Tuesday, December 18, 2007

The Canyon Salon Christmas Party

My best friend Roxie invited me to the annual Canyon Salon Christmas Party over at Blue in picturesque Agoura Hills.
It was there where I was able to reflect on the art of dressing properly while balancing the ideals of impression and conversational virtuism. The forum of friendly females was spectacular.
I knew most of them already, from past Bash adventures to stories of relevance told by others. When you’re surrounded by welcome company and endearment reigns supreme, it means you can take a lot of photos and you can drink a lot of Captain Morgan and Cokes.
Bernadette Bender, Crystal and Dani Devlin had no problem mixing it up on the dance floor with all, probably because they're top-form Bashers. Prior to arriving I had already participated in a variety of events, some of which involved consumption on the scale of rampaging elephants. I had arrived more than ready, the light sprinkle of cologne masking the scent of rum and smoke. My disheveled hair from hat problem was solved in seconds by Roxie’s inventive styling methods. The results were impressive.
I’m usually equipped with insurmountable amounts of resilience towards temptation, a badge of courage I carry among the weak. Being led into the Den of Beauticians by female species often entails dabbling in the wonder of the vortex of sensory overload.
Aside from the head-spinning bouts of unbound attraction, which became uncontrollable in the tail end, everyone there was dazzling, accommodating, humorous, and above rest, fun. Nothing that could be described as catty appeared before my eyes, a revelation considering what I’ve seen in a primarily female work environment (when we were once outnumbered 32 to 4). From that interesting experience, my good friend The Doctor suggested I write a book called “Hell in the Pink Ghetto,” perhaps because I became an expert in the field after three years in it. But at The Canyon Salon, disparaging looks and snide remarks were notably absent from view. Love was in the air.
Maybe it’s hidden well. There was one aimless remark from a nameless source, especially since the comment had arisen late into the night. “That girl has zero, nothing at all. Did you try talking to her?” Then it broke out into whatever. It wasn’t in reference to Vicky Vale, who was happily in attendance, definite nominee for "Basher of the Year."
She also ended up winning company wide raffle, and it’s too bad she didn’t win me.
Sadly, nobody won first prize for the splits. One random guy, whose cleverness could certainly be questioned and scrutinized, decided to take it upon himself to entertain us before Hyper Crush’s performance with a painful looking rip. Some suspected, and justifiably so, that he must, somehow, have very little in the middle.
Or he’s incredibly flexible like very bendable acrobats. The worst kind of tools are the ones that strive too greatly in their quest to impress, yet they miscalculate something along the way, instead invoking negatively targeted insults among the minions. Some people are too easy to bag on, and this dude was asking for it. Holly Valentine and I had a field day of the marvel.
Hyper Crush put on another great performance, firmly staking claim as my favorite live act in Los Angeles.
Roxie's sister Rita was there with her fiancé Nick, a fine young chap whose love runs deep.
I’ll be at their wedding this Saturday, and it will also mark my debut as official wedding photographer. I like making people look good, even when they’re involved in some serious action. As an example, Rita and the lovely Jill always look good in photos.
One guy was trying to make some moves on Jill, but I could tell she was blowing off his amateur advances.
She certainly seemed a lot more at ease when Uncle Bob came around, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend valuable time. Although I would've relished the opportunity to rescue such a fine young lady, she was in good hands the moment Uncle Bob swooped in.
It was at this particular point I was unresponsive to any more alcohol. I had also been adorned with pantyhose over my neck, the owner of which remained a mystery to all, a sort of Sunday punch.
I garnered laughs for it, but eventually it was removed by Bernadette and tossed into fire. I also continued my penchant for walking into ladies restrooms on accident. A girl who was in there, witnessing me washing my hands after finishing, claimed that my "stupid" stunt deserved her a cold beverage on my tab. I agreed, but never gave her squat, instead scorning due to annoying voice and unflattering scent. My Bashers helped me ignore the broad, so our focus returned to Bashing. At this point, the showcase of debauchery began surfacing through many causes. Dani Devlin couldn't even keep her hands off this rock-solid beefcake!
She's irresistable, and quite frankly, I was getting a little bit jealous from the drink. My silence on the matter of pantyhose brought about the air of intrigue, that something had indeed happened, that it was better left unsaid. Plus a gentleman never tells, and that always remains; I was one in the beginning of the night and I left the same way.
There was also one glaring example of “what’s a nice girl like you doing with swine like that.” Lack of better judgment baffles, blinders on, unable to cognitively come up with better options. Some just don’t know any better. Then you have the couples that are innately made for each other. Their bond, from beginning to end, shines throughout and gives off a crazy energy. No questions are asked, what's given is what is. Those are everything.Aside from first hand experience regarding how good my hair always looks, The Canyon Salon is clearly a goldmine in Westlake Village, even the world. According to Roxie, "The visionary Sharon Perry is my hero!"

