No Fables

Last weekend bordered on amazing, built from the motivation that I could certainly try to have more fun than Ray Argyle. In order to make my wishes come to vivid fruition, I enlisted the candid insights of Holly Paige. I was in rare form, cheering the Lakers while adorned in finagled boa and The Hat’s lost hat.

Holly, a sight for sore eyes since her bold move to D.C., confided in me that the many ills of the world which pollute psyches are related to not having fun, or something like that. I don't really recall any context because, of course, around that time I became blackout drunk. That was the same evening The Wolf finally showed me how he really felt about my energetic presidential campaign.

I was unhindered in pushing boundaries, so I took my first attempt of making a cheers while taking a photo.

I think blackout drunk never felt better. Earlier in the night I was with Roxie sporting wide red eyes.

We reminisced about the glory we’ve shared over the years, even managing to finally get a good laugh about one of the worst nights ever, the debacle at L.A.X., the time when all futures were determined at random with spite.

Peacock, who has since gone into hiding, was my last picture taken inside the venue, which also assisted the security detail in identifying me moments later.

As an avid fan of aimless prancing, ten minutes of mixing it up on the dance floor is far from satisfying.

We never made it out to see Hyper Crush, choosing instead to be faced with ludicrous cab debauchery, mainly their right to refuse service to anyone. The peanut gallery of photographers found humor in what was otherwise a rather dire stamp on an evening filled with untapped potential.

While some haters can find amusement in another group's peril, that night proved, once again, that some forms of attempted Bashing can fail miserably. Upon contemplating the peaks and valleys of which fun can often hinge on, I called in support from Orange County in the form of Sylvester Cunningham, whose affinity for Captain Morgan instantly catapulted him into the upper echelon of Bashing lore.

Known to all close friends as Sly, he’s waged battles on many fronts, proudly representing what’s in all our best interests. Like most Bashers celebrated as a part of The Inner Circle, he seems to have his way with the ladies.

I was graced with his acquaintance through my lovely First Lady Scarlett O’Connell.

Apart from being a member of the American Society for Enology and Viticulture, Sly is a founding father of the Chawhee Party Klan, a group of Bashers whose influence has spread cancerously throughout the United States. Like true warriors, we’ve been to Del’s Saloon for breakfast in the past.

That particular day we went to Venice Beach to marvel at the ridiculous spectacle known as professional wrestling, a "sport" lunatics commonly believe to be real.

Since I was going to Del's Saloon for two nights in a row, I wanted to roll incognito to our meeting, low key, not to be noticed by anyone in particular, just simply blending in.

I didn’t expect that our reunion would also feature the elusive Dante, a sighting that initially scared the bejesus out of Amaury Guerrero.

The trouble caused from the cameo couldn’t be more disturbing. My already high level of drinking ability instantly became elevated while my speech became more incoherent than normal. Thankfully, Scarlett was there to temper the proceedings, although not very much.

Adding insult to injury, Priscilla Centinela, with her Long Island iced teas, egged us on to Bash harder.

Glasses were raised in triumph, for it’s a rarity that we managed to all be in the same room together.

The Bashers were justly reunited, all in the name of fun, although Ray still laughs at all of us. The next day I felt like a million dollars.

I Have More Fun Than You

Throughout my extensive travels exploring the depths of humanity and its mysterious origins, I happily reunited with avant-guard musician Ray Argyle, who constantly confides that he has more fun than me.

“I have more fun than you,” he always tells me as matter of fact. I should come to accept it.

Apart from tours to remote island locations for video shoots, Ray recently went to some art show Bash in downtown with hipsters and music till dawn with Serena.

They both enjoyed the spontaneous art demonstrations.

The work done over time was impressive. Motivated artists were around just about every corner, concentrating on their original creations while lost from society at large.

People were tripping out on Aphex Twin, so he saw some weird things that night.

He was bored with a high powered camera, so he started making his own spontaneous art digitally.

His photography skills brought much rejoice from revelers like Serena. Even though she’s a good friend, he told her that if they ever did anything, like mess around, he wouldn’t be against it, although maybe it was the scenery and the booze talking.

Ray frequents high end clubs in Hollywood, the kind that stock talentless acts for the sake of the lowest common denominator. Unlike many Los Angeles musicians, he supports many local singers, like this particular floozy.

At least he never has to buy his own $10 drink. Even Harper O’Hara is guilty of buying him Jager bombs over games of pool at Del’s Saloon.

She once said that the only reason to have a boyfriend is to secure consistent sexual favors. Rumor has it she moved to Vancouver. She’ll certainly miss Ray's five dogs, all of whom can sit outside his local pizzeria without moving from their territorial spot.

The pack, which consists of Leo, Ginger, Bob, Barney, and Buster from left to right, brings excitement to his every waking day, especially the way they take care of each other in his absence. Whenever Ray leaves town with the band, his neighbor Ambrosia takes care of the mangy mongrels. She often comes over for four in the morning Guitar Hero.

The simple fact is he thrusts himself onto the scene fearless, sort of like how The Hat likes jumping off diving boards dry and hatless.

