Voodoo Pharmacology

Once again, in the interest of full disclosure, before my smug and arrogant opponents claim credit for introducing a scandal where there is none, my presidential campaign committee has agreed to release the only photo of me smoking crack.

My critics no longer have an October surprise; they can go no further with their misguided slander and aimless swings at assassinating my character. Regardless of their banally motivated intentions, I’ve already taken the measurements of the Oval Office, so I plan on going with gold trim red velvet curtains.

Last week I walked the streets of Santa Monica with my personal hair stylist Roxie, and we went around asking concerned citizens about the important issues effecting their every day lives. There are many prevalent issues gaining attention nationally, and I think we all agree that reducing gang violence across the country is fundamental in achieving solidarity.

Roxie and I also traversed the rural areas of America, and the excitement this campaign has captured is simply unmistakable. I was especially encouraged by our recent camp out in Lake Cachuma, where we all shared intimate moments among s'mores and fire.

Momentum is on our side. After a rally in the slums of the San Fernando Valley, I flashed back to a thoughtful conversation I had at Element with Mr. Donny Fontaine. We were in a deep discussion about the crisis at the pump and wasteful energy consumption.

He's a resident of Reseda, and he likes that I’m not a panderer. We agreed that opening up the Strategic Petroleum Reserve would lower current market prices, which in turn puts pressure on OPEC to lower the cost of oil and produce more barrels a day. I engaged in the same constructive dialogue with local constituents while teaching the finer points of beer pong form.

She nailed that one. In my travels across the country I’ve talked to many people. I’ve even met with the hippies, one of whom accidentally Bashed Peacock's head on the pavement.

Because of the mishaps that can befall anyone on the road to the White House, I just added a new member to my security detail in Harry, a headstrong Basher whose voice alone has the strength of a thousand men.

His muscle will help me hustle votes. As is tradition, I’ve been kissing a lot of cute babies on the trail. Without fail, each time I think about their future. I wonder whether the standards of the classroom today can compete with the world of tomorrow. I dropped by Jill’s place to witness the benefits of giving piano lessons at an early age.

Scenes like that make it easier to draw inspiration. About three weeks ago I was invited to attend a soccer match in Los Feliz. While there, I managed to capture a lonely moment on the sideline as Skip looked on, waiting earnestly to get into the game.

When his number was called he showed spectacular poise on the field. His patience and awareness were able to translate into kicking the game winning goal. The crowd went nuts. Afterwards we celebrated the often shunned notion that perseverance and faith can overcome any perceived obstacle. He believes in himself, and we all believed in him. It's really no surprise that rabid women hungered for his flesh.

Through that, I’ve come to realize the importance of animal rights, especially since Wayne Maxwell’s dog The Colonel is the greatest animal in the world.

I’ve also made the rounds in meeting representatives from other friendly nations across the world. I recently met Karin Wahlström, a highly skilled skier and long distance runner from lovely Luleå, Sweden.

She has many magnetic facets to her personality, and her physical finesse is quite remarkable. Her father is a prominent member of the Swedish Social Democratic Party with ties to party leader Mona Ingeborg Sahlin. We discussed the drastic differences in our governmental ideologies and how some aspects of their thriving system could benefit the United States. Karin's background has helped her achieve impeccable knowledge in varied political discourse. We continued our colorful conversation at Cha Cha Lounge.

Raj Vasher made a concerted effort to chat about the recent election victory by the Alliance of Sweden. He was quickly rebuffed when bringing up the questionable virtues of surströmming sandwiches.

As he tried switching the subject to the weather, I shamelessly brought the conversation back to the great films of Lasse Hallström. It was then that I began to suspect she was smart enough to know my ulterior motives. She was spot-on if she was, for creating strong international relations will be significant during my presidency. At that point I turned my attention to two vivacious girls hanging out by the foosball tables.

