A Field Guide to Snoop Dogg’s Transformation into Snoop Lion

In a deeply unsettling change certain to bring shockwaves to the region, iconic Long Beach rapper Snoop Dogg has announced that he’s morphed into a lion. To be specific, he morphed into Snoop Lion, which shouldn’t be mistaken with Snoop Snow Leopard, or Snoop Panther, or Snoop Jaguar or any other rap operating system you can buy for your Mac.

To celebrate his new incarnation, he’ll release a reggae album and a documentary film about his travels to Jamaica, where he was reborn as a bad-ass jungle cat. Enthralled by a newfound interest in Rastafarianism, Snoop was christened as Snoop Lion by a Nyabingi priest.

The move has enormous implications not only on Mr. Lion’s career, but on the rap citizenry of our area, whose leader he was.  The potential for our streets long accustomed to Dog culture to suddenly be in thrall of giant cat culture is huge and ominous.


In light of such a radical shift, questions abound, the kind of questions you’d typically ask of your pastor, rabbi or hot yoga teacher. Instead you only have Native Angeleno to guide you through.

We understand how alarming it can be when a local celebrity shifts his identity without at least displaying erratic behavior on a late-night TV show first, so we’ve put together this FAQ that addresses the common questions about Snoop’s transformation.

How does this happen?

Sometimes after a rapper has been a Dogg for a long, long time, he gets very tired and wants to be something else. Often times, that rapper wants to be the very opposite of what he was. Everyone knows the opposite of a dog is a cat but for whatever reason, Snoop skipped right over Snoop Pussy and went to Snoop Lion. We don’t know what is wrong with him. We can only assume ING Group dangled a sweet endorsement deal.

Will Snoop Lion still smoke pot?

Um, does Drake drunk-dial his exes?

What does it mean to our souls?

Dude, we do not know. But we’re pretty sure a Lion can not, physically or spiritually, chill in the same way a Dogg can. Have you ever seen how blissed out a dog can get laying in the sun? Lions chill out too but usually with their mouths coated in zebra blood which is bad-ass but kind of disturbing.


Were you there when Snoop changed into a Lion?

Yes, we were. We were all just stone-cold chillin’ when a bright light shot through an open window and – wait, no. We were not there. We’ve been barred entry from Jamaica.

Does the world need another reggae album?

Absolutely not.

On the Wonderful Weirdness of Being a Woman Alone at Dodger Stadium

A couple of weeks ago, due to some strange circumstances, I found myself alone at Dodger Stadium.  Now, this circumstance has always been one of my greatest fears.   All my life I’ve gone to Dodger games and seen the guy across the aisle, all alone with his headphones, popping beach balls like it was his job.

Anyway, having recently gone through some STUFF, I decided to invite two people to join me whom I knew would not be able to go, one of which is my bff of 16 years, while the other is my (still) newest friend.


When they both, predictably, couldn’t go, I realized what my ulterior motive had been, and that I was, in fact curious about what would happen to me if I dared sit at a Dodgers game alone.  So I did the unthinkable and went solo.

The first thing to know about being a young lady at a sporting event is that people will talk to you.  All the people will talk to you. All the time. Even if you are clearly there with someone.

I pride myself on how unapproachably rude I can seem, but this does not apply when you are sitting butt to butt with someone, be it a bored and uninterested in sports wife or husband, or a scout for the Red Sox.

But now, on to the most importantly weird parts of attending a baseball game on your own:

  1. It’s hard to pee: the best reason I can give you for going anywhere with anyone is that they can watch your stuff while you slip off to peetown or purchasing beers from beertown.
  2. So I had two seats.  I was hell bent on making use of them, if only for my bag to have a nice home.  However, once the lady next to my bag’s comfy seat grew wise, she was hell bent on taking some space for herself.  She didn’t pay for that seat, so I did not allow for even the slightest, falsely casual sweater placement.  Manifest destiny has no place in box seats.
  3. Did I mention that EVERYONE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU?  My intentions were questioned many times. People wanted to know if I’d been stood up.  People wanted to know if I was dating one of the players.  The 6 year old sitting behind me wanted to know about everything ever but mostly was curious about the impending fireworks.  And no one believed that I was there because I actually enjoy the sport. I was vaguely familiar with this terrible phenomenon having previously arrived a few minutes before my game’s companion, but boy oh boy, nine whole innings changes shit.  But really, the main reason people want to talk to you is that they doubt your sports fandom because of your lady-ness.  It’s actually the worst from people who are just there out of obligation, because they have the most time to kill.
  4. And then there were the fireworks.  That was the only time I truly felt weird because they have never been very interesting to me and it seems like a thing that is improved by shared experience. But hey, my anti-fireworks attitude worked out brilliantly because I got out of that parking lot SO FAST because everyone else was so busy staring at the sky.  Though I do love John Philip Sousa.

