Entries in Khouri Stories (22)


Life with George: Lapdances and murder.

Per contractual agreement, I took Dad to a belated Father’s Day lunch at Bossa Nova on Sunset today. Being such a lovely day (read: too fucking hot in that unairconditioned Brazillian shithole), we opted to dine on the patio. As most Hollywooders know, Bossa Nova is situated directly across the street from infamously sketchy and Arabian themed strip club, the Seventh Veil. What most Hollywooders also know is that in the 80s, the Veil used to be a popular nightlcub and restaurant, owned and operated by notorious crime lord, Eddie Nash.

Nash was one of if not the biggest drug dealer in Hollywood. As such, he found himself in constant contact with the city’s most wretched and depraved citizens, including the one and only John Holmes. In the twilight of his legendary porn career, Holmes had become the quintessential junkie. Pathetic and broke, Holmes and his useless drugged-up cock owed money all over town. Nash was the only dealer who would even give Holmes the time of day, and only because he enjoyed teasing and tormenting the fallen star. Nash was amused by seeing how much Holmes was willing to humiliate himself in exchange for a few precious hits.

One foggy night, Holmes found himself up in the Hollywood Hills with some of Nash’s rivals, a ragtag group of young dealers and thugs looking to make their mark and score big. Somehow, Holmes was persuaded to betray Nash and personally aid that motley crew in breaking into Nash’s home, beating up Nash’s bodyguards, and stealing his money and drugs.

Being a wily criminal mastermind, Nash realized the nature of the robbery was too sophisticated and precise to be the work of anybody but an insider, and he immediately suspected Holmes’ involvement. Enraged, Nash had Holmes brought before him. Pudding under the lights, the weak and unscrupulous Holmes divulged the identities of Nash’s enemies, and was forced to personally escort Nash’s goons to their Hollywood Hills headquarters. The substandard state of home security technology in the 1980s made it impossible for Holmes’ accomplices to know that he wasn’t alone when he buzzed in, and they were quickly ambushed by Nash’s goons.

The LAPD detective in charge of the investigation — known internationally as the infamous Wonderland Murders — described the aftermath as the most gruesome he’d seen in his forty years of police work. That and Holmes and Nash’s subsequent trials formed the basis of the Wonderland film starring Val Kilmer, which I’d never even heard of before Dad told me the story. 

But what most Hollywooders may not know is that Eddie Nash is really Adel Nasrallah, a Christian Palestinian immigrant, and that his cousin is the wife of a man called Victor Dabbah… my great-uncle. 

“Oh, yeah, it says Gentlemen’s Club!” Dad chuckled. “That’s the clever way of saying strip club, you know? Because they can’t just put ‘strip club’ on the front.” 

I sighed. My kibé and lamb skewers tasted like shit.


Andy Khouri in Casino of Conspiracy!

Per our agreement, I drove down to my father’s home in Anaheim on Monday afternoon. Unlike my father, I am of the belief that just because you possess the keys to someone’s house, you don’t necessarily have the right to use them, even when you’re expected. I suppose everyone would agree that my biggest faults are my manners…. Anyway, I only used the keys after the appropriate amount of wait-time had elapsed. My father is not a young man, and any number of things could have happened to his body that would preclude his answering the doorbell, including severe constipation and severe death.

Fortunately (whew), nobody was home, not even Missy, my father’s black lab. I’d almost forgotten that he’d given her to another family after just a couple of months because he was fed up with dog hair “everywhere.” It should be noted that my father pays not one but two maids to clean his home on a weekly basis, and each appointment lasts nearly eight hours. What I’m getting at is that in order for Missy to be a problem in such an environment, she’d have to be one seriously hairy motherfucking dog. She wasn’t. Dad’s just nuts. And I miss the puppy.

“HELLO!?” Dad bellowed into his cellular phone, wherever he was.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, calmly. “I thought you wanted me to come over today.”


I could hear bustling humans behind my father’s screams, and I imagined anyone in his immediate vicinity was probably really annoyed right then. “I’m at your house!” I cried.


“Why don’t I just meet you wherever you are?”




“Where is it?”



This went on for some minutes, but I eventually found myself parking in front of a casino in Buena Park that was not actually a building, but more of a massive bubble-tent-thing. On the way in I walked passed a sign that read IF YOU LOOK 30 YEARS OLD OR YOUNGER YOU MUST SHOW IDENTIFICATION. Nobody carded me, so I guess I’m fucked.

The place really was a giant tent. The walls were something like vinyl, with some sections covered with cheesy Hawaiian backdrops. I can’t decide if having one backdrop here and there is better than covering all the walls with backdrops. I suppose it’s pathetic either way you look at it. The dozens of Chinese lanterns hanging around the ceiling were a nice touch, though.

