July 11th, 2003


The Friends You Live With.

This photo has nothing to do with entry below. I'm just perpetually amused by the Japanese.


Last Friday, I think, just before Rog and Squiggy engaged in a mind-blowing break dancing battle, a female friend wondered aloud if she’d ever find a husband.

A lot of women think these kinds of thoughts, of course, because of a global feminine beauty products conspiracy that involves filling perfume bottles, lotion containers and lipstick tubes with microscopic nanobots that enter the brain via the bloodstream and reprogram emotions and cognitive functions, causing females to have the kind of vulnerable thoughts and feelings that compel them to buy even more feminine beauty products.

Or maybe it’s just because, as Chris Rock once put it, bitches be crazy.

All kidding aside, her concern was actually somewhat valid. Finding the one person to spend the rest of your life with, who won’t eventually drive you to heavily medicate yourself isn’t an easy task. What’s the divorce rate up to now, around 60%?

“But c’mon,” I said. “What’s the rush? Marriage is an overrated institution invented by the Catholic Church to prevent the spread of syphilis anyway. We can all live together in a big building, like a dorm or Melrose Place, and party ‘til we’re old and dead.”

She scanned the immediate area for an empty bottle to smash and jam into my eye socket; but there was only a bowl of empty edamame shells, so she simply looked at me with a sad smile. What she didn’t realize was that I wasn’t joking: such a building exists. I know, because I almost lived there.

A long time ago, Geney Boy and I were looking for a place to rent, and for some reason we used a real estate agent. Why? Because we were dumb.

Anyway the agent called and excitedly told us about a two bed/two bath apartment for rent next to Fox Studios in Century City. So we checked out the pad; and it was huge, had this nifty Rat Pack-type wet bar … and it was cheap.

We asked the agent what the story was and lo and behold, she had a story.

This complex contained a total of eight units, all of which were occupied by a group of tight-knit, lifelong Jewish friends. They’d all survived Dachau together, came to this country together, and even built this building together.

The place had a garden, a pool, a giant deck with a brick barbeque grill, and even a rec room with a pool table and movie viewing room.

Over several decades this group of friends raised their families in that building. And then one of them died in that building. That was his apartment we were looking at. His wife was also deceased and his kids didn’t want to live there, so they were renting it out.

As much as we liked the place, the thought of living in a complex where we’d be the first outsiders to ever sleep and crap there didn’t make us comfortable. Kooked us out, actually. Instead we opted for a place that didn’t have a Rat Pack wet bar, central air conditioning, or a story.

I’d forgotten all about that building ‘til last week.

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