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?"

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