This Week's Hoax Well, it's a blog, but when I started writing these in 1996, I called them "hoaxes."

Youneverknow

I've been working long hours, (for me, of course, not for a coal miner). I get back to my temporary sublet after dark, and it's not advised to play on the beach in Venice after dark. You have to keep your wits about you. It's creepier than Harlem because it's beautiful. Waves crashing. At least Harlem looks scary. One Sunday, a homeless guy was sleeping near the recycling area of a nice apartment, his face red from sun. Oops, not sleeping. Shaking. Cold? No. Jerking off. Ah. Pardon me, I'll give you some privacy.

Still, a block from an ocean warm enough for body surfing. At work, I was making "finding a place" chit chat with a guy who said, "if you're in LA, you should live near the beach." So we're doing that. I found a furnished, five-month sublet just down the street from this one. We can take KilBaby to the beach every morning before work. I want my son to go everywhere. I want him to point to a place on the globe and say, "I've been there." Even if he doesn't remember it, even if all he has for proof are pictures. (Although I could Photoshop him anyplace I want.)

I don't like driving. I have a shitty car. A new tire blew out on the way to a show, then I backed into a lunatic in the studio parking garage. We both got out of the car to looks for damage. None to my car. I saw a scratch on hers. I pointed to it.

"Is that from me?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you sure?" I remember asking this so clearly.

No, it wasn't. Bumpers kissed. No damage. We both parked and went to work. My name and show were on a temporary sticker that was on my dash. I got a call from security about an hour later.

She was claiming damage. That EXACT scratch, that I pointed to, that I asked about twice. We argued. Exchanged insurance info later over the phone. She didn't like that I was asking for her information, too. Five minute later, she called back to tell me she watched me online and I wasn't funny. Then she started following me on Twitter, which meant I could follow her. She was tweeting about a "bitch" who ran into her, that she was about to play hardball. Her twitter name is Cameltoe (plus the year she was born.) I'm not lying. You can probably find her if you start fiddling around with numbers. My insurance company called me the next day, to inquire about a hit-and-run. Eleven hundred dollars in damage.

Someone came out to take pictures of my unharmed bumper. I think they can tell what damage was caused by me.

I stopped for gas in Glendale on Sunday. A Russian behind the register talked me into buying a lotto ticket. He taught me the "one word" he learned when he first came here: "youneverknow."

When I was looking at the new sublet, the one that starts Sept 1, the day KilBaby and his dad come out, the guy renting out his home showed me how he'd baby-proofed he place. Candles up, check. Vases on the top of the bookshelf. Check. Then he showed me how he holds a front window open. With a sickle. A real sickle. That you could use to gather wheat or someone's head. It looks cool and fearsome when you approach the apartment. If I were a robber and I saw a sickle behind the window screen, I would move to the next place. I love that a baby-proofed home still has a sickle in plain site. That is a classic example of how being a parent changes your eyesight. My landlord is a super nice, childless dude. I miss those days... when it wouldn't even occur to me that my sickle might be a safety hazard.

They came on a Tuesday night, so far we've been to the beach everyday. KilBaby loves the water, and making "snowmen" with the sand. He got "eyes in his sand" and "ocean in his eyes." The sunsets are beautiful, and as I'm getting to bed before 11 (because there is NO standup comedy in this land), I can say the same for the sunrises. Here we are in Los Angeles. The sickle is hidden, the AC outlets are pulgged up with plastic and the doorknobs have plastic covers. We're ready for anything. Cause youneverknow.