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Rhino Horn and Other Myths

I think the greatest mortal sin perpetuated upon a Basher is not being presented with a lime when ordering Captain Morgan and Coke at a bar. This is a perfect example of Captain Morgan and Coke presentation.
That was courtesy of a quiet bartender at The Penthouse over at The Huntley Hotel, a pretty place which overlooks the Santa Monica coastline. Hotel bartenders at nice hotels are 100% on serving the Captain Morgan and Coke correctly. Bonus was that the female Penthouse bartender was scantily clad, although in that atmosphere it definitely was not appropriate attire. My Bashers were dressed better.
I was a little jumpy that night, which reminded me of dog owners scolding their pet for jumping on visitors, although it is welcomed with The Colonel.
Master Chen once said, "It's good to be loving, but being loved comes a very close second." Everyone loved Patches, but he wasn't able to return it.
I was sad when he left for San Francisco from Lance's, and merely rumors of his existence have floated around since. It was also rumored that The Hat was in the vicinity, so he joined me for drinks with Devon Ahmad at Del's Saloon to further analytical thought.
Her dart skills, among the many talents she has innately mastered, are well beyond professional compared to the majority of the empire. She cleaned house again, putting my arguably sharp dart abilites into the gutter. All the quarters from the sack got cleaned out as well.
She doesn't miss marks. I like cool girls like her, the type that are genuinely friendly and fun. I think the reason some people are unfriendly is because others haven't been friendly to them, or they've been burned by trusting the wrong person or persons. Having good judgment in those matters can't be taken for granted, and when healthy, it will lead you precisely right. Believably, the worst are the ones making fun behind your back, the ones deserving of the most Venom.
Actually, sometimes the ones making fun are the truly friendly people, returning the favor of Bitchiness back. Nothing quite like entering a conversation where the other person figures you're jockeying an angle that doesn't exist. Idiots have vivid imaginations. Captive animals keep it so simple, requiring the kind of attention which equates to hours of amusement, as demonstrated by Lara toying with Luna (who happens to be male).
Even a donkey can entertain us. On occasion the Art of Bashing can become nearly fictional, when what you see disturbs with shifty humor later, but at the time reveals itself as pure debauchery. The ultimate myth of Bashing is that it's simply based in the world of partying. Factually, it's a sacred essence that engulfs you, only letting go when you're dreaming fast asleep, exploring. There was a night we went to L.A.X.I pointed naively towards a very awkward dancer in jest, to which Roxie replied, "There's no such thing as bad dancing, and if you aren't sweating, dance more."
So I was making my smooth moves as usual, we were wrecking the scene, I was having a great time. The pieces falling in place weren't predicted, in a good way. I decreed that new horizons would be shattered for splendor, and besides knowing the present, the future had already provided its own share of riches. Kings would be crowned, Queens would be made, the outer realms pillaged and plundered, gold for all. Then associated friend bottomed out hard from too much.The result was less than spectacular, throwing the unpredictable future into a very predictable one. A Basher lacking control of their thirsty liver ends up guttered.
Fitting, you see it again and again. It's the fine line of trying too hard, that you can outdrink jovial cohorts, that you can hang with iron tolerance alchies. Limits get blacked. It hurts most when close to home, when the not so lovely experience of being around abrupt rawness gets pushed right up in your face, the blunt conclusion trivial. Night is effectively destroyed, the lost hope becomes magnified to contempt. The only contradiction is that they probably get nominated for "Basher of the Year," for one incident alone can be worthy of the precious nod.
I needed a liberator for my disillusionment, someone to fix my rampantly scattered thoughts after the L.A.X. mess. Hours ago I asked Nikki Carmichael for her honest opinion, to which she curtly retorted, "Why care?"

