Monday, August 13, 2007

Bash of the Year?

A bizarre text message from The Detonator led me into the Hollywood Hills for what could be classified as a certain nominee for “Bash of the Year.”
The party was packed, featuring every vice imaginable or not, with the sort of abundance at hand that would make a doe-eyed rookie cringe in terror.
The Detonator also receives credit for bringing along Suzy, a vivacious free spirit who laughs in the face of fear, a rad girl by all accounts.
According to legend, wearing the hat of The Detonator brings about some sort of mystically magical power, especially in those who possess limitless intangibles. That’s probably why he’s the Tom Hanks of the “Basher of the Year” competition.
Carolla, standing on the left, has been known to throw ridiculously orchestrated Bashes of insane magnitude, and this was no different.
Tremors are commonly felt days after. My new friend Spike vouched for that.
So did a buffoon named Anthony . . .
The list of characters was endless. To my most pleasant surprise, Gloria bafflingly surfaced sharking her way through novice opponents at the pool table for loose cash.
She adorably had her gentle cousin Jesse in town from Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
He progressively became friendlier and more open with each drink, reminiscing about the last big fish he caught, then claiming he’d never seen anything like this in his life.
Gloria’s skills on the pool table certainly rival that of Devon Ahmad, a battle for the ages I’d love to see, a tough one to wager on.
Her charisma during games can throw off the most competitive pool players, leaving their judgments up for second guessing and their confidence dwindled by trick shots from the end of Gloria’s cue.
I might have to make a showdown happen, if not for Posterity’s sake, strictly for the sake of humanity at large.
Meanwhile, inflatable balls in the pool became renegade weapons, often landing on heads or being the cause of distressing alcohol spillage.
Later, I stumbled upon my favorite DJ after Lance Cannon, Eric Mandini, who earned my respect in The Foundation Room for playing "Hoochie Mama."
Him and Lance are buddies, and I’d seen him before at Concorde and another time at a Labor Day soirĂ©e. It didn't stop there, acquaintances kept coming. Rex and his girl remebered me from another reckless occasion and greeted me with open arms.
He knows Eric as well, but at this Bash, the obvious focal point was DJ Scribble at the helm, above the pool pumping out jam after jam. At one point I received a shout out for the props I was dropping; there was no stopping him.
He’s a true master of turntablism, and doing damage on the block is definitely in his job description. I had a hard time standing still with the perfection of the mixes tickling my eardrums. Besides the unbelievable skills at work, the flow of the 12 kegs intricately enhanced the booming beats. We were all on cloud nine.
Meeting people is easy when the party-goers are comfortable in their own skin. I was a big fan of Red, whose sharp and tacitly pointed humor placed her up on the pedestal of greatness with the immediacy of an inflamed appendix removal. I think it was at this point I realized my drunken endeavors would be guided by pure instinct instead of contemplated rationalizations.
I forgot her name moments after the reveal, neglecting to attain proper information for future adventure possibilities. The same goes for these two lovely girls I was chatting up.
I randomly bumped into Terry from Chatsworth, a girl I hadn’t seen in nearly five years. At this point I’d reached my limit on random bump-ins. Does everyone know Carolla?
The Detonator was cold lampin, and he did a few beer bongs for the sake of Bashing.
The Detonator, for all intents and purposes, isn’t hindered by the appearance of alcohol distribution devices.
Later that night, around 2am, with the help of The Detonator, I was truly the Burrito King.
To sum up the affair, they were all Bashers.

Monday, August 6, 2007


I went to see Lara and Mike get married at the amazing Earl Burns Miller Japanese Garden.
The anticipation was excruciating, clock hands moving slow for what seemed an eternity. Their union was met with much rejoice among the rare flowers and celestially flawless landscape. It was clear that the breathtaking scenery made us quickly forget that this was on the campus of Long Beach State.
I was shocked to see something of unmatched beauty at LBSU, but nothing was as beautiful as the bride.
Wayne Maxwell decided to pimp the event with his usual flair, even offering me $300 to dive onto the wedding cake. I passed on the deal.
When I asked him who he was targeting at the wedding he shrugged, then bluntly said while pointing, “It’s too easy mang.” The wayward groomsmen agreed.
It was great to see Mike, whose anticipation regarding the incoming wedding dress permeated from his demeanor deeply.
The Hoff was there without wig, and the incomparable Ronny was brilliant in his approach to add incredibly needed moral support.
The wedding photographer was a complete fraud, a joke of a human being, a pompously self-centered egomaniac that decided to show up an hour and a half late. What a jerk.
The brave ringbearer tried to calm Mike’s nerves, for intimidation was out of the question, and I know The Hoff was slipping him pulls of the Irish whisky flask.
Since this particular wedding dealt with a lot of consumption, The Detonator was cordially invited to attend.
I’ve always enjoyed having The Detonator at my side for debauched wedding adventures, and Roxie came along to Bash with the best.
The dinner choices were either filet mignon or fish. Raj and Roxie had the lasagna.
There was no going back. At one point, moments before the ceremony began, we snuck off into the parking lot to take some swigs off a handle of Captain Morgan from my trunk. Of course, we then had to wait for the wedding to begin, hanging back to observe greatness in its finest of forms. Raj, Roxie, Wayne and I, the four amigos, kicking back for five minutes until the procession moved ahead of us.
Nikki Carmichael got a kick out of us stumbling in from the lot, obviously in tune to what we were doing, what we were up to.
She looked very pretty in her maid of honor gear, stunning with her sway amongst the gawky revelers. Nikki and Pam have taken down proud scores over the many years I've known them.
Markswomen of their stature easily qualify as Bashers. Charm only goes so far, for it's truly the killer instinct that summons the highest rate of success. This is how Lara looked at me moments before I unceremoniously cut in on Fred.
I forget what I whispered in her ear during “What a Wonderful World,” probably because I was highly inebriated, but I recall her smiling and letting out her patented laugh, the real intoxicating one. This soon led to everybody dancing.
There was some quality hustling to be had, which is unavoidable for me when surrounded by spirited girls and “Brick House” blaring on the speakers. Sasha and Nikki are always spirited.
I found myself accidentally hitting on all the women, showing some moves while the full-court press went on cruise control. Sasha berated me for never calling her, sweating me over a truly unfortunate oversight.I think she kind of forgave me as the night progressed and we mixed it up, but my only solution to her justifiable gripe is following up on a promise.
Casey ended up catching the garter, possibly a sign of things to come, although my two lifetime catches never amounted to anything more than a photo-op.
The party raged on, leaving me breathless along with the others who left the garden for Westminster. It was great to see good people.
Later on, Casey’s aversion to anything dealing with matrimonial bliss culminated into a drunkenly accurate toss of the incriminating lingerie, landing squarely on top of Ronny’s sweaty fire pit.