Charlie Can ‘t Surf.Chapter: The Hawk's NestXJ Michael
This place is the perfect perch if you're into bird-watching. Not just any birds, but hummingbirds, parrots, and especially hawks. Red-tailed hawks, goshawks, hawks giving birth to more hawks. Hawks that screech like seagulls and never shut up. I love hawks. Their cries pierce the air like a kid wailing for his mom. They sound loudest when they're teaching their young to fly, hunt, and survive – a six-month crash course in living, right outside your window. It's a sound you must appreciate. It's majestic. The beauty of nature in your backyard, after all, is worth the racket, the owl. babies now there they are noisy but the hawks are like excclamation point in the sky of elysian park no where elce in LA could you hear Jeb Brighouse in the Afterlife reminding you why your there...except with every hawk screach so evengelian to our plot.
Then there's the monkey. An escapee, no doubt, swinging by at 4 a.m. Is it an orangutan? Probably not. My wife claims it's a chimpanzee, dressed in a diaper, scampering through the trees like a phantom in the night. She’s seen it twice, I’ve only caught its silhouette. A shadow munching on stolen bananas. But let's talk birds again. Hummingbirds. We’ve turned this place into a haven for them. Twenty-two varieties of their favorite plants, all just for them. The house serves only the finest nectar, a German import approved by every zoo in the States. We love hummingbirds because we've raised them here. A delivery mix-up turned our home into an accidental sanctuary. Now, it's a real one. We get calls all the time, offering to buy this bird utopia with all its quirks and furniture, treating it as an art piece, a conservation masterpiece.
Living here is like being part of an art installation. One with covenants and preservation easements, ensuring the house remains as it is. Changes are limited to encasing aspects in glass to keep its naturalistic and sculptural elements intact. It’s an Artist’s home, reimagined as a living, breathing art piece. Think Frank Gehry’s reappropriated materials, but in a domestic setting. The house comes with real Roy Lichtensteins, a genuine Matisse, and a collection of 1980s French stunt kites. There’s handmade wallpaper too, created by obsessively rolling ink-covered wheels through 65 feet of newsprint in a mad dance. The overflow sheets became accidental art.
This house is also an audio recording studio. The walls are paper-thin shoji, the floors are tatami mats, and the panels are a mix of raw redwood and white cedar. The house itself is redwood, hand-sanded to perfection. By purchasing this house, you become the guardian of a treasure trove of 1980s stunt kites, lava lamps, and original artworks by legends. You'll feel the need to carry a gun at night, not just for the art but to protect against the nocturnal monkey and his banana raids.
There’s a beehive in one wall. We befriended them – no pun intended. They’ve been here as long as we have. Showering feels like jumping jacks on a treadmill. It’s chaotic, but it's our life. We’ve adapted, even embraced it.
The house has a history. On July 9th, at 6:45 a.m., two tractors uprooted a protected Mexican elderberry tree. They hacked off parts of an old growth tree that shaded our hill, demolished the handicap ramp, sidewalk, and stairs, and created a 30-degree dirt hill where our garage used to be. This spot was meant to be a produce stand for neighborhood garden extras. Instead, it became Jud’s dirt mound, his truck parked triumphantly atop it.
We watched in horror from behind our redwood fence. We told the Caravaggio slave employee to stop, but he kept trespassing and causing havoc. My wife wept as they destroyed tree after tree, shouting slurs in Spanish. It was like being attacked by pirates. We called the police, but they took hours to arrive, and when they did, they were useless, more interested in accusing us than keeping peace.
This wasn’t a one-time event. It was a sustained assault, with chainsaws and tractors ripping through our garden. They destroyed our tangerine tree, pomegranate, black walnut, jacaranda, and the poppies we’d planted. They buried our dreams under a mound of dirt and concrete. The sound was a constant jackhammering, turning our days into a war zone.
They attacked us with drones, used for spying and harassment. False complaints to the police led to guns being drawn on us while we were watching TV. It felt like we were living in a dystopian nightmare. Despite everything, we restored the house, piece by piece, turning chaos into art.
Redwood and cedar replaced the old, termite-ridden wood. We hand-planed the floors, installed modern amenities, and turned our entry room into a Japanese genkan with a cloud-painted ceiling. We fought back against the darkness, transforming our home into a sanctuary of resilience.
