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.