Wednesday, November 29, 2006

That's The Derby Eh

Sewer Trout does their own music, play most covers better than the originals, probably why they shoot for obscurities only I would know, the sort of pattern The Decemberists have taken a liking to. The lead Ray loves utilizing harmonica when covering Blues Traveler. I’m glad I avoided interaction with Rollo.

Then there’s bassist I don’t know, a talented musician who keeps all others in line with steady tempos and taunts.
He got really pissed at me the last time we met because I snapped his photo.
This time I didn’t care though, much like I didn’t last time. I’m quicker than him, doubt he’ll use the bass as a weapon, doubt he has the heart.

Good part about a Tuesday show at The Derby are the hot home bodies that never go out on weekends, maybe because they spend it cuddling boyfriends and on Tuesday “Go to sleep early.”

I talked to this girl a while, don’t know her name . .
Don’t know what she has going on, know little to nothing, don’t know what we really talked about. I think I understood a quarter of words from lips, tried reading them unsuccessfully with a lame attempt, nodded a lot, took pulls of Morgan.

Achieved her information upon exit via cell phone, listed her under Hot Babe, cool chick, the kind I could probably add to the team. Exchanged a few CDs, some witty remarks and suggestive glances, and off into the night we went our separate ways.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Less Long Lost Loves

Yesterday night I couldn’t stop thinking about Ericka.
After listening to Double’s “The Captain of Her Heart” while driving home last night, I was emotionally bludgeoned bad, lyrics scarily representing what we had, more than likely mirrors what we are now.

Santa Barbara isn’t far away, world apart is one thing we are though. Never had an acrimonious split, never actually called her a girlfriend, but we’d hang out all the time, have fun time after time. I’m sure someone’s been captivated by her perceptive intellect and heavenly body, impossible to avoid in front of you. I wonder if she’s in love.

Rare is comfort felt agreeabily spooning someone you love into the vast land of dreams, and you dream so sweetly in each other’s arms. The fantasies of your castle in the sky, together forever. I should’ve told her of my love.

Very lonely when I think of her, the yearning, the longing for. The last time I saw Ericka we kissed, she didn’t want me to leave, but I did, and today I don’t even know why. She was kind, too humane to ever live in Los Angeles. It would suck her soul clean, doesn’t possess thick enough skin or resilience to the rampant pretentiousness, too sensitive positively.

The genuine pain I feel now will go away, but she’ll always haunt me. Being sidetracked into the ultimate game of feast versus famine in Hell hasn’t remotely chipped away at boundless want.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Tough Weekend For Drunks Like Me

Woke up this afternoon with a headache. This is the first thing I saw . .
How many days in a row drunk is alcoholic? My mangled head managed to briefly assume a muddled state of slumber, although the speed at which I recover has significantly slowed. I die a thousand deaths.

Skip really went over the edge, became the sort of juggler envied by speechless onlookers. He hasn’t before matched the level of wit displayed last night, a real milestone in his ever conscious quest for self-improvement.
He pulled a quality ripcord on the tail end, disappeared without a sight, surely taking his prize away before eyes could catch his swift maneuvering. Even some experts never cease to amaze.

Alas, I was left with little but good conversation and a few leads. According to research, I only call 24% of the phone numbers attained. Not necessarily sure why, not as though memory fails me whenever I drink, quite the opposite, but I guess the answer is shaded in grays.

French Samantha is the new nominee for “girl I’ll probably never call.”
Feel real dumb today, as if all the brain cells I once possessed evaporated into the heavens, unmistakably leaving behind empty flesh.

The Hoff never disappoints when putting together bashes. Next time I'll remember to bring my blackened liver along. Drinking will begin again in a few hours, the neverending quest for salvation in booze continues.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Sewer Trout

TV is garbage, which is why I don’t really watch it. Rating champs crowned daily, couple shows coveted, most of which are garbage, trash, nonsense. Maybe I’m being too critical, though the outside world seems far more interesting here.

In breaking news, I’m about to be socially sideswiped somehow by this schmuck . . .
Rollo’s been pressuring me for all sorts of services, outlandish thoughts abound. He wanted a driver the other day, I ask for what, he refuses to say. He curiously got charming soon after, able to turn it on and off..

He recently busted my chops for hitting on his sister. I didn’t know, plus I soon realized how protective over her he is. It’s like the timeless line from Scarface, “She’s not for you mang.”

His band Sewer Trout isn’t half-bad, horked a CD recently and actually listened to it a few times. Atypical, most get conveniently lost. The CDs I send women have Track 3 on Supermix 12.
His thirst and desire for power outmatch Wall Street dog faces, ruthless when it comes to women. Hasn’t stolen or blocked a girl from me other than the blood, but Rollo’s wasteland of whores left behind in the dust merely astonishes. Haven’t fully assembled preliminary analysis, but he’s a slick one, slippery.

