Another fuzzy Thursday in Burbank. Mood: wistful. Melancholy. Meltdown at Communist Farm. Just one of those days where even oxygen seems to provoke you, slash your tires, rip hope from you. Well, enough about that.

DeAnn's post yesterday brought back a lot of memories of the MTA, going through West Hollywood into downtown L.A., and the riffraff that scraped together enough change for a ticket to ride. I'll share now some of those moments with you:

Let's start with the top two:

1. Drunk Hispanic man gets on somewhere around La Cienega and Santa Monica after a trip to Monaco Liquors, where Jim Morrison once had a tab. This guy, however, was no Lizard King--I'd rate him somewhere below Whipped Gekko. He was carrying that familiar-shaped paper bag and aimed for the back, where he could retire from a grueling day with a six-pack and his thoughts. Around North Hollywood he got to feeling pretty good, singing to himself, chatting up pretty girls, jokingly passing empties to the infirm.

At some point a black drag queen came aboard. Common sight, actually. This one was dressed to force an envious whistle from Flip Wilson. He was slathered in neon orange, with citrus lipstick and a fiery red wig. He joined us in the back, finding a seat next to the wasted, gingerly nodding hellos before staring off into safe space, like the rest of us.

Well, the bright colors immediately attracted the drunk, who cut short a chorus of the Eagles' "Desperado" (actually, I made that up; I think all drunks sing Eagles songs) to train all his conversational might on this new visitor. He opened with "Zaddanu dress?" The drag queen said no. The dialogue then progressed to hair and makeup, then on to something the two of them had in common: they were both recovering alcoholics who regularly attended AA meetings. In fact, the drunk was on his way to a meeting in Silverlake, but he was scared. So he got loaded. "I dunno," he said. "I need someone in my corner to help me through this." The drag queen accepted a proffered beer and nobly said, "I'll be there for you." And the two of them got off in Silverlake, but not before the drag queen accidentally spilled part of his beer on another passenger. "Oops," he said. "Sorry."

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

2. One night going home I was reading a copy of Nick Tosches' The Devil And Sonny Liston. The guy sitting next to me, in nasal Bronx tough guy: "Good book." I turned to him and replied, "Yeah." He goes, "I love Tosches. He's great. I knew him back in New Yawk." "Oh," I said, scooching a little further away. "That's cool."

"Meltzah, too," said the guy. "Lestah. All them guys. They dug our band. We all used to hang out."

"Wait a minute. You knew Richard Meltzer and Lester Bangs?"

"Oh, yeah."

"What was the name of your band?"

"The Dictators."

"The Dictators? You mean THE Dictators? Handsome Dick and all that shit? No fuckin' way!"

"Serious, man. I'm Scott."

Scott Kempner. Jesus Christ. I was on the bus with a certi-goddamn-fiable punk legend on his way home from work--which happened to be the Rhino store ("on Wethwood Boulevard," though further down from its original location, in a much larger building), where he pulled shifts for kicks because he loved being around music. I saw him there the following week, and he pointed me right to the bookshelf where sat the new Nick Tosches. Great guy.

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

Honorable mention:

--The loopy, lanky Spanish kid shakin' his ass in the aisles and singing, "East Side gaaaaang, baby, I did your mom in the pooter and you ate it toooooo." Or something like that. It wasn't very catchy. He needed to concentrate on a better chorus and an irresistable hook.

--The homeless man (or one of those professional con homeless men you see around L.A.) furtively counting assorted bills in a seat all by himself. I saw at least $400 in twenties, tens, and fives.

--The other homeless man who'd limp on board, stand in the center, weathered McDonald's cup outstretched in an arthritic hand, and unroll (in Spanish) a long, woeful story about his dying wife and family, collect money, then get off. I've seen him a few times over the last couple years, and his ritual is always the same.

--Having to scoop some insane motherfucker from another bus because that driver was tired of lugging the passenger around. So instead WE were treated to five blocks of this dude ducking below the windows, going, "Drive faster! They can see me! They can see you! Goddammit, if you don't speed up, they're gonna kill us all!" Fun times.

--Some drunk white guy challenging a black driver to a fistfight. Might I add that the driver was much bigger and more than eager to oblige: "You roll with me downtown, then we'll see what's up."

--And last but certainly not least, the occasional drug deal.

I love L.A.

But I'm feeling better now: Brian Wilson's coming in November!