We saw “Children of Men,” one of the best films of the year, yet disturbing enough to enhance The Detonator’s crippling illness harmfully. As we left the theater, his cough was ready to form into emerald rivers of vomit.
The Grove was a madhouse, leaving us with the only option of parking on the roof. I felt bad for The Detonator, mainly for buying him a few rounds of beer at the Farmer’s Market beforehand, which probably didn’t aid his rapidly deteriorating condition.
Being sick prevented him from attending the “End of an Era” Bash in Venice. It was too much fun, leading me to sadly dodge Ryan’s party, who had his real name exposed via voice mail. The avoidance was ultimately deemed adequate.
Properly practiced lead procurement techniques succeeded in picking up a couple new potential Partners-In-Crime, one with an LBC connection and the other definitely Jacuzzi bound.
I’ve evaded gaining a reputation as a drunk, and in fact, many can never tell the difference between me drunk or sober. I can be shockingly drunk and no one ever can tell. The verbal dexterity is maintained without a tinge of the slurring that often accompanies alcoholic dazes, and the biting humor retains impact.
Highlight was seeing Tina, a favorite of mine for years, a bundle of pure delight wrapped up neatly in a complete package. She qualifies Bashes instantly without effort.
After much playful coaxing with peppered innuendo, I convinced her to throw another legendary Bash at her place. Later, glancing at my watch, I realized the night had run its course, and the smart move was to exit an otherwise great party in order to rest up for a crazy Sunday.
Last minute New Year’s Eve decision was a b-line over to Rich’s house off Crescent Heights, an easy decision to make when coupled with a simple lack of creative inspiration.
I had Cinnamon join me as Partner-In-Crime, a great choice because of her exceedingly pleasing presence in the face of adversity, not to mention her gift for being a voice of reason in the midst of insanity.
Our first eye-catching image upon entry were the female attention seekers, self-indulgent show-offs, the kind suffering side-effects from ADD drugs ripened with whisky.
The seriousness of their kissing and fondling quickly became a mockery, with onlookers reveling in the shamelessness and immaturity of skanks. There’s nothing quite like being drunk and watching overzealous sluts cavorting on a living room floor, libertines in every way, low-class yet arousing to some.
By zooming in on the black ink scribbled on her leg, it read, "You hot sexy drunk! Luv ya, love bites . . ." and something else indecipherable.
They weren’t the only ones friendly with each other, as depicted here by one of the many drunken bouts of wrestling and mildly amusing abuse. 
The tail-end strangeness was compounded by an appearance of The Wolf, which was exciting to the degree of getting smashed in the face with a sledgehammer.
We reminisced of the good old days, when important cares in the world were secondary to finding babes and beer. I briefly spoke to Lance, but his hands were full with a feisty girl who had taken a liking to him, so thwarting progress made was out of the question.
The Hat showed later after attending The Flaming Lips at USC, his gleaming mood of warmth easy to associate with the intense fumes of alcohol emanating from his sweat glands.
I even got my typical fill of Rich’s artistry, seen here with the guinea pig who agreed to grow his hair out.
With each minor shave a new photo was taken, which will eventually be put together as a short film showing the hair slowly disappear, a nice trick planned for six months, culminating in this final showdown on New Year’s Eve.
Street lights from the cab devolved into millions of quasars vying for notice, the fare blurred as I slumped over Cinnamon with a wad of cash in hand.
Dumped off at the pad, wrecked rather rotten, I couldn’t fall asleep because of the inordinate amounts of alcohol polluting my blood stream. Tried the foot on the ground approach, failed miserably, prolonged necessary relaxation and slumber. Could barely open eyes all day, TV out of the question, the only comfort coming from burying my face onto pillows. Whatever took place in the outside world was beyond my own stifled recognition.
So New Year's Day consisted of nothing, phone turned off, blinds shut to blackness. The day was a waste, compounded by my own predictable behavioral pattern of continuous sleep. Not sure if my currently ridiculous yet crucial sleeping cycle is completed. I’m so boring.
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