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Halloween Reset

Because of global warming and a cruel libation shortage, Captain Excess had to emerge from out of retirement to do battle against ne'erdowell malcontents and perverse transients. My first skirmish was in the Matrix, gladly armed with only Smirnoff Green Apple Vodka pulls.
I surprisingly overcame insurmountable odds, coming away intact with a bit of poise and a bit of chutzpah. Hours later my energy levels were peaking from the scrumptious stylings of Hyper Crush, who once again battered my body into dance floor heaven. To remain low-key and off the radar, I adjusted my appearance to mimic common civilian wear.
I blended in with the crowd effortlessly at first. Holly Valentine looked gorgeous; she was doing something devilishly supernatural, lowering my normally symmetrical inhibitions, and it wasn't the plentiful booze I'd consumed on the way over, but it easily could've been the sweet scent of Holly's flawless skin.
I had my two molls along for extra added protection, figuring my measly shank wouldn't be enough juice to survive the night.
I was blatantly assailed on the dance floor for being recognized as the towering Floyd Sanders, so Roxie took care of him, rubbed him out brutally.
He didn't stay dead for long and became a zombie, but he chilled the Hell out. The focus returned to the music and Donny Fontaine, seminal member of Hyper Crush. He kept the crowd moving with his crafty lyrics on dope beats.
He tore the place to shreds with wicked rhyme flow. Their party anthem "Sex and Drugs" has secured a nomination for song of the year '07. I think we all agreed that future celebrities were performing right under our noses. That called for more Bashing.
I was feeling lucky and blessed, knowing that the Way of the Bash was guiding my every move and overseeing important actions in an objective light. All this, of course, was remedied by the grim mistake of coming across The Detonator.
He was rather snappy, animated, and was speaking with a strangely constructed Cuban accent. My good friend Omar Suarez would've appreciated the stuff he had in pocket. It was then, without warning, that I transformed into the heathen of heathens, the master of disaster, ferocious and frenzied with a pure dose of carnal voltage!
With the untimely exit of Holly, her casted spell sadly wearing off, the burning appearance of Taylor instantly threw me into a lavishly welcomed relapse.
I could feel a sudden surge in my hot-blooded psyche, launching my once coherent thoughts into the proverbial tailspin of scattershot dreams and morbid foolishness. While luxuriating in her presence for a time, I neglected to notice her dog wasn't very appreciative of my big oogly eyes. The dog mauling arrived without an overt signal.
I came away from combat emotionally and physically scarred, knowing that it wouldn't take weeks, it would instead take months to recover properly from coming too close to an intense sort of majesty. I crawled, badly beaten and bloodied, to the feet of the mythical Strawberry Shortcake.
I refuse to beg for anything, but she was sincerely concerned for my well-being, so she pulled out the robust antidote and handed it over.
Minutes later I was back to normal, somewhat drained from the experience, but I needed to find glory forthwith, for the limits of my power slowly begun to surface to the delight of my enemies and foes. To help bring back my rampage, my trusted comrade Devon Ahmad was able to down an entire bottle of Merlot on command.
As I applied the sparkle of my mighty "Trickle-Down Drinking" voodoo, Devon began telling everyone to "Bash or be Bashed," the result being countless ingestions of various intoxicants by awestruck humans. The effect was overwhelming, the targets were duly blasted.
Willful subservience via Bashing is something I look up to, but it's also superior when done responsibly. I was pleased Peacock was around to assist with regulation, and she diligently followed my earlier advice. Over breakfast I told her that Halloween could become an all out war of dramatic proportions.
Some Jedi guy tried to be cool, pulling out his lightsaber haphazardly, surely intent on showing the world that his tepid tricks and marginal swordplay could dominate a place localized by Captain Excess and his minions. Peacock scoffed at his ill-timed drunken mistep.
She worked him over worse than the movingly crippled Fallen Angel.
To fuel further insult to injury, I summoned Ridge Thornway from vacation to engage in his favorite activity: causing bodily dismemberment and mayhem.
Ridge BBQ'd Jedi in special sauce. I declined the taste, as would most rational people. The only other hint of trouble came from Tina Turner of Thunderdome fame, seen here with a thugged out Raj Vasher.
He faced the wheel and won amputation, a much better prize than the reviled "gulag." The highlight, courtesy of Taylor, was forcefully gaining a sponsorship from Radioactive Energy Drink for successfully Bashing others into drunken lushes, a point of personal worth among those in the know.
Being equipped with an endless supply of Radioactive, along with a case of Smirnoff and a black light, I'll certainly be able to infiltrate hallowed lands with the vigor and confidence of a True Basher. I will win.
To quote The Ronda, "My favorite part of Halloween is that girls usually dress up as Slutty [fill in the blank]."