I can now count on their brash activism in the coming months. Fired up from attaining qualified leads that day, I figured my invigorating streak of luck needed some proper exploitation. So of course I made a call and showed up at an undisclosed doorstep late that evening. I was unceremoniously dropped off by Raj, leaving me to my own wits and devices. I was duly prepared for a grand entry.

I highly recommend utilizing the rose in teeth method, yet the next morning I woke up to this startling image.

The Passion for Bashin'

According to Miguel de Cervantes, "Too much sanity may be madness, and maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be!" My mythic week commenced with Lance Cannon’s Birthday Jacuzzi Party, a spectacle of water sport and unrequited Bashing. I did not come away unscathed.

Jacuzzi nights and champagne on ice dominate Southern California summertimes. Twisted is how Lance finished, a shell of himself carried out by the crew, begging for more Sparks Plus while legless. That whole evening turned into something freakish. Drinking a high volume of booze led to some patently disturbing behavior, a series of events that will forever lack any coherent explanation.

Rolo and I needed no excuses; all bets were off and most of the incriminating evidence was destroyed by morning. The debacle all happened, of course, after celebrating Roxie’s birthday at Tony’s Taverna in Malibu.

It’s a haven for the infamous Greek Feast and stellar belly dancing by world renowned Varvara. The lucky birthday girl was encouraged to shake it from above.

I loved her zills. The hummus was out of control tasty, but my favorite dish was easily the savory pastichio. At that point I wasn’t disheveled, as demonstrated by my remarkable composure while seated next to sexy Dani Devlin.

It’s like being taken into a new world with her, away from the constant drudgery of daily misgivings and personal indiscretions. Those mean nothing to me in her presence. I wasn’t successful in keeping my meat hooks off her, but she didn’t seem to mind. I now know I believe in her. The next day, in order to properly hydrate my body and readjust focus, I stopped by Wayne Maxwell’s pad for spiritual guidance. To my most pleasant surprise, I caught him playing The Detonator in a heated match of chess.

The Detonator always makes my King fall, but Wayne got the better of him in that outing. Later in the week Wayne and I met up with Barry the bartender at Il Fornaio for some Captain Morgan Cokes and their mouth-watering Pizza Fradiavola. The service is exemplary and borders on amazing.

Barry, on the left, keeps all the customers happy. After quick pops at Il Fornaio we meandered down Rodeo Drive, because we’re important people that breathe crucial life into any lack of classiness. Amaury Guerrero helped us represent it.

Outside of Beverly Hills, the week also saw the highly anticipated release of Hyper Crush’s “The Arcade,” a CD that I’ll be bumping all summer on PCH. Their posse took over Element in Hollywood with the propaganda machine in full swing towards glory and beyond.

It wasn’t a hard sell at all to the hordes of adoring fans. The masses echoed that of the Malibu Inn, although this time out the floor was packed more aggressively so. I was forced to keep my elbows elevated in creating ample space to protect my women. I initially blazed onto the scene furiously, shadowed in a temperament of reckless abandon with a splash of flirtatious intrigue.

The sheer intensity of the place was shocking after listening to the melancholy of Portishead most of the day, and only the heathens knew what upbeat music would have in store for my fragile psyche. So in attacking the bar first, I managed to go back-to-back Jagerbombs followed by swilling a Corona back. I was stronger, and at that point I realized who I wanted.

My sweet dreams were quashed when Bernadette Bender interrupted my inner monologue to ask if I wanted a drink. I said yes.

And there was more. Ravishing Leerone also released her CD entitled “Imaginary Biographies,” another fantastic album, and her performance at El Cid crept beyond extraordinary and into legend.

Listening to her makes me feel real warm inside, and having wonderful string arrangements in backing lifted passions. I met her good friend Natasha before the show, Bashed her into submission effortlessly.

She had taken a candid Polaroid of me when I arrived.

Leerone has the voice of an angel. She’s simply exquisite, and she would make a fine First Lady.