Considering Ray's many interests, like writing poetry, he enjoys long walks on the beach, often with the loveliest of the lovelies looking right back.

I think he laughs at all of us.

The Hat Strikes Back!

Small brained animals are generally dumber, but their instincts will surprise you. The Hat combats all of that and more with gusto!

The first annual B-Day Hat Bowl at El Dorado Lanes provided a quality showing of people, one slightly marred by the slowest bartender west of Texas. A great tasting cake made all the animosity go away.

While some Los Angeles personalities thrive on the pessimism of self-loathing, The Hat manages feats others would shudder to ponder. His list of accolades ransacked and looted represent what's right with humanity. For instance, the recent pillage on my birthday at Del's is still a mystery shrouded by rumor and hearsay.

I kind of remember him and Peacock buying me shots of something gross. Those birthday pictures showed, with glaring clarity, that when The Hat slays prey they don’t even suspect they’re getting slayed. Devon Ahmad and her sister Sharada are scholars who've analyzed The Hat's technique and managed to uncover identifiable patterns that tame the beast. Those girls are wily and cunning, as seen by their lewd display upon sabotaging my quest for bowling supremacy.

I was clearly outgunned and outbowled. The big winner of the night was Ridge Thorneway, who bowled an unbelievable 216.

Devon’s more known for her soft poker hands, much like her sharp dart throwing skills, or the slow float of her puck on shuffleboard wax. Devon stole two huge bets from me at The Hat’s poker night, effectively getting in my head.

I recommend folding when she pushes all-in. I’m glad she left for Burlingame before my shirt was removed. Overall, I managed to gain a decent cash reward while The Hat hit the jackpot. Later on, when I was feeling lucky, I threw my lighter in as part of a bet, and everyone at the table agreed it was legitimate. The key is to never throw in the nice watch, which I’ve only seen in funny movies. One thing was for certain, The Hat chose a night to shine.

His extraordinary successes overshadow my own, dwarfing almost all bar boasts by the pompous rookies. It’s probably marked by a life of athletic achievement in many sports, including many victorious co-ed tours.

He rarely sleeps alone, and his vitality is guided by sun, moon and stars. You can’t help but factor in the result oriented approach on the fly, like when he showcased adept skill at opening and operating a powerful telescope. His grasp and command of surroundings is resoundingly flawless.

On people that consistently fail, The Hat once said, “It’s like having to change your hitting style because the mechanics needed adjusting. Optimal optimism is never pessimistic.”

Pomona Hit Job

I had business to attend to in Pomona, so I decided to infiltrate the historically fabled city to see all it had to offer.
I heard from Wayne that heathens came from there and still reside, that it’s as dangerous as ever, havoc being wreaked on any path chosen within the city limits.
Cruising through the Pomona outskirts was like going through row after row of filthy fly-infested trailer parks, something I probably needed to become accustomed to before the Conejo Valley Days Regional Chili Cook-Off this Sunday.
Jessica Alba was born in Pomona, as was Tom Waits and ‘roid ragin’ Mark McGwire. The home page for the City of Pomona advertises “A rich heritage, a bright future.”
It’s also a city where a museum can be conveniently located next to a pawn shop.
The trailer parks are savagely strewn throughout Pomona, a common occurrence I've closely associated with my first encounter.
I was careful creeping through the trailer parks, my awareness heightened, and I struggled making eye-contact with unshowered and toothless welfare recipients. I began to panic for my well-being, imagining the elevated possibility of a shotgun wielding wife-beater chasing after my car.
Best Trailer Park of the Day goes to Hillview Mobile Home Park.
This trailer park came furnished with a view of beautiful mountains mutilated by a deadly smog layer.
Knowing what you’re breathing in Los Angeles can horrify, and it adds bitterness when you know your lungs are being decimated daily by deadly pollution and other unidentifiable stenches.
Another common factor that easily distinguishes Pomona is that every building and home outside the reach of the centralized police station has local artists flexing their skill at graffiti.
Trailer park signs aren’t spared by the constant neighborhood thuggery.
In 1999, Pomona ranked 3rd for highest murder rate in California, caught in a close race with Compton and Richmond respectively. That was 25th in the country. Local government and law enforcement has been consistently putting word out that the streets are getting cleaned.
The reputation for crime in Pomona isn’t surprising from what I saw. I’m sure this place has an ample supply of body bags, hospital beds and jail cells. Social services are definitely busy.
Then I came to a sudden halt at a railroad crossing.
It was the longest train ever created in the history of humanity, delaying my advancement for far too long, leaving me with nothing but frenzied thought.
I began looking at my mirrors intermittently, attempting to be aware of any carjackers or murderers.
Then I was able to pass.
I crossed the tracks, knowing things could go awry at any moment. I embraced the fear as a thrill.

