King of Bash: 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.