Aside from qualifying, she officially earned herself an admirer. Crazy with everything going on, that quest is becoming rather cumbersome. It didn’t help that I also went to a throwback toga party equipped with a beer bong that would’ve clearly pleased The Detonator.

Joycelin Jacoby took the reigns proudly. A highlight was the possessed beast sent from below that sat on Devon Ahmad’s lap.

The mangy mongrel wanted attention. It reminded me of years ago, when Juan and I used to indulge in demonstrations of drinking skill, outwitting those looking for attention by grabbing it all for ourselves.

It’s a superior method which should be brought back, a study in all cases dominated by higher intelligence in the face of absurdity. The quiet ones in the corner never get the rambunctious girls, so it depends on what you’re looking for. Harper O’Hara concurs.

I first learned that slant at The Coronet when I was taking multiple shots with Skip. This girl stammered towards me in spades, then yammered on and on about something uninteresting, but everyone in the room knew she targeted me and pulled the trigger, a b-line move if there ever was one. With girls like that, all you need is 10 seconds alone. I always get guilty pleasures from a carnival atmosphere and everything in it.

On Sunday morning I headed to Del’s Saloon for a notorious Bloody Mary or four courtesy of Lucca, which starts off any Sunday righteously. She was sad when I finally had to rest.

Kamikaze Attacks Del's Saloon

Some foolishly suicidal broad interrupted the harmony of Del’s Saloon by crashing her SUV through the front of the building, taking out a tree first. Bobby Farlow was on the crime scene.

The hysterical girl was allegedly scorned by her boyfriend over at Busby’s, admitting to everyone within earshot that she tried ending her worthless life, a bold statement for her dude and family to comprehend later. She was sadly unsuccessful, earning the title of “Bad at Suicide, 0-1.” It put quite a scare into the patrons; a sudden collision into a beloved bar is never expected. What distressed me most upon hearing the news was that she took out the area where we often play darts. The Hat, Devon and I would’ve been badly injured or killed if it happened on this particular night.

Theoretically, we could’ve been victims to some psychotic skank’s utter selfishness. Out of all the places she could’ve smashed into, why did it have to be Del’s? I’d have had more respect if she cut herself or popped pills and failed. Del’s had done nothing to her, and if she really wanted to crash her SUV into a bar, she should’ve just turned around and destroyed Busby's, a wretched excuse for a sports bar. At least that’s what Cliff said.

Busby’s was probably the main reason she became downright delusional. She’d have had a better time in a sanitarium, which is where she’s currently under observation. Only hapless losers go to Busby's and enjoy it, a truth all facts support. You’ll never find worse service and more sausage anywhere, whereas Del’s has the friendliest bartenders with the stiffest pours, the kind that help you tie one on faster than you can say “Kamikaze!”

Venting about useless people and places is boorish, I must relent, but it's tough to focus on inspiring topics rather than the macabre, like how The Hat and I didn't die and still Bash gloriously at Del's!

You can't beat a great bar that's crawling distance from headquarters. On any given night or day, half the place knows you. It's like Cheers on steroids. Bobby recently said, "When you know everyone at a bar, you have license to stalk any newcomers." Amaury and I tried that last Friday, with mixed results.

Not sure if she was afraid, but she'd certainly never seen a press quite like that. With wit and unsurpassed mastery in the Art of Bashing, most guards are dropped effortlessly once the first salvo has been executed properly, a talent Tatum and Scarlett O'Connell admire.

The locals are easily my favorite aspect of Del's, which is where the venue flourishes on a daily basis. Holly Paige and Reno are there everyday, and they were both disturbed by the bizarre suicide attempt.

I think everyone was pretty spooked, like Michelle, who instinctually ducked behind the bar when the unexpected visitor arrived at the wall.

Tough to not take it personal when assailants trying to end their feeble lives choose a dearly cherished landmark to dispatch themselves to Hell. I'm seriously grateful nobody was hurt, that this story didn't have a more tragic turn. That means I can continue receiving blackout drunk cell phone photos from former lovers.