Keith served up another legendary Mardi Gras Bash at Barry that quickly morphed into the Grand Guignol of debauchery. It was a pleasure to be victimized on Saturday.
The party people got vibrantly festive, a few bringing their colorful and intricate feathery masks along to celebrate a usually decadent holiday.
The Hat was up to his recurrent hi-jinx, blending valor effortlessly with gusto and a sense of wonder.
When Raj arrived I knew that Night of Champions would take on the usual ebullience and vigor we've greatly grown accustomed to. The Abita was on him.
We sampled hurricanes and began mingling. It had been forever since I’d occupied the same area as Tatyana, and she emerged from the woodwork to put her harmonical talents on major display.
Warmly seated around the central flame, she sweetly harmonized underneath the bare black sky.
I never knew of her secret gift, and she serenaded us all beautifully. Paradise was a place we found in our hearts, and I told her she could join me on hobo-trains anytime. Meanwhile, Keith was indulging in his homemade gumbo.
That stuff was unstoppable, and apparently the cake bordered on incredible judging by the fact it didn't last. Winslow was in the house, so it didn’t take long for him to line up a target and attack.
The Bash also featured the worst DJ of all-time. Normally I would never say anything so mean or spiteful, but since I’m musically inclined and have successfully controlled turntables, changers and computers with incredible results and applause, I’m able to insult this guy without a tinge of trepidation.
Bad song selections coupled with an even worse attitude are inexcusable. When Marylou requested “Nuthin’ But a ‘G’ Thang” he shrugged. What? Dude didn’t even have “Hoochie Mama” when I asked a couple minutes after. Later on, I jokingly told him that it’s the last time he’ll DJ their party. I wasn’t really joking, and everyone polled agreed: Loser.
All wasn’t lost when Roxie crashed the Bash around 3am, bringing in ample reinforcements to elevate the status of an already mythical night.
Her crew was relentless upon entrance, steamrolling through the lavish Bash unflinchingly, forcibly pulling back the eyelids of drunkards to create a brutal combination of apprehension with ambitious vulching.
Except for Raj and I, everyone was unaware of the legend Roxie carried everywhere.
I hadn't seen Bernadette and Jill in months, both truly deserving of honorary Basher titles. And after Mardi Gras, they all do.
Raj dove into the fray headlong, juiced up by the courage dished from dueling hurricane mixes, confident in his focused verbal tactics and bold bodily demeanor.
The Hat and Raj have recently formed a steady alliance that transcends most of what the average onlooker could possibly comprehend. The Hat was caught in the headlights for about 10 minutes, but recovered after a crucial key lime shot and stepped his game up big.
Tommy, who I hadn't seen for a long time, got the edge he needed by knocking back a few hurricanes to eliminate false bravado.
On the other hand, Steven is really coming into his own.
As an added bonus, he's officially a Basher.
His success with Jager-pouring girl may have earned him a promotion up to the secondary rank and file in The Circle. He needed to finally get Rebound Theory to work, and he did so with the authentic aid alcohol provides. Liquid courage has its tawdry advantages. Not sure how well he felt in the morning from actions, but that matters little.
Jager girl got me blitzed. Winner for the "Coolest T-Shirt of the Bash" went to this hero.
R.I.P. David Palmer, Jack Bauer rules, and as a side note, I recently acquired the official Jack “Tactical Gear Bag” Sack for $24.
Raj eventually went interior and posted up before leaving.
And then there's the tribute to the fallen, with this particular guy holding up the wall after being moved from the outside once projectile vomit escaped his frothing mouth.
I was astounded as to how fast the vomit was cleaned, I mean seriously, how many people like watching that or seeing the aftermath? Good job by the host. At one point I was crowned king, probably out of recognition for Bashing gloriously yet again.
This was the last photo taken.
Johnny ended up leaving with her, destination unknown. The only thing that brought a smile to my face on Sunday morning was the appearance of pretty balloons over a car dealership.
Late afternoon realization confirmed the night was awesome. For the first time in the history of consciousness, I decided to sleep instead of watching the Oscars. I don’t care about the Oscars when I’m freely dreaming.
I missed Collin’s set from nap lagging, and in the process I saved brain cells that would’ve evaporated from his wily brand of humor. Lawyers have a unique way of expressing themselves.
There was no sign of severely clipped girl from my last visit, which was probably the best for all, but overall a good crowd of 50+ showed up, so $5 keg went a long way.
A couple much needed chuckles assisted in calming my somewhat stressed temperament. I was stoked to see The Hawk clean and sober.
He once busted a window with his fist trying to swat a mosquito. His cup was filled with tea, I checked out of concern, and his humor was sharp and biting, unlike the past instances of hazy and disturbed.
Barrie was funny, reading a letter he allegedly “found” in box that he wrote to a girl in the 7th grade. He got a great reaction, but I was squarely focused on drinking this evening.
I’d probably had 7 or 9 beers, an estimate because of the half-fills and general pilfering from achieving grand Keg-Master status. In case of emergencies, I actually have a tap in my trunk. I pretty much have everything in my trunk except bodies.
After realizing how quickly the keg got killed at the last show, I decided the correct course of action was to stand next to keg, in turn filling up everyone in need and pumping to keep perfect flow.
The Hat decided he would take the stage fearless, not caring if they gave him the hook or booed him away. He went inside to put together his makeshift routine on the fly.
He convinced the MC that he'd play his kazoo, a claim that got the ball rolling.
He then became The Hat in front of everyone, rattling off spontaneous ideas to the amusement of the audience. 
Raj and Steven made it late into the show as well.
Amazing the time a girlfriend can take away from social activities. I once had a girlfriend that thrived in social atmospheres, the life of the party, truly a Basher, never questioning an option to go out take the town hostage. Misty was incredibly fun for a while. Of course, it didn’t work, it wasn’t meant to be, and I moved on, so I’ll stop reminiscing of the good old days.
I was hoping The Hat would score some digits after his brilliant turn on the stage. Then I come back to Steven, let loose from his floozy and attacking the night with reckless abandon. I barely knew he existed, Raj being the only one to ground me in reality with brief mentions of his existence from time to time. I went in claiming that The Joker wouldn’t happen, so Lost & Found was the call after the keg was emptied.
I was kind of hammered when we left for Lost & Found, a dive in the neighborhood renowned for being the last bar where smoking is encouraged.
I wondered which bar patron was rocking the military style jeep parked outside. Everything was better on the inside.
Apparently they hired a new bartender, and I stayed away from her sights after seeing some poor pouring technique, a major flaw at a strip mall dive.
No smoking now, so I wasn’t able to get strange effects that had happened in old photos. The same bartender that’s always there poured cheap stiff drinks. Tonight was cheaper, because a patron that didn’t want to be identified decided to buy two rounds for the entire bar, meaning at least two Captains.
Since the house rounds were courtesy of a mysterious supplier, The Hat thought it was this guy.
Leonard bashed with us as well, stuttering in a strange Scottish vernacular after two kamikazes.
Drenched in free booze at a bar is mightily appreciated, and a few more sealed the deal on my fate. I was a little bit more than drunk.
A few more cocktails were added on at The Hat's abode before I called it a night about 5. As the saying goes, “Beer before liquor never sicker,” I certainly went down the path of nauseated bed spinning, couldn’t lie down for anything, even a girl. To remedy the situation, I actually neighborhood drunk walked 18 blocks to the beach, hoping that my height and belligerency scared away potential muggers.
The result was no yuck mouth in the afternoon.