I negotiated the sea of sad bastard gamblers and old Asian waitresses with their trays-on-wheels and found my father at one of the Texas Hold ‘Em tables. Right away, he announced to his opponents that i was his son, and they quite rightly didn’t give a shit. “You know,” Dad began in his whispered I’m-About-To-Say-Something-Fucked-Up voice. “This casino is owned by a Jewish doctor—”

“Oh, God…”

“This Jewish doctor takes all his profits and sends them to organizations in Israel that buy up Palestinian land in Jerusalem!”

“Oh, really? That is pretty fucked up, I guess…” I sighed.

“Pretty fucked up, huh? You’re damn right it’s fucked up!”

“Then why are you fucking gambling here, then?”

“Well, I don’t like to… but your godfather heard they have a special $100,000 jackpot on Monday afternoons—”

“OH, GOD!!”

Dad insisted the food at Hawaiian gardens was delicious and that I order some. It wasn’t until after I’d already started eating my BBQ bacon cheese burger on a little tray-on-wheels right there at the poker table that Dad told me I wouldn’t be going with him and Jeannie to Israel.

“Uh, what?” I asked. “I thought the whole point of me coming down here today was to plan the trip?”

“What plan the trip?” my father shrieked. His voice always gets really cracky when he’s trying to push blame away. “I’ve been talking about it for weeks. Your sister told you about it. You never said anything!”


“Sorry! We have the itineraries and everything.”


“It’s not like it will be the only time I’m going over there.”

“But Israel AND Jordan?” I whined.

“Yes! I’ll be going back to both, don’t worry, habibi.”

“I wanted to see Petra, too…” I sighed. “They shot Indiana Jones there.”

“Oh, I KNOW!”


Andy Khouri at Earth's End!

Last Sunday saw Sam Humphries and I ascend to the roof the Hotel Standard in beautiful downtown Los Angeles. Because we are young urban warriors of considerable standing, we were on a number of guest lists and quite naturally passed through all seven security checkpoints unmolested. 

But the elevator made us suspicious immediately. The walls were covered with workmen’s cloth drops, like the kind used to protect furniture during a move. A quick inspection revealed elegant wood paneling behind the cloths. Why The Standard wished to conceal such perfectly serviceable walls behind a curtain is something I may never know, but I’m certain the reasons are sinister.

Sam and I emerged from the lift and found ourselves at the poolside, a luxurious scene featuring every species of hipster imaginable: Faux-hawked grrls, pretty boyz, frat bros & hoes, punks, indies, trendies, hip-hoppers, globe-trotters, mall goths, freaks, mutants, ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘00s, all copiously tattooed and bikini’d, dancing and drinking $12 cocktails around a heated swimming pool on the roof of an opulent hotel while Peaches of all fucking people spun Bauhaus’ “Bella Legosi’s Dead” of all fucking records. Basically, it’s what I imagined every day living in Hollywood would be like.

Right away, we were joined by molliemg, who wasted no time in betraying her intense desire for me by saying seemingly cruel and unkind things about my outfit, character and complexion. Mollie’s “insults” became more and more pronounced throughout the afternoon, and because I am always embarrassed when someone obviously wants to make love to me so badly, I had to keep excusing myself to get more drinks.

Despite the shameless artifice of the event, I had a good time up there on that roof. Pretty scenery, nice weather, good drinks, good friends, good music, plenty of cute girls to strike out with… but something about it just made you imagine a hydrogen bomb exploding somewhere in the distance.  


Andy Khouri and the temple of the pervert Buddha!

I could from my car see a fat man in a Hawaiin shirt with tickets in his hand, standing at the corner near House Of Blues. I pulled up and he waved before asking me if I was there for the Get Up Kids show.

“No. Private party,” I said.

“Oh, well, I’m scalping,” he replied.

“Ooooh,” I said, trying to make it look like I in no way thought he was the valet and that I just stopped because he seemed a friendly fellow.

“You gotta go down there, they’ll really ticket your ASS if you park up here!” he warned, pointing down the hill to the House Of Blues parking lot.

I dropped off my car, was fitted with a wristband and directed to an elevator that took me to the building’s private party level and quickly found my group in the House Of Blues’ extravagant Buddha Room.

Right away, [info]chadmichaelward introduced me to his wife, [info]daniwhiterabbit. This was very significant because in all the time Chad and I have known each other and in spite of the numerous occasions I’d been to their home, I’d never met Danielle. Constantly “missing each other” had become a conspicuous pattern to both Dani and myself, and we’d independently suspected that the other was an elaborate fiction existing only in Chad’s mind, a la Fight Club.

“I know this… because Andy knows this.”

The room was populated only with society’s best. It’s not often that you find yourself at a party where you really like EVERYBODY. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, challenge-drinking Adios Motherfuckers and talking comics and Star Wars®. Quite surprisingly, it turned out that one guest, David, was like myself a Boston refugee and had shopped at the same comic store I did and around the same time. It didn’t take long for either of us to observe what a relentless miser that store’s proprietor was, lovable and even heroic as he was otherwise.

