Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Food, Booze & Boobs = Dread

Yes, dread, a word rarely, if ever, associated with Bashing from my fathomless vocabulary. Dread appears easy when feeling as I do, out of step, brain activity minimal, the hurt. Thoughts struggle to go elsewhere.

I could use the beauty of a coast cruise to lessen the blow, bring a glimmer of hope to the outlandish outlook that dictates my wrecked cognition.
I’m already afraid to flashback to the circumstances that have led to my current status as a bore, the kind others fear getting an infection from. But this is an outlet, a purposeful venture geared towards the goal of vivid reflection, for good or ill, whether attaining clear illumination of horrifying consequences or reveling in the glory of the plunder. First stop is the Comedy Carhole off Bundy.
70 people and a keg were motivating, so Friday started with my lawyer Collin taking the stage, a founder of the Comedy Carhole genre, which instantly reminded me of the ridiculous nature of lunacy he has effortlessly created many times before. Knowing legal assistance is a phone call away keeps me at ease.
Collin's set was about that Warcraft game slobs play. He must've done a lot of research, since intermittent laughs came from corners of the yard. Mantooth even took the stage with his girl doing sign language. Not sure if I would’ve gotten through without translation.
I then met a wretchedly drunk girl from Isla Vista named Sara, and she immediately took a liking to me and cuddled up for unrelenting warmth.
I achieved tremendous trust after helping her up a stairway. She didn’t fall. I was scolded a few times while chatting her up, although much of the loudness came from her booze lubed pipes. Mattered little, a couple chumps performed badly, so I didn’t bother snapping their photos for callous public discourse. The next stand-up was pretty funny, went with a fresh spin on the boyfriend bashing route.
One guy brought his guitar to the stage, sang a few ditties worth mentioning.
His side-splitting country song entitled “My Girl is a Tractor” induced a healthy amount of laughter from the crowd. It’ll surely appear on YouTube when I have a chance to upload the clip.

Once the show was finished, I started selling Saturday’s Bash as “Food, booze, and boobs,” which seemed to grab the attention of Carhole attendees. A few of the enthused ones actually showed on Saturday, a testament to my finely honed closing skills.
The stop afterwards at The Joker was unwarranted; it’s a place I’d once famously said “would never have the pleasure of seeing me again.” Not to say hatred prevails from my thoughts when mulling over possibilities at yet another royal hole in the wall, it moreover stems from the shady clientele it tends to serve. Some people are cool though, like this guy that greeted me at the door.
The bartender was quickly in my favor after a pleasant exchange on the first round, leading to an intensely strong Morgan & Coke.
My departure was premature for sure, certainly out of self-preservation when faced with a brutal weekend ahead. Regardless, I’d already failed, the spiral downward was put into motion, turning back from destiny was futile. Crashed out pretty hard, rested during the Saturday afternoon, then continued Bashing gloriously.
The Triple Birthday Bash on Saturday . . . another spectacular success due in part to quality organization. The first person to say hello was Raj.
Keith, one of the hosts, couldn’t resist putting together another stunning mystery juice of mayhem, the kind with enough intense flavors to overcome any undertone of robust alcoholic aftertaste.
Lance briefly made an appearance, more out of common courtesy than anything else. We hadn’t Bashed lately, our schedules unjustly achieving the effect of opposites, a deviation that hadn’t surfaced in quite some time. He was due to leave for Las Vegas in the early hours of Sunday morning and was yet to pack.
Lance is definitely the most well traveled from the Circle of Bash. Skip then made his presence known swiftly, armed on arrival with the perpetually ravishing Catrina under his wing and an expensive bottle of champagne in hand.
He quickly made the rounds as he always does with flair, never any sign of reluctance, fearless in his momentum, confidence reigned in and acknowledged by the envious around.
Raj’s brother Steven added his unbridled charisma to the fray, as seen here Bashing next to my good friend Cinnamon.
He recently broke with his love of six years, meaning his mug will be prominently displayed for future events. I told him that instituting Rebound Theory tomorrow would be beneficial to him in the long-term, which is advice I give to everyone in his grim situation. The theory has been tested and proven, so I suggested he join the others in drowning sorrows.
When the party got into full swing the Bashing was triumphant, which is one reason why I keep track of Morgan consumption at Bashes by counting the limes that line my cup.
I left the party early in the morning, and the severity of my mixes led to lack of sleep, the type that forces you to stay awake, leading to, in my dire case, bouts with allegedly scenic photography.
Five modest hours of sleep, so I hastily grabbed my partner-in-crime Cinnamon and it was off to Raj’s home to watch the NFC Championship game in beautiful HD while eating bacon and goat cheese. He’s a New Orleans Saints fan, and the results weren’t exactly pleasing to him. I then took her over to Wayne’s for the second game. She met my good friend the Colonel.
After that, somewhat inspired, I realized that Cinnamon had never been to The Coronet, so I made sure to add the edge of enlightenment necessary to promote future appreciation and knowledge.
The dependable mastery of Z was in full effect, cocktail stiffness once again verified to be the greatest in Los Angeles. I also decided that Cinnamon needs to become a Raider fan because of how great she looked wearing my bucket.
I love her. Since then I’ve been a mess, for Monday barely existed, Tuesday seems a dream faded into obscurity, and today doesn’t resemble anything worthy of comment, although the Los Angeles weather is warm and cloudless.
I'm going to a Key Club show tonight featuring the Grandmasters known as DJ Muggs & the GZA, and I still suffer the tortures of the damned. I die a thousand deaths. I'm sure The Detonator won't have any of that.


Amanda Lee! said...

Haha, I like your usage of limes to keep track of how much captain you drink. I tend to use the number of straws I have... I transfer them to the glass of my new drink from the old one. At the end of the night, I always have approximately a million straws in my glass, especially if I am out with my roommate (she hates straws and puts hers in my cup, too). At the end of the night, I just divide by two (or four if I am with my roommate) and that's how many drinks I've consumed. I am sure that my Math skills are at their peak when I have a glassful of straws!

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