All in all, it was one of the best nights of my life.

The Natives Are Restless

So we were sitting around the other day in the Native Angeleno bunker when someone plopped a question down on our Formica: who was it that broke the back of the camel of our once great city?

After all, we are not slumming visitors from the East come to turn our nose up at rabble out West.  Los Angeles is the only home we have ever known and we will live and die in this city. But because we love it, it is our duty to report that the camel’s back was broken or at least suffering from some kind of fracture.

The media who were too absorbed with their own demise to notice?  The entertainment industry who ran their business in a manner that made Wall Street blush with envy (All the while playing our big cool friend in jeans)?  The intellectual and artistic communities, who were determined to make the culture of Los Angeles as remote and hostile to the general public as they possibly could?  Our young people who turned their back on everything but tributes to their own preciousness?  Our absentee business community?


Was it Angelyne? Antonio? David Geffen? Nikki Finke?  Ludo? The LA Times? Colonel Mustard in The Smell with a guava cerviche?

We hashed the question out and three hours, a few broken bones, many hurt feelings, two shattered egos and a divorce or two later, we realized that with a line-up of suspects like this, we might never know who killed LA, but, we also realized that there was work to be done.

We know the rules. A website about Los Angeles is supposed to be about the search for the cutest artisanal tamale stand made of sustainable vegan bamboo. Or it can be a website devoted to kissing up to talent agents, deputy editors, chefs, curators, hoteliers and dead buildings.

This is not one of those.

We come to point fingers and poke eyes, to name names and call names and dig up dirt.


Confidentiality protected from pain of death.  Bring us your memos, your horror stories, your daily nightmares. We want to share.   The Truth will find its way to the light of day after all. Fill out the form given on Contact Page.

Unlike the rest of you, Native Angeleno has no home to go back to. When this city falls into the Ocean, we fall with it.   Until then, happy reading.

City Council: Everybody Must Not Get Stoned

The City Council, after a genuine, real, honest to god debate, voted 13-1 to ban all pan shops in Los Angeles. And by 13-1, we mean 14-0, since Paul Koretz changed his vote retroactively (this is not a Mitt Romney joke) by going up to the city clerk later.

And so it is that, 16 years after California voted to legalize medical marijuana, the city council for the largest city in the state, after failing to construct a coherent policy for each of those 16 years, simply voted to rip the whole thing up and go back to prohibition.

So within 45 days (or 30, or 90– everyone reports a different number) the 762 (or 1,000, or however many– no one really knows!) dispensaries will forced to shut their doors or face the wrath of LAPD.


Dave Z. also notes that marijuana advocates are donating money to reelect Rosendahl and Councilman Paul Koretz– which odd, since neither of them actually voted against the measure to ban dispensaries. Koretz voted no at first but then retroactively changed his vote. Rosendahl, meanwhile, was a no show.

His deputy told reporters that Rosendahl hurt his back– a suspiciously convenient excuse in an elected body that votes unanimously 99.2% of the time, where councilmen routinely make up fake excuses so as not to be the odd man out.

Recently an incident happened after people were too stoned.

A 21-year-old man and his brother, 15, were critically injured after crashing during a motorcycle chase from Riverside to Moreno Valley, while carrying a backpack full of marijuana.


Police tried to stop the motorcycle for driving without a license plate about 2:15 a.m. near Chicago Avenue and Third Street when the rider sped away, police said.

The motorcycle led police on a chase topping 90 mph heading south down Interstate 215 toward Moreno Valley. The rider exited at Alessandro Boulevard and motioned like he might reenter the freeway toward Perris before he crashed.