Roxie's Westlake Fiesta

The cold and intermittent drizzle at the horse races were starkly contrasted by the pleasant weather in Westlake for Roxie's Birthday Fiesta. She was ready to Bash, which surprised no one.

I didn’t go into the enticing pool, but it was tempting after six drinks.

Uncle Bob, quite possibly the greatest man I’ve ever met in my life, led the battle front with peerless vigor. The legend previously told doesn’t amount to what my eyes saw first-hand, and to be in the presence of a living legend was an honor I cannot even begin to expound upon properly.
I’ve never met an Uncle Bob before, and never in my wildest dreams did I imagine one so legendary in scope, a person that dwarfs my accomplishments with a broad and rowdy stroke.
Having most of Roxie's family there to celebrate and encourage the ensuing debauchery made it all the more sweeter.
Uncle Bob forced me to drink tequila, but later it was whisky.
Bernadette Bender, who besides myself wears the crown of Roxie’s favored partner-in-crime, continued her determined quest to achieve the perfect buzz, a trait commonly found in the best of Bashers.
Bernadette is also BFF with Jill.

Jill came to Bash without her jewel encrusted goblet for once, a significant turn of events in my eyes, yet no less stunning.
She also showed how well she gets along with kids.

Another of Roxie's good friends, Elyse, is also great with kids, a self-empowered behemoth that’s worthy of bowing in front of.
I’ve heard great things about Elyse in passing many times, and she proved to be someone I could immediately call a friend.
She exuded the kind of charm rarely discovered, and a welcoming demeanor that was difficult to ignore. What a nice girl, seems like all of Roxie’s friends are.
Uncle Bob’s mastery of the Margarator was unrivaled, his firm grip on the Bash unequivocal.
I realized that as an essential tool of the trade, it gets the job done.

After arriving home late at night, I put in an order for one of my own, a truly drunken impulse buy. According to Uncle Bob, the key is the extra splash of Grand Marnier. I think we all agreed on how potent the result were.

I quickly forgot about the glory of the race track, instead choosing to indulge on the moment, investing my hard earned attention on mass quantities of food and drink.
The food exceeded expectations by a landslide, showing that those without Spanish blood can still produce authentic fare full of flavor. Everyone got comfy after quality belly stuffing exercises.
I normally avoid tequila like the plague, for the effects on my mind and body can be perilious to others. I get pissed.
Although my often satirical remarks are cheeky and mischievous in nature, tequila in my bloodstream adds an edginess some might mistake as threatening and snide. Being surrounded by females always eases my tensions.
I even encountered the rare, once thought to be extinct redheaded monkey.
He could catch balls!
One of Roxie’s best clients lived across the street from Uncle Bob, so I joined Roxie and Bernadette for a valiant attempt at recruiting/victimizing the allegedly coolest customer.
He was absent, away on a weekend fishing trip with college fraternity brothers, but we were greeted by his three lovely doe-eyed daughters and a mangy mongrel of ill-repute.
I always marvel at kids while Bashing gloriously, wondering if my ways are indirectly encouraging their future behavior.
Part of the problem is that kids tend to like me, so I wonder if the booze in my fist becomes a point of fascination, more attractive with each noticeable pull.
To take my mind off being a role model, Uncle Bob’s wife was nice enough to give me personal tour of their sprawling estate, a spacious and beautiful hideaway in the hills.
As the night progressed, Uncle Bob’s animated joking style was side-splittingly funny, often leaving me in tears while causing stomach muscles to contract viciously.
You can’t call a party a Bash unless there’s a foul, and one came in the form of a car nearly falling over the driveway cliff.
AAA came to the rescue, chaining up the wayward car and pulling it from the muddy gorge. At first we tried the push method, but in my drunken stupor I nearly tumbled down the hill, grabbing onto the back bumper to pull myself up from peril.
I laughed it off, knowing a spectacular death was a slip away, and of course, alcohol related. I left the place noticeably sober.

