Bum Fight at Del's Saloon

Puzzlingly dreadful week, truly associated with circumstances dire, and along with my stunted bodily functions I’ve also been unable to form complete sentences over the phone or face to face with individuals or groups. Atoning for my sins, most of which are time management related, has left me catatonic with little to no energy or enthusiasm. I strive to be lucid once again.
I’m normally driven by the basics, the spectacle of grand achievement, trophies steadily placed on the mantle, glorious victories in the face of defiant odds, balanced advancement towards world domination, and yet all of those emotions and wants are far cry from my stance now.

Probably the cursory reason I unleashed the blatantly pointed diatribe of days ago, “Venom,” although I take none of those clever words back, the supercharged venting needed to happen months ago. That trollop still gets no love.

In a valiant attempt to eradicate the prevailing mood within, I ventured to Del’s Saloon for a few cocktails alone, to sort of soak in a public appearance without strings. I mostly observed actions, engaged in small talk with a few patrons I’ve come to know, and I assiduously took detailed notes on trivial actions around.
Later, after properly surveying in the scene, I arbitrarily started chatting up these dudes, and they weren’t exactly cut from the friendly cloth.
Then I noticed that the music had stopped playing, so I began to load up the jukebox with my favorite tunes, add ambiance to the suddenly stilted dive bar. Went with the customary choices, “Wild Horses” from The Rolling Stones, “That’s the Way of the World” from Earth, Wind & Fire, “Ten Years Gone” from Zeppelin, “Tired of Being Alone” from Al Green, “Who’s that Lady” from The Isley Brothers, and of course, “L.A. Woman” from The Doors.

I was stopped there, even though I put in $5, because of a ruckus coming from the outside, along with a few people moving quick for the front door. Inevitably, I rushed to join the drunken gawkers in their quest for obviously sordid entertainment.

Lo and behold, a fiery panhandler had a compelling quarrel with dude in Shawn Kemp Supersonics jersey.
Admittedly, I have taste for the macabre, and this came close to qualifying in spades. I didn’t manage to catch the first part, which was probably the initial hand to hand combat, so instead I was left with watching the looming attacker circling his prey on the ground.
The hobo eventually gave up, the spectacle and growing crowd becoming a distraction, so he grabbed his knapsack, tossed some poignantly tense expletives at his opponent, and briskly walked away into the darkness of Santa Monica Blvd.

Supersonic guy refused to elaborate on what the squabble was about; although a friend of his later told me the argument started over a simple cigarette. Losers are amusing.