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.

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.”

Hyper Crush Me

Holly Valentine toyed with my emotions yet again, pulling the puppet strings, her control over me verified by the massive stage bruise on my lower quad muscle, one which became the size of a softball. It must’ve meant Hyper Crush played at the Malibu Inn.

I was either a hemophiliac or under the spell of Ms. Valentine. Infectious sounds became dangerous, sending my body into synchronized movements, the type that take task to trollops nightly.

I’d also had a lot on my mind, aside from nightly adventures unhindered, like my recent work for the Laeken Collection and my run for president. Roxie, Wayne Maxwell and Bernadette Bender joined my press towards the front, a success we never take for granted among the rude pushers, sweat-dripping stinkers and spillers. Women tend to smell nicer. Bathing isn’t optional, a slant I wholly agree with. The people of Malibu aren’t immune to rancid fragrances, and by being up front, we effectively cut our chances of finding poor hygiene by at least 50%. Holly agrees.

Hyper Crush’s new ripping single, “Boom Box,” is a track sure to make my best of 2008, the kind of ear candy I'll gladly blast on PCH. The preposterously addictive flows, coupled with the performance art in their live act, are a deadly combination rarely pulled off so well. Their musical originality is exceptional, and the following has exponentially expanded to far reaches, a fact demonstrated by severe lack of parking outside and an upcoming tour supporting their great new album "The Arcade." It helps when you’re able to routinely produce good songs.

Holly has her many suitors, as evidenced by the slobbering glances aimed in her direction, especially during the pre-game show put on by amateurs in comparison. The wonder of her appeal is something she’ll never lose.

Donnie Fontaine, the golden boy of The San Fernando Valley, can cook up savory lyrics with the best of them, tempered by the musical wizardry of the finest wedding DJ of all-time, the peerless Preston Moronie, who sported the Terminator T proud.

He’s the greatest crate digger since Pete Rock, DJ Shadow or Premier, simply the sickest. Hyper Crush is everyone’s new favorite band.

I’ve been asked numerous times by the Inner Circle dwellers whether I would turn down an advance by Holly Valentine. There’s a level of political correctness that comes with a serious presidential campaign, something my unworthy challengers tend to practice freely and recklessly without care. The American people are smart; they don’t fall for silly tricks. So to answer the question definitively, absolutely not. I bear that in mind, knowing her mystical powers in conjuring spirits can be harmful to less resilient species.

Arnie Ultimate Soundboard

(UPDATED 12/12) I recently received a brilliant lost work from years ago, the infamous "Arnie Ultimate Board." It was solely created by the incomparable Avi Eshed, the maestro of scientific machinery, a pioneering inventor that provides mind-boggling solutions. For all you tech heads, I guess the program can be modified.

 
 

Download the "Arnie Ultimate Board!"

 
 

Sorry if you have a Mac. It is cool. Have fun prank calling people like we have. My boy Avi currently resides in Beverly Hills and has been known to cold lamp with the Flavor in Paris.

The collection of trophies on his mantle are staggering in scope, true masterstrokes in amazing. His genius is well documented, and females often speak of his hidden talents. A tour de force, Avi's rendition of "Arnie Ultimate Board" might go down as greatest creation in Internet history, or close. Like Avi usually does, I prank called all inconsequential numbers from recent Bashing.