt. An adidas jacket. Skinny. Big eyes. Intelligent, angry face.
He's Irish. Of course. So that registered, and then more life happened. A couple more hours went by. I found myself back outside. Puffing again. Thinking. Our whole gang was leaving the stupid theme bar. Amidst themed conversations. Coming from the people around us. Stupid hugs and yelling. Jock, sports bar shit. I'm just taking it in. I can do that. Cause I'm old-schooling. I have my good gentleman clothes on. I'm like your grandfather. I can just float through everything like that.

So everyone is spilling out onto the sidewalk of Wilshire blvd. The Irish dude is with his crew. One or two more young guys. I noticed them too. I see that shit. Single guys. Soccer gear. Hmm. I just watch. One of his friends is chunky monkey. Diesel built up strong with mno neck like a rugby player. I know it's crazy, but I see this shit. I watch guys like that. Cause you never know. Going out can be hazardous to your health.

The skinny, long curly-haired Irish kid is exchanging mindless banter with a group of L.A. looking metro sexual guys. One of the well-dressed group is a Latino, with a nice shirt and Armani glasses. And the blond kid walks a ways down the sidewalk and throws a bag back at Latino guy. A plastic bag, which has it turns out, a pie in it. He hits the Armani guy right in the head. Like a slap. And the dude went right at the kid. I saw it all too. I felt like his cornerman. Are we gonna do this thing dude. I related to this guy. He was being dragged down, but he'd been whacked in the head, apparently for nothing. I love this shit when it happens in the street. As long as it's not happening to me. But to see honor questioned in front of a bar in Santa Monica, well who's not going to stop and watch? I was bored.

The Latin guy went right up and got in front of the kid's face. They were close. I was surprised they held that long without a shove or something, lighting up all hell and who knows what else. The Irish kid was such a yob. He had pulled out a dollar bill and licked it, pasting it to his forehead. I'll throw whatever the fuck I like and what have you. He was so balls-out and young. Seriously violent version of manhood. I was just like - please level this guy. For everyone. But the Armani glasses had strayed far from his friends. I was watching him. I stayed nearish. But he was basically alone. And the other Irish kid had got in it too. He looked really tough. Not tall, but stout. He was wearing shorts and a baseball cap backwards. The kind of guy who'd break your thumb backwards. As quick as he'd give you a thumbs up. There were words, but not more. I felt so hot watching it. It's dumb to engage with street stuff. But I don't give a fuck. I wished he'd shot that kid through his eye. Mean eh? You get mean.

They were talking too. Minutes before. Stupid intimacies in a bar at closing time. See ya in hell mate! In a pub at closing time. I was wathcing them like digital cable. The stealth. I hate all these wild bushmen.

Some time, someone's got to speak up for this place. The people I know from L.A. and California in general are very mellow. But a lot of people come out here to run wild. I've heard guys say. Some father or uncle back in Boston, Florida... Said to them, if you're going to get in any shit, go do it out in California. Cali cali caliente. Killafornia. They're all a bunch of freaks and nuts anyway.

Back home some day, those guys will brag how they punked some phony L.A. guy, and how he didn't even throw a punch. The guy should have. From what I saw. It would cost him his nice shirt. And his Armani glasses. And his self-esteem in the short term. Cause he would have rolled against the chunky monkey. Maybe even got hurt on a little bit. Fought and possibly lost. That's why. But he should have just nailed the skinny kid right off the bat. He was the one who threw the bag at him in the first place. I mean. If you're going to stride up the sidewalk like a matador, you may as well finish the job. Words mean shit. In that instance. Armani had the time, before the other hooligan made his way back. He could have hit the kid hard and walked away. It doesn't have to be clockwork orange. It's just a question of knocking the individual to the pavement. Or else don't react at all when some kid throws a bag of pie across the bar and it hit you in the chops. But to take that shitty affront to your countenance, and then end up in a standoff, scared and trying to rationalize with the guy?

Just work on one single devastating move. You walk up all nice like. O hey man, I didn't mean any disrespe... POW. BAM. WHACK. Danny Boy, the pipes are calling...

What else would a gentleman do?