King of Bash: Barbarism at The Coronet

A bit of an Inner Circle gathering was in order at The Coronet for B-Day Basherama, hopefully the last hurrah of a bona fide memorable week that still sees me recovering and processing abnormalities in perception.

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.

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.