It was my buddy Noel’s birthday, so making an appearance at the Liquid Kitty on a Tuesday felt right on many levels. I needed a heavy dose of discipline going in, knowing that my instinctive Bashing ways can lead to mischievous late nights, so the beneficial maneuver going in would be quick shot delivery and quicker ripcord.
He was plastered the moment I walked through door, totally loaded up from his fiancée’s continual booze force-feeding procedures. Traditionally, I’m the guy that chooses to neglect reflection on the state of a drunken birthday boy or girl, instead opting for a b-line to the bartender with a request for a shot of Wild Turkey. Noel wasn’t sure what it was, the cringe of his nose while smelling the luminosity of the shot glass bewildered his ripped psyche.
He then shrugged shoulders and knocked it back proudly.
The damage was done, for I can once again take credit for being the birthday assassin. He then became wildly amorous, an act acceptable when it’s your day and you’re wasted, as depicted here with his strong and heartfelt cuddle on Cinnamon.
His fiancée was unfazed by his cute touchy-feely advances on other females, the sign of a strong relationship built on trust. She decided it was best to just bury her head into Cindy's bossom.
It was after this I exited, fulfilled in knowing that I’d had an impact on the proceedings, laid bare my intentions upon entry and left Noel to his sloppy devices. I really had to go.
Then later, as I was driving home, figuring that my sleep potential had reached its limit, I decided to do the run-down of cell phone digits, maybe place a late night call to gauge interest from potential females who may deem me a fine suitor.
A lone drive home on a Tuesday night can place necessary reflection on leads, especially if you’re listening to music that provokes thoughts of the minions. In this case, it was the Moonlighting soundtrack,which I had just burned days before at the height of my obsession with the program. I assiduously sought out all the songs that appeared in every episode, leading me to concoct the ultimate mix to thrill my ears.
While listening, it made me think about David and Maddie’s dynamic, how their sexual tension made the show widely entertaining, their constantly witty repartee, their insults, their obvious attraction to one another. I believe it ended up working out, which I'm not 100% about and fearful to research. But I was then reminded of how the show’s path was needlessly diverted towards cancellation moments after they decided to actually kiss each other. I’m still going to buy Season 3.
Wednesday was monotonous, caused by burning fuel and thinking about my life’s direction late into night before. After a rough day working on Thursday, the kind that eschews disgruntlement in various forms, all related to pent up angst supplied by annoying co-workers in my periphery, I received a call from Lisa regarding my plans for the evening. It mattered little what my plans were, for I would be less of a Basher declining an offer from an often vivacious female.
So it was off to The Roxy on the Sunset Strip to see Ringside, one of her favorite bands, the kind she frequents without hesitation. Her friend had fallen ill, which isn’t much of surprise to me these days, but in this case the advantage forged couldn’t be denied. I hadn’t been there in years, and my love for concerts is a constant craving.
The first group up, called Golden State, was pretty good, and you could tell they put a lot of work into their music.
Lisa liked them a lot, and for an opening band they annihilated the common pigeonhole that the first band almost always stinks.
Then Lisa commented that all the people were noticeably tall and either really good looking or just plain ugly. The Russians were everywhere, we directly realized we were in the minority, and it became obvious that the majority of people attending this show were former red Communists and there to see Мумий Тролль (Mumiy Troll).
The lead singer was a spaz, doing strange contortions with his face and body, with all the songs sounding the same. According to Wikipedia, the lead singer, Ilia Lagutenko, is known for “offbeat lyrics, and coy, androgynous performance style.”
That observation was close to the truth, although I couldn’t understand his native tongue as well everyone around me, who were singing along with the passion usually reserved for legends. They’re huge in Mother Russia, and they’ve apparently been together since 1981, which initially came as a shock to me, but makes sense now. So they are legendary, and I also wasn’t surprised they have a huge following in Scandinavia.
Lisa and I went upstairs to On the Rox for a few cocktails, since the music was confusing trash and the flux of the crowd movements and rude pushing had taken its toll.
When we went back downstairs, the crazy Russians were still going at it, and I jokingly translated the lead singer's transitional dialogue, saying to Lisa, “He just said they’re playing five more songs.” She punched me in the shoulder for the sarcasm, claiming that I just jinxed us. They were on for another half hour.
The place virtually cleared after their set, Russians headed for the doors virtually ignoring the fact the main event hadn’t taken place. To them the Trolls were the event, which sent relief through Lisa, knowing that now she’d be able to see the stage since all the gargantuan basketball players had left. So now, there was anticipation for the curtain to raise.
It eventually lifted to reveal Andy Dick, who was there to introduce Ringside, much to the dismay of all around, his inane brand of humor not exactly striking right chords with the gathering.
I half-expected him to drop an n-bomb like he did at the Laugh Factory, or emulate an absolute idiot like he did on Kimmel earlier in the week, but instead we were subjected to poorly orchestrated humor, the kind you could only expect from a so-called fringe celebrity that clutches at the air for any sort of acknowledgement, whether it be disdain, revulsion, or hands clapping at brilliance.
He tossed a couple signed posters and self-plugging postcards into the crowd, much of them thrown back at him on stage, which ended up being the funniest part of his act. One flew back directly at his dome, nearly busting his glasses with the speed.
He started to sing a song, and I guess the band, noticing that the gag wasn’t exactly flying with their devoted fans, led to them briskly taking the stage to much applause and rejoice.
Andy Dick bolted, never to return. For a moment there I pondered hurling insults into his direction, since I was so close, yet I figured it would more than likely disturb Lisa and others, so I relented.