The Siege of Avon Street
The first thing they did in July, not March, on the 9th at around 6:45 a.m., was uproot that Mexican elderberry tree. It wasn't just any tree; it was protected under California law. They hacked off two massive limbs from an old growth tree that cast its cooling shadow over the hill. Then they demolished the handicap ramp, the sidewalk, and the stairs. What used to be a simple garage parking spot transformed into a 30-degree hill of dirt, intended to become a neighborhood produce stand. But instead, Jud turned it into his personal hillbilly throne, parking his truck on top like he’d conquered Everest.
We peeked over our redwood fence, for the third time, and confronted Caravaggio’s henchmen. We told them they were trespassing, breaking laws, and making our lives hell. They didn’t care. They were like kids with a magnifying glass, and we were the ants. Each tree they cut down made my wife cry harder, each taunt in Spanish made my blood boil. They laughed at our pain, took joy in our distress. They were pirates, no, worse—Sumatran pirates, the kind you see on CNN that the Navy has to deal with. Pandemonium was their game.
We called the police, reporting the assault. Meanwhile, Caravaggio himself climbed the fence, throwing rocks and charging at us. The shorter crew leader wielded a chainsaw, tearing through our trees with glee. They destroyed a tangerine tree, a pomegranate, a black walnut, a jacaranda, and all our poppies. The Japanese short grass we planted to prevent erosion? Gone. We had just cleared the decaying concrete from the property to build a Chinese-style greenhouse for a community garden. But now, that dream was buried under a mountain of debris.
By 3 p.m., the police finally showed up, long after we’d called at 9 a.m. They did nothing to keep the peace. They sided with the aggressors, ignored the assault our neighbor witnessed, and dismissed the illegal construction. They accused me of fighting back, ignoring the streaming video and numerous calls to LADBS about the excessive noise and illegal activities.
This wasn’t a one-time thing. It was a daily onslaught. Jud and his crew ran two tractors on the public right of way for eight or more hours a day, every day. They buried materials from other illegal builds on Avon, Landa Street, Granada, Lemoyne, and more. They did this with impunity, their actions blatant and brazen.
Simon Story of Anonymous Architects, living with the Shapiros, was part of this scheme. They claimed to protect old-growth trees while removing others they didn’t report in their plans. They excavated 14 feet of dirt from my retaining wall, crushed a 100-year-old redwood septic tank, and broke the sewage pipes. They poured cement into my pipes, hoping to drive me out with a backed-up sewer problem. But I outsmarted them with my knowledge from ATP Plumbing, switching to a composting toilet system. And running the shower tell they were floating in our backed up waste.
They built an illegal laundry room, stealing our water line, and breaking in daily through a back window. Despite a 41.24 arrest order and numerous police reports, they continued their trespass. Jud ripped down every legal notice we posted, including LADBS stop orders. He made false police reports, staging attacks, and calling the cops on us.
One day, Caravaggio attacked us with a turpentine can, splashing it on our electric meter, threatening to set it alight. My wife screamed, and I grabbed the hose, dousing him and his phone. He had a lighter, and his intent was clear. When my wife called 911, Jud finally told Caravaggio to stop. They retreated, but not for long.
The siege on our home felt endless. They ripped down no trespassing signs, cut our locks, and added their own padlocks. They met in the back, planning their next move like generals in a war room. Every day was a new battle, every night a new nightmare.
But we held on. We fought back with every ounce of strength we had. The house stood, not just as a home, but as a symbol of resilience, a testament to our unyielding spirit. Despite the chaos, we found peace in small victories—every repair made, every tree replanted, every bit of our life reclaimed from the wreckage.
In the end, the house was more than just wood and nails. It was our fortress, our sanctuary. Amidst the ruins, we built a life, defying those who sought to tear it down. And as we stood on that redwood porch, looking out at the world, we knew one thing for certain: we were unbreakable.
The Battle for Dignity
October 20th, 2020, dawned like any other day, but it carried the weight of destiny. The City of LA quietly removed some homes from the REAP program, a move shrouded in secrecy. Little did they know, this was the day they’d be caught.
1968 Avon Street was listed in REAP three or more times, under fourteen-plus violation numbers, with several forgotten court cases. When I moved in five years ago, REAP notices became our unwelcome guests.
My wife never even turned the lights on for two years, living in peaceful simplicity.
We modernized the house with smart lights, air conditioning, new appliances, and a state-of-the-art security system. We became obsessed with traditional Japanese homes, spending two years transforming our yard into a serene garden, only to see it damaged by Jud and his crew.
