The Hollywood Drugstore Motel Hero: Journey to the West


There I was, bro.

Back home, I was the shiznit.

I had just come here, fresh-off-the-Gerboni-bus to Hollywood, where surely, I would be the SuperNova in this town.

After I ditched my homegirl (who was a little too “homey” for my L.A. Confidential-California-Big- Pimpin’-Wigga-Style), I hit the streets on my ride. Ya, you know. Back home they used to call me Handlebar Harry.

But that didn’t last long.

Someone stole my bicycle; my only mode of transportation. What’s worse is I tried to chase the phool down who jacked my ride, but my pants were too tight to run as fast as I could have. Shit. That was more important you know – the ladies like my jeggings. They scream RockStar so loud that before they even know what hit them, they are back at my pad, eating left over three-day-old pizza in a box that I ordered for the last stripper who wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Bitch.

That same week, the Hostel Honey I was staying with, Lola (who lived in the garage when the owner wasn’t looking or when she wasn’t stripping) was not having it anymore. She be taken her clothes off real quick for men while their wives werent lookin’. She was the kind of girl who would wink at a married man eating a sandwich in a middle class deli with his kids. Lola loved sandwiches. Bologna was her fave. That was my girl. She reminded me of all the good and bad of the Jersey shore honeys back home. (Ain’t no comparin’ to these Cali girls out here. But you know what they say: a honey in your garage is worth two in the palm.)

I think she was using me for my wheels. When the wheels left, so did Lola. Good riddance.

She also couldn’t handle my air drumming sessions. I told her it was necessary, like my gas-station milk in my Apple Jacks. After all, I’m a musician. And that’s why I’m here, honey: to let the world know that I can lip-sync every single GNR song there is with my long hair. Longer than Lola’s. I can pretend to be singing backwards and forwards.

Sometimes, even Chinese people mistake me for Axel.

I like that.

I’ve been working on fitting into tighter pants to show off my thrust for years.

Like my necklace?

It’s a dragon.

It breathes fire like me, baby.

So you’ll know where to find me if your a sugar mama, a drama mama, or a little hispter baby without a bone.

I’m your boo, baby.

I got it right here. Like Axel. Like Guns.

Like my roses, baby?

I got them just for you. I grew them with my bare hands.

(Okay. I picked them with my bare hands. From Trader Joe’s when no one was looking.)

You can catch me on the fly. Ill be spinning my tunes on my USB. Didn’t I tell you baby? I’m also a DJ. Yeah. That’s right. DJ USB. I used to go by DJ Dashboard, then DJ Spoke, but now all I gots is this hub.

Wanna party, baby? I’m at the motel. You can come to my room. I’ll be your hero. But don’t be mad atcha self when you show up and I’m the only one at your party, baby. After all, this is Hollywood where you gotta give some to get some.

You know me baby, my real name is John, but my stage name (when I’m actually performing in front of Big Crowds at the CVS parking lot – shhhh don’t tell) is Big Dog Truck Metal. Ya. That’s when I’m lip-syncing Big Hair Metal Love Ballads only. (When Im rappin’, and hangin’ in the studio the call me MC KC, short for Kid Cracker. Yeahhhh.)

Im keepin’ it real for my homies.

What? You never heard of me?

That’s ridiculous. You best be tuning in to my channel: SuperStar.FM where they only play me. Like I play all the ladies who havent heard of me yet.

I’m like Horton, baby. Cuz when I tell ’em how big a star I am in the streets of Hollywood, everyone always goes, “Who?”…


Copyright 2015 Dilara Esengil All Rights Reserved

(Image not property of the author)

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