These two people thought I was crazy after about 20 minutes in.
I am crazy, but with coherent motivations. I told them they’re either with me or against me, but either way I will succeed. They shrewdly left before we could Bash them into submission. I mean Hell, Mike D was making his presence felt.
The LBC crew had a raging birthday party the same night, which delayed mutual festivities a week or so. I didn’t fret since we already had enough lunatics underneath one roof. Mike D and Wayne Maxwell count as 5.
In my humblest of opinions, the coolest gift given was from Cinnamon, seen here with her lovely partner-in-crime Whitney.
I’ve heard rumors from credible sources that a gift certificate for The Shave in Beverly Hills is unbeatable and vastly gratifying spiritually. Thanks to Cinnamon, I’ll have to go in all scraggly for sure! Raj was pretty low-key after getting hammered the night before, so I guessed that he was plotting his next moves on women.
It had been a tremendous week for him as well, making his mark across town and planting flags. My buddy Juan started shaping some intrepid moves, so I dove into combat following his usually strong lead.
Not good to always lead, although I savor the possibilities my instinctual desires contain.
Shelley was there, who I seem to see out and about rather frequently of late. She’s an expert in the field of music.
I even made a groovy new friend by accident while double fisted with Captain Morgan.
She’s already been injected into the Circle, a new face landing in Los Angeles from Houston who remains untainted. Plank walking is always assured.
I also love quality guilt by associations, like when one Circle collides with another to form an everlasting bond. I enjoy taking responsibility for future damage. Pez and Lance hit if off gloriously.
Then, to further the cause, I introduced Pez to Dave and Wayne.
Wayne was doing great work as always, here pictured with Red Stripe, one of my favorite beers.
I’ve never known whether I like it because of the taste or the novelty that it’s from Jamaica.
The Hat is usually makes unstoppable movements.
I’ve decided that his rampaging legend isn’t far exceeded by need, but moreover by natural ability that can’t be perceived with complex mathematic equations.
He tried to convince Keith to buy more
17 Days In A Crackhouse shots from Z, which led to adored brutalization.
Birthdays at bars are incomplete without rounds of shots to go around, especially when it’s
17 Days In A Crackhouse, The Coronet house specialty.
Keith supplied four rounds, three of which ended up coming my way.
He also supplied me with a bottle of Captain Morgan Private Stock, which will be consumed by tonight without doubt.
Raymond dropped in as well, the most recent wild card to be added to the Gallery of Horrors. I saw his band Plastic Explosive a while back, now the new direction is Archways, and they’re excellent.
I like his method of seeing something he likes and taking it, a purely biological characteristic showcased in the best, the same talent Skip possesses. And Raymond can sing, much like how well Rolo plays the guitar.
Rolo came brandishing his humorous shenanigans to the delight of ladies and gentlemen with cheer. Duress was officially quashed.
His witticisms would’ve made Ian Fleming proud. Only Tosh can come close in street smarts.
Winslow was getting cozy at the bar, guarding my precious stash of illegal gifts and substances, his logic and reasoning remaining far and beyond what’s commonly understood by masters.
Of all allowed to battle, I was stunned that Noel didn’t take any vengeance out on me for the horrible Wild Turkey destruction and calamity I caused him at the Liquid Kitty.
He was ultimately abused. Since it’s a common question asked from new Coronet blood, I told Noel I’d been to Star Strip Theatre across the street once, seemingly years ago. These overzealous vultures populated The Coronet one night, armed with a thick stack of free admission passes. Later into the night, they just started handing them out candidly, so our large groups combined and explored.
The experience might rank as one of the most depressing ordeals on record. It wasn’t that the strippers were bad looking or heinous, although a few must’ve been dumped off hours earlier from the local halfway house, but the clientele went beyond the pale of disgustingly gross. I ended up leaving with the girls in my group that night because they couldn’t handle it, and I don’t blame them. No lure has brought me back.
While on the subject of strip club enthusiasts, the appearance of two superstars, Eric and Lester, simply made the night complete.
They both utilize Los Angeles cabs more resourcefully than anybody I know. The party people were getting a little hungry, so Rolo ate the club.
An expert in the field with inside information told me that most of their strippers are studying law, a comment that feels about as likely as me eating cake. Kwame Brown and Lance agree; the best cake is the kind that’s thrown.
After realizing the exponential growth of after-party options withering away with each shot pushed in my direction, Skip had the intuition to know to go ahead and hit the cell for post-game pillaging of booty calls.
Wayne hit up Barry’s delivery around 1:30am, and the pie delivery was housed before most could get a cut.
Even though my fat slice didn’t have a candle, I devoured it in about 15 seconds flat. Thankfully, Bashers began to bail.
In my haste earlier in the week, partially due to mental haze associated with an unreal Wednesday night Bashing at Del’s Saloon karaoke, I apparently agreed to lunch with Roxie’s parental units at about 11am on Sunday morning. I briskly retreated back to Wayne’s place blocks away, only to be greeted by Colonel, who was fiercely in attack mode.
I regret not serving The Colonel any beer, but he was chipper and eager to play at 3am.
While drunk on the plush couch, the end of the Harry Potter movie was on, which traumatized me greatly.
So, of course, a couple channels lower happened to be Swingers, and then that.
Roxie even convinced me to take the floor for yet another show stopping duet.