He has gotten rather close to the circle, I see him around at random now. Loyalties are linked to this girl, Catrina, a performance art aficionado with a taste for men she can walk all over. In this case she has a thing for Indian food in front of Lance’s car.
That’s her man Vasu, I pray never to see her on his arm again. Tactical thought plan has to be studied, confirmed, then immediately followed through on. Raj liked her a lot upon first meeting, have to keep him away from stepping on feet. I must win, she seems unsatisfied, as if his lovemaking skills are not up to par. Fix that with maverick magic. These are times when you have to hold what matters close to the vest, confide in your own valor fearless.

My current rambling nature is probably because I'm still drunk from the night before. The Hoff rules all, as does fire.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Belated Introduction to the Circle of Bash

I will be seeing Wayne Maxwell at some point today, day after Thanksgiving it is. I managed to gorge on turkey legs and throw on extra pounds, sounds like a righteous tradition. Overflow of leftovers is cringe worthy.

Wayne’s the undercover driver who cruises town in the blue ’57 Chevy, a master of disguise and actual drinking champion of the crew. He’s currently training to become a sommelier at nights, a hobby which has always interested on the side of his lucrative automotive enterprise.
He also doubles as Josh Lucas.

While we’re briefly on the subject of look-alikes, here’s my well-known associate Hoff. He can also swim. Party at his house tonight in the LBC.

Then The Hat comes into play, an invaluable asset in all situations. His importance in the world as we know it hinges on his moves under veil of secrecy.
Famed womanizer. World domination lingers in the back of his mind more consistently than most, possesses the kind of instincts that come from animalistic evolution over centuries.
Lance simply enters the fray due to the highest of trust factor ratings. Reader of ancient scrolls, DJ, premier poker analyst and dissector of nascent strategies, possibly smartest man on Earth. Sometimes a smoker, as depicted in the photo above while highly inebriated on the job.

Never leave home without Muscle, the best civic shield, and he’s funny when smashed. Known for the timeless catch-phrase . .
“Why don’t you try me, tough guy . . .”

Skip Jurgeonsenn is the fixer of divine ailments and a hot-head. The word fracas has never been the same after roaming the badlands with this clown.

Amazingly, his blatantly original approach and flavor for the fine arts has propelled him into major favor with female species. His value by far surpasses the two most precious of stones.

Raj Chopra, our proclaimed Doctor of the Arts, master of player hating crossed with biting social commentary, is widely celebrated for his unmatched pie making skills.
No joke, Raj makes the best pie I’ve ever eaten, and he’s one of The Bashers.

We also have the spiritual guidance of John Travolta.
Pulp Fiction is the second greatest movie of all-time.

One must also have legitimate legal representation, in case unforseen emergencies arise from the blindside, someone that can barter bonds lower.
Collin is also a bookie/part-time comedian specializing in mother jokes. They are the male backbone to all that encompasses the fragile nature in the Circle of Bash, may God protect us all.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Hopeless at The Coronet

Ventured out to The Coronet for mass beverage intake, gladly getting hammered with one of my favorite couples in the world. Rufus & Tania rule, two of the best real estate entrepreneurs in the greater Los Angeles area. Rufus came in with extra spirit in the conversation, and looking at them both, they really seemed to be happy.
Sadly, when Rufus hit the head to relieve himself, Tania confided that things weren’t going that well, that she didn’t know how much longer they’d be together. She wasn’t hitting on me in the process of the admission, which would’ve been difficult, as I’ve always wanted her for myself. It’s much harder to feel guilt about that when you’ve known the female in question longer than the male.

The slow destruction of the majority of relationships are mercifully concealed from the public discourse, frequently inducing astonishment when news hits the wire that it’s over and done with.

I was able to keep my mood on par, even though knowing more about the behind the scenes drama jabbed my skull blindly. Hell, Rufus seemed a nice guy, but in relationships, the one on one nature inescapably forces examination of deeper conscious thought, reveals ethical standards and such.

Luckily, in my case, common personality disorders aren’t tough to identify if you know what to look for.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006


Whenever I reach a mental breaking point, like I briefly did this morning from a situation well below ample description in adding merit, out of respect to the guilty (Time Warner Cable), I go to the Farmer’s Market at Fairfax. The beer specials at my favorite bar run all day every day, bottle of nice beer for $2.50. I also go there because my favorite bartender serves smiles better than anyone.

Aside from much of the obvious ogling the clientele display, she’s rather savvy and gives great advice. Multiple times, over the course of numerous beers, her intuitive nature on basic logic has rivaled my own. All bartenders should have that, although I think you can only be born with that level of enlightenment and wisdom.