I knew Ringside were a duo, but my first impression when they took the stage was, “Whoa, is that Balthazar Getty?”
Unfortunately, I was only able to get two crappy pictures with just him.
The gifted Scott Thomas is their lead singer and guitarist, and he really swept the crowd up into the muscle of their searing, melodically infused songs.
I got caught up into it too, and I have to say, they’ve turned me into a fan, liked them a lot. I guess Lisa has good taste in music, a prerequisite in determining individual worth.
I'd heard their most recognizable song before, "Struggle," and everyone really got into it.
Not sure who the drummer or bassist were, but they supplied ample backing. Near the end of the show, people kept on yelling “Jackie” at the band, and it ended up being the last song of the night, a great ballad with a lot of feeling.
Their music will definitely achieve heavy rotation today, and now that Ringside is on my radar, I plan to see them the next time they perform, great show. And now there's the long awaited weekend, my health issues in order, and the first spotlight will put on a VIP special exhibit at LACMA on Saturday, unless Friday turns into a probable fiasco.
Devon Ahmad had never thrown a dart in life, but she really knew how to aim. Picked her spots, she took down double 17’s, triple 12’s and Bully smoothly, like she’d been there before, a testament to her authentic nature.
Plus Cinnamon even decided to pimp us all out.
She also became oriented with a dartboard for the first time, and as my partner was able to demonstrate keen target matching traits. The world of darts opened up beautifully. The Hat established his venerability yet again, for his diatribes on the meaning of life resonated with us all ever so deeply.
He firmly believes that there’s always one way to solve a problem, and from that notion alone many questions were answered.
At one moment I thought The Hat was going to brawl with some mindless long haired dude, a leftover from ’72. He chose to stay balanced.
Their grievances settled quickly, for the love of God, since I wasn’t exactly in any shape of mind to deal with complications. Unwanted action averted assists in essential progression.
Devon and I tied for the night with two wins apiece. I’m excited to find someone with veritable enthusiasm for the game, sharing much of the same energy Lara displays on a regular basis, undaunted by extraneous pressures.
So today, Saturday, cannot be a wasted effort. Night of Champions it is, and forsaking art for sleep doesn’t seem the least bit reasonable, behaviorally speaking. And it doesn’t help being drunk while writing about it, but I’ll be there.
I brought Cinnamon along as a worthy foil, since she’s always adept at calming my nerves in complicated situations like this. She has officially earned a spot on the Female First Team All-Basher crew.
The blatant overdose of Dayquil didn’t alleviate all the pain of my sickness, didn’t really assist at all with making me less pale, even though Cinnamon was quick to come forth with encouraging words, sincerely building up my ego a bit, even though I knew, above everything, that I felt worthless. Upon waking up Sunday morning, I instantly implemented Fierdy Chen Theory, which is “It doesn’t matter how you feel, it matters how you look.”
So long hot shower, pressed button up shirt it was, semi-shave (to hide whiteness) with perfectly sculpted hair, along with the bouncy attitude and constant smile, to shield any criticism from outside forces regarding my sorry state. I kept saying loudly and persuasively, “I feel great!”
Mike D., professed die-hard New York Giants fan, showed up adorned in a Brian Urlacher jersey, a move certainly out of character, a fair-weather one at that, certainly unbecoming of the trash talk often leaving his mouth.
I forgave him after he vehemently promised me an official West Hollywood Contractor Parking Pass that will mean never having to worry about tickets or red zones or meters ever again, at least in that area. Raj also came over, and he brought a killer pot of pork and beans. 
We would all pay the next day. I figured correctly that pounding Captain Morgan would be beneficial, so a handle on me was to be the ticket to triumph. Wayne gladly changed course from whisky, which is often the case when Morgan is knocking on his door. He got hammered.
The Detonator had two G's riding on the game, with Colts needing a win and the combined score had to be above 55.
He lost, and I’m happy to report he didn’t jump. I was stoked to see Ridge Thorneway drowning his sorrows in an attempt to forget about the girl who cruelly stomped all over his heart, the one who effectively smashed his once appealing poise into pieces.
Raj began to pass out near the finish, a lightweight maneuver if I’ve ever seen one. He didn’t have the benefit of the Coca Cola mixer, instead opting for the freshness of Budweiser, the King of Beers.
By this point the handle was ruthlessly damaged, on its last legs, so I willingly dosed myself with a shooter to commemorate the fact I wasn’t feeling a bit sick anymore.
Wayne dominated from the start, a behemoth unstoppable, unfeeling, and bringing down his heavy hammer without mercy. He started bullying pots by taking advantage of his high chip stack, a cold move even though I’d do the same. Luck was on his side, and so were the 5’s.
My best bet was a blind all-in, a highlight resulting in a miraculous double-up that didn’t mean a thing in the grand scheme of things. I only lost $10.
I definitely overdid it, suffered the consequences tenfold when I was awakened early Monday morning by the maddening sound of a man wielding a leaf blower. All leaf blowing offenders should be unceremoniously given a blindfold and cigarette, firing squad style. What compounded the annoyance was the obvious resurgence of the illness my excessive alcohol intake masked. I do hate myself, an emotion that really only surfaces when I pull haughty all-nighters . . . so much for getting this week off on the right foot. Tonight I have a birthday party to hit over at Liquid Kitty, and if I’m lucky, Roxie will cut my hair beforehand. That doesn't mean I'll feel better on the inside, although watching some more episodes of Moonlighting help with blurring my pointed focus.