Richard Judson Williams and his gang did everything to harm us. They threw glass in our yard, drove by incessantly, and bought the house two doors over to flip with fraudulent money. They ruined the yard, turning it toxic with human waste. Gravel and fake grass hid the damage, but we knew the truth.
Our battle with REAP included 25 major violations, possibly 99 more. We reported everything, but COVID-19 fears kept city officials away. Bribery was rampant. On October 8th, a notice claimed our building was cleared of REAP, a cruel joke on my birthday.
Determined, I delved into a lawsuit against Jud. Dirty lawyers, bribed officials—every step revealed more corruption. But then, a breakthrough: the CPRA act turned up a friend inside HCIDLA. Emails from Carlos and Tony Peleaz, Jerard Jones, and Ann Sewill exposed the conspiracy.
On October 20th, a hearing exposed the fraud. Watching live, the audience saw through the charade. The final proof lay in the notices' design—wrong fonts, mislabeled stickers, clear signs of forgery. The conspiracy, led by Richard Judson Williams, Cheney Shapiro, Ken Shapiro, Joshua Marcuson, and lawyer Jacqueline Grace Peleaz, was unraveling.
This meeting, this crime—it would not go unpunished. We sued LA to bring awareness to the city's corrupt dance between LAPD, HCIDLA, and LADBS. They aimed to steal homes from the poor and middle class, creating a kleptocracy.
Everything that happened to us at our home by this contractor, broker, and lender was part of a grand scheme. They stole land, committed mortgage fraud, assaulted us, harassed us, and made false reports. They used gang tactics, shut off utilities, and illegally hooked up to sewers. IRS fraud, tax evasion, PPP loan fraud—their crimes were endless.
We need help, badly. But amidst the turmoil, we found strength. We stood against the tide, our spirits unbroken. Our story is one of resilience, a testament to the power of truth and the indomitable human spirit. And as we fight for our dignity, we knew that no matter the outcome, we would never be defeated. Yet not a day goes by where I don’t wish Nile Red from Youtube to come to my aid like a science lab rat , and if by rat you mean Master Splinter with military grade Stick Bomb, to end all realestate cicra 1850’s.
Paul's Lament
Paul rolled up the hill in his wheelchair, his face a mask of frustration. The relentless illegal construction had ravaged the street, turning it into an obstacle course. The sidewalks, once a safe path for him, were now marred with cracks and debris, making his daily journey an ordeal.
"Hi guys, this is coming from the section of Avon Street that connects Ewing or Villa Debra," Paul began, his voice tinged with anger and sadness. "This house, it's so dear and beloved by so many of us, is apparently going away. Along with it, this hundred-year-old sidewalk and curb, which is the same as the curves literally in this street, are being destroyed."
Paul gestured towards the damaged concrete street. "I've been concerned about this during all of this, but my main priority is the air quality. The unnecessary lack of cleaning up after yourselves every day, which would totally fix the air quality problem," he said, his frustration palpable. "All I'm asking is for you to clean up after yourselves, guys. Every day, please."
He continued, his tone becoming more urgent. "You have intimate neighbours and people who I watched as clouds of your dust settled over them. There are some damages that are new to this hundred-year-old street. I'll point them out because of the lowboy dragging and the lack of attention to the historicness of this street. The biggest, newest crack is right there. That is brand new. The street is barely holding together."
Paul pointed out the fresh cracks and damage, his voice breaking slightly. "Too many more lowboys dragged on their metal wheels could do damage to the point where it's no longer worth saving."
He recalled the past efforts to restore the street. "This is not original. Mitchell O’Farrell fixed this because it was one of those streets that was basically almost impassable. With some local help, while he was the field deputy for Mayor Garcetti, who was the City Council for this district, he made it happen and made it good."
A small dog approached Paul, wagging its tail. "Hi little doggy, you're so cute but you think you're so tough," he said, a brief smile breaking through his grim expression.
Paul’s lament echoed the frustration and despair of a community under siege, their beloved home and street being torn apart by those who had no right to be there. The illegal construction was not just an intrusion but a forceful, unwelcome entry, bypassing all due process, using fraudulent permits, and causing untold damage to a historic and cherished neighbourhood. Despite the adversity, the spirit of resilience remained, as they continued to fight for their home, their street, and their dignity.