Singing “Joey” by Concrete Blonde was her idea, and my lack of lyrical knowledge earned me glares of despise from the many eardrums I abusively shattered. She definitely carried the weight of our performance. That led to Dante's captivating theatrics. 
Dante is never afraid to serenade an unsuspecting female with scared boyfriend by her side, mostly because singing Bob Marley’s “Is This Love” is universally accepted as non-threatening.
I enjoy deer in headlights, and so does Roxie. 
She also did some good P.R. by meeting a journalist for a local paper, one who will undoubtedly assist in spreading hazardous propaganda when my masterpiece of a philosophy book gets published within the month.
And of course, being blessed with the presence of Dante only adds an urgent vibrancy to Bashing. The courageousness of his attacks are undoubtedly entertaining, but his well-timed comic quips come from an intense intelligence bystanders covet.
Dante brought along the always “cool under pressure” Gary, a Basher with a penchant for decadence. He's on the left in Roxie's cap.
Under the guidance of Roxie, we played musical hats and swapped for fun. My sincere hope is that I didn’t contract head lice. My worries were quickly erased when a stunning turn of events pulverized the consistently sturdy balance in my life.
I shockingly bumped into Ericka, a former flame fantasized about who had apparently moved to Santa Monica months ago, a breathtaking coincidence that blew me away, a turn of events unexpected, for the haunting of my past catching up threw my psyche into a reckless tailspin. At first I was somewhat speechless, grasping for firm bearings, forcing myself to speak to her which came off stunted, feeling as though my command of the English language slipped into incoherent slurring and emulated poor greenhorn commentary that usually leads to irreversible embarrassment. My actions were definitely bush league.
She’d been to Del’s years ago, and in this case, dropped in to see how well the place had progressed. She seemed unfazed by our chance encounter, but the innermost effect on me was immediate and abrupt.
I deflected my nervous attention by taking photographs with Roxie’s camera, since my beloved Canon remained in Best Buy purgatory with a service completion date dwelling in irritating limbo. Ericka loved my new hat, so I swiftly ended up letting her wear it. We ventured to the outside, because I had to introduce her to Roxie at once.
She had never met Roxie before, and the both of them hit it off famously, a sign that my judgment is on par with what the world would want.
Roxie instantly fell in love with her, which isn’t hard to do. After all, Ericka did win the “Best Head on Chest When I'm Waking in the Morning” Award. Time can be kind to rekindling unless the dream has burnt out. I hope it hasn’t.
The sign outside says dancing, although there’s very little room to accommodate such a proposition. I decided to show up drunk and disorderly to make The Hat proud.
Raj was rather serious for the most part, taking in the scenery while conspiring with professional Bash thrower Keith.
After the annihilation I suffered at the hands of Keith for my B-Day, I was able to maintain a quiet calm from these proceedings since the target was no longer on my back.
The Hat’s buddy Rex dropped in from Oregon for the weekend, adding to the apparent aberration feared by most.
Massive amounts of chest hair are well-respected in Grant's Pass. Wasted from the Jager, The Hat began to play his kazoo to thrill the awe-struck patrons.
Of course, I reveled in his unmatched playing skill and applied my own haphazard dancing dexterity to the ugliness of it all.
The Hat’s attack on females was stronger than I've grown accustomed to, as exhibited here by his easy infiltration of an unsuspecting clan adorned in bright green Patty wear.
He fortunately achieved their information, which for The Hat usually comes with little effort due to his unabashed charisma. The kazoo closes all deals.
I like the fact that my favorite Lost & Found bartender knows to pour me a Captain Morgan and Coke unless I ask for something different, although I sometimes have to remind her of the importance a lime can have in the grand scheme of things.
That is the mark of a stellar tender, the kind that gets tipped well for service rendered beautifully. She always moves me to the front of the line. The Hat started to get out of control after a few Irish Car Bombs, an expected outcome that heavy drinking can incur.
There was even a late appearance by Josh Lucas . . . err, Wayne Maxwell.
He represented hammered, crushed by a St. Patty’s related baby shower in Venice that shifted his blood-alcohol level into the highly positive range. He thankfully avoided a checkpoint by mere anticipation, the kind of gut-instinct a Basher carries with him effortlessly.
I love when The Hat wreaks havoc on everything around him, undaunted in his advances and naturally joyous around strangers.
I’ve ceased being surprised by the maverick magic on display when he’s operating at his social peak. Women tend to like him, and why wouldn't they? 
If he ever has kids, I fear for the future.
Other than the tall and stiff cocktails that Z serves with glee, The Coronet is a famed low-key place to take a cool girl and throw back a few. For once the place wasn’t very chill, probably due to the introduction of Skip.
Skip had never been to The Coronet, and he was rather surprised that no exotic dancers had entered the bar as of yet.
I told him that they saunter over if they’re having a rough night or make wads of cash. The Coronet can be about getting drunk and closing deals, and past successes have reaped rewards for all involved. Just ask The Detonator.
Luckily The Detonator, who amazingly enough happened to be in town for my birthday at last, was able to assist me when it came strategic drinking, although I was drunk at the door anyway.
While drunk on the plush couch, the end of the Harry Potter movie was on, which traumatized me greatly.
So, of course, a couple channels lower happened to be Swingers, and then that. 