She’s also patriotic, positively believes in the American dream, wears it like a badge of courage.

Which once again proves that brainy girls can work behind the bar. I’ve had my fair share of morons, the kind that put Diet Coke into the basic Captain Morgan & Coke. They look at you puzzled, like it’s your fault you didn’t say diet? Idiots like this worthless buffoon . .

The Belmont is World Heavyweight Champion of dumb wait staff/bartenders. Even though I vow to never return, their incredible mac & cheese is to die for. I think the key bonus material is the added bacon. Bacon is scrumptious on anything edible.

Point is one time I was threatened with police force at the east bar of the Farmer's Market during World Cup, I was blocking views and such with the abnormality of being tall, my fault. The security guard was nice and laughed it off, especially after I offered him a beer. Gloria thought it was funny . . .

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Swallowed By Lack of Control

Going out on a Monday night is wrong in many ways. Going out on a Monday night and drinking is wrong all the time, unless future greatness can be effected positively by instigating gloriously with your unrivaled integrity. Some of the most feared companions on the those journeys are the ones lacking tact, which can be an advantage in making you look better.

I went out yesterday night, and knowingly mass consumption curbed the head pains. The skateboard the night before drew more damage on the dead weight than the carry.

Watching football games at bars is an odd anomaly, considering the far from unusual fact that the best looking girls tend to be serving. All of them at El Guapo happen to be nice, in Los Angeles most are actors eh, the bizarre stuck on tangents uncontrolled by personal mind power with ambition.

Limitations on discipline allow insight on the subjects. Distaste can follow observing public image management gone awry, but the best have obvious talent or energize with great personality. Our woman earned a tip for high quality flirtations.

The game, which never gets paid attention when action surrounds periphery with great detail, wasn’t much of anything. Didn't really like either team, but enjoyed soaking in the social affairs. My friend Mike D. is probably bitter his Giants were ridiculed and plundered.
Sorry Mike, but Eli Manning will never win a Super Bowl, you heard it here first. If I were the owner of the Giants, I’d trade him for anybody any time.

The afternoon was productive, made sure all ends were covered, currently embarking on a mission of important field research to be commented anonymously upon soon. Drinking may be involved after, if not that, lightly philander about, or both.

Why aren’t there many good women around? Always remember to keep Captain cold to achieve edge.

Land of the Lost

Inspired by events yesterday with fuel:

Slap his ass once
to keep him moving
to keep puke off elbows
she looks onto you shrugged
army of one down to bone
he sweeps those water glasses clean
onto laps sloppily
forget about what happened
let’s hold onto shoes
preferably his
that was the night everything changed

Wasteland of misery beholden to eye
with impact of cards dealt
high noon challenges grounded tough
tremendously crashed
few understand where from
with usual style over substance
strange land we walk through as
a head's chopped onto the concrete
sniped by champions
watching over us all
slap that ass
again and again until collapse

Roll dead weight easy on the skateboard
sober all others from your agony
bust off accurate neglection
the knucklehead stumbles
jumbling tumble in the jungle
the blank facade duly crumbles

Monday, November 20, 2006


I dunno, Mondays always seem to come too soon, without further thought added to the compromises we make. I think about the girl (to protect the innocent/guilty, name not revealed) I banged Saturday night, the one where strings aren't tied together, done just because it felt like fun to the both of us, plus being obliderated by alcohol happened to help things carry on further. Nice girl, maybe I'll have her again, although I doubt it.

She has a bit of a facade about her, the way she approaches every day life and the people surrounding her. One thing to be good-looking, yet worse is the curse of foolish pride. She definitely suffers from both, not sure if she's medicating herself either, elevate her dwindling and strange self-esteem issues. She was two people locked in a bitter battle underneath her porcelain skin.

I just ponder why some people hit it off sexually, and besides that, there's absolutely nothing you have in common. Can't say that charge happens all too often, and I know my life would be much different if so, but it does lead to a rough struggle within the heart, the kind that lingers unnecessarily, loaded with questions like "is this all there is?"

Possibly, I could just be hard to satisfy, need some excess mental stimulation to go with the rest of the package. The girl in question was rather humorous in an offish sort of way, the tinge of snobbery behind slightest commentary, the way she would sometimes seem to speak down to her friends, belittle. I guess the humor comes from a dark place, and I found it funny in an eager train wreck watcher sort of way.

The hangover I still have continues to wreak havoc on my current interests. Wish worry was a part of the vocabulary, which is all but quashed from the Bayer.

Been invited out tonight, the cycle is never ending, and with tonight comes the inevitable search for love interests in bars and Jacuzzis. I haven't signed up for it, they always know what to expect with what I bring to the table. I think the best course of action is to reflect on what has happened and what will happen tomorrow.