From the beginning, my sincere hope during the tour was avoiding any shotguns or blades, although I carry one on my driver’s side door for personal protection.
Anyone try to carjack me, they gettin’ cut. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see if they had metal detectors over at Pomona High School.
Security doesn’t sweat the students; I couldn’t see any with my naked eye or enhanced digital zoom. I did find an eatery called The Hat right outside the Pomona city limit, near the local high school.
The Hat's in Upland, and my new goal is to not hang out in Diamond Bar or Chino Hills. Their pastrami dip was out of control good.
The Hat was stoked on the photos.
In jest he asked me, “What exactly is Pomona?” Pomona means the Roman Goddess of Fruit. They held a wide-ranging farmer’s market on Wednesday to prove it.
The “farmer’s market” was a dismal collection of a couple vegetables, arts, crafts, and a lone drummer.
It was located right at the entryway to Antique Row, which I prayed wasn’t a doppelganger of Skid Row.
There weren’t any transients, there wasn’t anybody.
The place was dead as Dillinger, quietly foreboding, the empty streets eerie enough to shade my emotions in a blanket of nervous paranoia.
I sought refuge at the Pomona government buildings, a place where pimps have front row parking at City Hall.
This is Mayor Norma J. Torres, the unequivocal leader of Pomona, a highly esteemed position to hold.
She does her political dealings in downtown Pomona, a hub of harrowing mediocrity. She has the smile of someone on the take.
In 2006 she became Mayor of Pomona by garnering a hefty 1651 votes. Not bad for a city populated by 164,815 apathetic losers. She can claim fame with the fact she’s the first female Guatemalan mayor.
Right next to the Council Chambers is the police station and superior court.

I also realized the best place for lawyers and bail bondsmen to set up shop is right across from arraignments.
You know riffraff runs rampant when the police presence squeezes the essence of any city life off the streets. I’d seen a few episodes of Cops from Pomona, and they weren't pretty.
One plus is that Metrolink stops at the downtown Pomona station, but a big minus occurs if you get off the train.
Food wise, Pomona caters to people who enjoy Mexican food, Church’s Chicken, Popeyes, KFC, and Wienerschnitzel.
Admittedly, I love Church’s Chicken, although all locations in L.A. seem surrounded by poverty stricken hardship. This was no different, and no less saddening. I continued my search for the soul of Pomona.
The winner for Best Church of the Day was a true marvel in architecture.
Safe to say it was my favorite building in Pomona, a church I’d surely attend if I were local, which will never happen.
It also proved that I was indeed in Lance’s dreaded “909.” The following photo represents the most striking view of Pomona I had.
And this is the award winner for Best Rapist Van of the Day.
I didn’t see any ice cream trucks or Mr. Whoopee.
If you’d like to avoid getting stared down or intimidated by ferociously illiterate gang members, I suggest not wearing red. I had five Hispanic males whistle at me and ask where I was from. I laughed, momentarily thinking of taking their picture and running into a nearby antique store. This is the stretch where it happened.
I could’ve hidden in the Washington Mutual or La Bomba.
Then I realized I’d be loitering.
Coffee is for closers, so I settled on taking a break and kicking back while caffeinating. I could cool off, and I had ample cover in case a drive-by was in the works.
So I’m sitting at Starbucks, minding my own business, when absolutely nothing happens at all, save for a biker a minute tearing by on some modified beast of wheeler.
I just enjoyed my grande mocha frappuccino with whip cream under the umbrella, shielded from the 84 degree weather baking the stale air. I perused the fish wrap, and the first item to grab notice was a definite destination.
Steve Lopez wrote a good article for the Inland Empire version of the Los Angeles Times about Jury Duty Case of the Year.
The L.A. television show rankings were interesting to say the least.
After reading something weird about smuggling Chinese girls through Claremont, it was time to take care of business at The Glass House.
The reason for being in Pomona was to see Blonde Redhead, and I found out fast that they didn’t serve beer or cocktails, something utterly unfathomable to a relentless Basher.
Blonde Redhead is described in some circles as Art Rock, which was easy to see due to the lack of lighting variations. This was what it looked like when they performed with a bored drummer.
Kazu Makino rocked out. She was by the far most entertaining of the three. All and all, what brought down the performance was the Pomona locale and lack of alcohol, no doubt in my mind. I tried to make things more interesting, and I came up with strange camera effects.
Their new album 23 got rave reviews, will probably make my year end “Best of” list. The show was definitely not for all tastes. The Annuals opened for Blonde Redhead, and their lead singer was a legitimate flailer. I definitely needed some booze. I did fall in love with Anna Spence, their sultry female keyboardist, who carried the band along with the bassist.
If I had more dough I’d tour with them, be in the front row worshipping the Sexy Synth Goddess. She was on fire.
Questionable sound quality on the vocals caused a painful loudness on occasion, so towards the end of their set I went back to my car for a beer. To sum up the experience, I accidentally dropped my cell phone into my beer. It looks like this now:
I couldn’t think of a more perfect way to top off my day. Pomona is quite a town, one of the worst I’ve ever been in. I’d be grateful if someone could point to my error in thinking, but at this juncture, after little thought, I highly recommend never going to Pomona. Stay on your side of the tracks.