“Two fucking years and not ONE discount!!”

The only downside to the evening was the slow realization that this whole bathroom-attendant industry is a total racket. Most nights, I don’t need to use the bathroom at all until I return to my underground lair, but for some reason (poison, I suspect) I had to go three or four times at House Of Blues. I didn’t mind tipping the gentlemen the first time, as he was alarmingly quick with the paper towels. Questionable as this specific job may be, I am usually happy to reward exceptional vigilance in almost any circumstance.

But when I returned a second time, not only was I forced to endure the drunken ravings of the club’s less sophisticated occupants (“Duuuuude, why are you making out with the FAT CHICK???” God, I hate sexism), but the attendant went totally limp on me! I was standing there at the sink with dripping wet hands for, like, three or four seconds before he finally got up off his lazy ass and pulled a few towels out of the dispenser to my immediate right and handed them to me. Fucking hell, right? The man’s performance became even less enthusiastic as the night progressed and I refused to continue my tipping. Take that, peasant!

The ladies in attendance were all what I like to call FIIIIIIIIINE but, alas, all spoken for. You’d think that people in Chad and Dani’s positions — that is, being glamour photographers and thusly acquainted with a number of MODELS— could find ONE single girl in ALL of Los Angeles and invite her to their party, if only to see me strike out royally. Sigh.

No matter, though, because I had my Mentos® on me and was able to secure secret rendezvous appointments with each lady hahaha as well as this dude Chris who just said such sweet things about fucking me until my pelvis was completely obliterated, I couldn’t help but go home with him at the end of the night.



There’s no doubt about it: conspiracy’s afoot.

It had long been my intention to discuss in my building’s monthly association meetings the outrageous behaviour of a few unknown residents concerning the communal shopping carts in the garages. As is the case with many apartment complexes, the sub-levels in my building are home to a small number of shopping carts— stolen, presumably, from various area supermarkets by a previous generation of residents whose bravery I cannot even begin to describe. It was certainly the hope of these heroes of old that the carts would be shared by future occupants in the spirit of courtesy and peace; to create in our own little piece of decaying and decadent Hollywood wretchedness something that Norman Rockwell would be proud of and perhaps wish to paint.

I shed tears of shame this day.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The betrayal of the most fundamental ideals of our foreresidents did not begin today, but several months in the past, when I was forced to scour the property for a cart after failing to find one in the garage elevator room, which had until then been the unspoken but plainly designated shopping cart storage bay. It was during this cart-hunt that I happened to glance over at one of the particularly expensive vehicles in the northwest corner of the garage.

Situated between the yellow luxury coupe’s front bumper and the garage wall was one of the COMMUNAL shopping carts. The owner of the hideous car had tried to HIDE THE CART behind his vehicle so he would always have one when he came home from the shopping!


All of this man’s female ancestors must have mated with decidedly inferior breeds of bulls in order to produce so genuinely worthless a specimen of humanity as he. But he wasn’t the only one. I discovered additional acts of EVIL in the weeks to come, and even now, months later, I am still unable to comprehend the unspeakable volumes of greed one must possess to embark upon such a despicable undertaking… god, some people are just so POOR EVIL… it makes me want to puke. It was all I could do not to write a livejournal entry about it.

But all that changed today. Today those fuckers have gone too far. As I was docking my automobile just now after a quick trip to Ralph’s® to pick up some shaved roast beef as well as some apparently magic crystals that keep my home free of the stench of cat waste, I saw what is easily the worst thing I’ve ever seen: shopping carts up against the wall of MY parking space.

Not one, but TWO. And in their customary interlocked configuration!

I’ve been framed, confirming once and for all that my home is, like, SO bugged. The perpetrators of these decidedly unneighborly shopping cart shenanigans are quite clearly in league with the building association’s board of directors — all of whom were elected — if not actually the board themselves. I’ve absolutely no public recourse now; all official channels are obviously closed to me. If I brought up the shopping cart situation in one of the meetings, I’d probably end up locked in the sauna and left to suffocate. No, my only choice — nay, there is no “choice.” There is but one path left for me, and it is the path to war.

I must become… a bat nusiance.

If my parents were dead, I would at this very moment wait a few weeks for it to rain again and go to their cemetery and swear on their graves that I will not let this aggression stand, man. I will dedicate my life or at least the next day or so to ridding my formerly safe building of all shopping-cart related CRIME. God, I hate CRIME! The next time I see that some bloated sack bastard has tried to conceal a shopping cart in their parking space, I am TOTALLY GOING TO MOVE IT BACK TO THE ELEVATOR, I MEAN IT. I’m going to do it again and again and again and again and again and again until they’re forced to give up their odious ways or just figure out they can keep the carts in their kitchens until they need them again like I do sometimes.