Microbrew Fest at Santa Anita

Thirsty for excitement and unhindered debauchery, I took the Bash Parade down to Santa Anita for the vastly underrated KROQ Microbrew Festival, which also included a lively side of horse race gambling.
Ericka, seen above with lovely Lara #2, had never been to the races, an essential experience that had to be uncovered at some point, so I figured early exposure might lead to beneficial consequences.
To continue the yearly tradition of sloshing ourselves senseless at the track, I was blessed to Bash with the original Lara, one of my all-time favorite partners-in-crime, a trusted confidant in all my affairs.
Two Lara’s in the same place bewilders even the best.
I tried to convince Lance to go, but he firmly stated that he’s “not into the 909 crowd.” Ludacris knows that 909 is Berdu and Rancho Cucamonga, plus Riverside falls into that category as well. Lance is unapologetically localized.
The first race was spectacular, culminating in a victory after choosing the inspiring Catherine’s Hope to show. At 12-1 odds, the payout was $34 and change, enough to cover my beer tasting ticket expenses.
No riders were bucked during the course of the day, so no cheap laughs were had, although those cases are generally not a laughing matter, much like nobody ever talks about how most jockeys are also professional pukers.
They’re so tiny . . . I like how an ambulance trails the horses nearby, ready for action with IVs, stretchers and shotguns on hand.
Luckily Lara brought Vik from the boonies, our last time Bashing being a rather memorable yet fuzzy house party in La Habra. He’s awesome!
I convinced him to throw another quality gathering together soon. Vik’s not just affable, he’s intimidating while cool under the collar, the kind of guy you treasure having as a valorous friend, who’ll always have your back unquestioned.
Raj came around 2ish, making the best of the limited pouring time by pounding beer after beer, diligently fighting his way to the front of long lines by dangling extra beer tickets as a bribe. He got takers.
Wayne Maxwell is a serious track gambler, often known for betting other tracks while remaining in tune with our post times. He came up big on Saturday, walked away with $430 after a long shot came in on the 6th race.
He was stoked. As usual, it’s difficult for me to stray from snapping shots of the odd and peculiar.
Waiting for a Porto-Potty to open up leaves me crucial time to examine and observe various wild species of animals, an engaging hobby for enthusiastic zoological students like myself.
Others were more than happy to sport the kind of wear that favorably attracts women like a high powered magnet.
I went with the Adidas T-Mac jumpsuit, a package that offers farcically reliable comfort. Tommy Vercetti would be proud of my drug dealer wear.
Even though the “world famous” KROQ booth was handing out an inordinate amount of freebies next to the stage, I decided to focus my attention on steadily downing cups of beer. The music was terrible, the demand sporadic.
The lines for beer became out of hand at about 3pm, so my last hurrah consisted of five beers, one of which I had to swill because of carrying difficulties. Suffice to say, the struggle paid off with my blood alcohol climbing to dangerous levels. I'm glad Ericka was able to take care of me, and she had a great time.
The swarm began to get outrageous, the kind of cluster that makes short people nervous and agitated. I don’t usually get stressed when the body count tips toward fire hazard Great White style, but this became pretty bad.
Of all the years in a row I’ve gone, this was easily the most crowded I’d ever seen Beerfest. For some, it became unbearable.
It was Roxie’s 30th birthday as well, which meant I followed up the mindless mayhem at the track with a journey out to Westlake. Raj always says that Westlake is “pretty much NorCal, borderline Canada.”
I’m one of the few that badly judges distances, mostly on purpose, because I despise placing limitations on possible destinations due to mileage. I burn gasoline recklessly, but every penny spent is applauded. Hell, the environment is ruined anyway. F Prius.

The Christopher Walken Bash

Skip heavily promoted his First Annual Christopher Walken Bash, a truly solid justification to commemorate the brilliant actor’s birthday. It was a grandiose theme party for everyone’s favorite weirdo hero.
There was no doubt Skip would be ready upon my fashionably late arrival.
And believe it or not, Skip can take a conventional picture when females request to do so.
Lance went old school, adorned in army apparel straight out of The Deer Hunter, a movie that earned Walken his only Oscar win.
Russian roulette would’ve exhibited dangerous consequences, so the implication it would be played was nothing more than a bloated implication. Skip decided to focus on safer sports. Rolo told a hilarious story of how he once fell down the hill outside, apparently showing off his defective balancing skills while greatly intoxicated by mysterious fruit juice.
We can all take pleasure in the fact he’s doing well now, although permanent brain damage cannot be ruled out. On another note, I hadn’t seen Eagle in a while, but there he was, beaming his green laser around in all its grandeur, an entertaining treat when not aimed at planes.
He really is a Basher through and through, could probably be one of the few to match me drink for drink.
Poker Guy made an appearance as well with his lovely girlfriend who I hadn’t seen since the Eagle Rock Summer BBQ Bash of ’06.
We started discussing poker, so I began talking mass amounts of trash after heavy vodka consumption, especially considering the sad fact that my handle of Captain Morgan got housed in about a half hour.
I also think I’m the only one that notices how Lance never overtly picks up on women, instead opting to lay in wait. His method isn’t one I recommend to the novice, but he skillfully manages the dashing style to a degree that can be universally accepted as flawless, since the results are always him pulling chicks on the down low.
His wasteland of whores doesn’t pile up to the unprecedented level that Wayne Maxwell flaunts, but Lance has mastered the art of sniping fine prey, something that Skip does without ever procrastinating.
At one point, I was nice enough to let these two hammered ladies into the bathroom ahead of me.
One thing I can’t stand seeing is jitters caused from alcohol-related bladder expansion. In the meantime, Lance surprised no one by helming the turntables gloriously and utilizing Joel as a worthy sidekick.
Raj came into the Bash with a bit of a morose slant, so Lance quickly elevated that on the fly.
The number one mission Raj has undertaken revolves around winning his first Basher of the Year Award, a prize that he seems well on his way towards capturing. That might be trouble if Tommy has anything to say about it.
I was able to convince Ericka to go, a feat that overwhelmed me in the days leading up, for once fearing that rejection was possible due to time passed and differences in our new outlooks on life. I’m glad I underestimated the possibility of success.
Skip demonstrated, yet again, that his dancing skills are second to none and perfectly honed in regards to picking up women. They can’t get enough of those moves.
I’m also glad that some moves can be smoother than Skip’s.