Dugout Club And Other Observations

Let's start with the spectacular scenery from an awesome suite at Mandalay Bay!

I also captured an absolutely breathtaking view from the balcony at Mix Lounge, a quality capper to any glorious Las Vegas night.

Now, seriously, what's the first thought that comes to mind when you see this (and for extra points, it can't contain the word douche)?

I wonder if the honorable Frederic Prinz von Anhalt lives on Dicks.

I saw L.A. "legend" Angelyne at Pavillions, looking exhaustively through the cantaloupes and watermelons. I took a picture of her flashy ride out front.

Her star will never fade away. Sylvester Cunningham has always been a big fan of her modestly voluptuous billboards, which I don't see around town anymore. Sylvester has recently vested a lot of interest in our friendship by trying to ostensibly turn me into a Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim fan, a true fanatic like himself. He gave me a hat.

Here's a picture of Sylvester with his ghost friend.

Sickening enough to think there are ghosts, more sickening is the Domino's Pizza I had delivered to Scarlett's pad. It was an absolute embarrassment. What I saw when I opened the box was merely an abomination in apathetic production and poor construction. It looked like someone barfed on one side and pooped on the other.

"Tell us how we did." What the hell is that? I would've waited longer and paid more for a pie that didn't make me and my girl retch. What a disgusting, appalling excuse for a pizza, certainly not something to be proud of. Freshest ingredients, whatever, that came out of a faulty conveyor belt or worse. Pepe's hands weren't touching it according to the Domino's Pizza Tracker. Nice going Domino's, thanks for ruining my pizza. "Help us get better?" Maybe try to make a real pizza next time, stop hiring people in need of a serious Lasik overhaul. I'm really not an angry person, partially because I have an new friend, Penelope Ann Killer, Penny for short.

She's the cutest Pembroke Welsh corgi puppy west of the Mississippi, and this bitch loves taking walks on the beach.

It pains me intensely to look at her. She's the coolest triumph in Scarlett's history, other than winning "Best Costume" on Halloween at Del's Saloon.

Unicorns and glitter, no bugs in the teeth! I firmly believe that Flo, the iconic Progressive Insurance girl, is everyone's favorite TV commercial character, and Scarlett happens to be my favorite person. The two combined are unstoppable! Doesn't happen to me all the time. The tramps who dressed up as sluts for Halloween got to eat their own hearts out on the power of insurance. And we're walking . . . and we're walking . . .

I recently dressed up like it was Halloween when I went to see House of Pain at the House of Blues.

Robert Davi gave me props on the hat when I got on his elevator to the Foundation Room. He's in my all-time favorite Christmas movie, "Die Hard," and played the James Bond villain Sanchez in "Licence To Kill."

Like me, he's a big Los Angeles Dodgers fan who absolutely despises the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. As proof of my borderline religious love of sorts, here's a wonderful montage of pictures from the Dugout Club seats I've been frequently spotted at.

Never gets old, and to provide an example of how spoiled I've become, when friends call with tickets I have to ask where the seats are before committing. I've sadly declined all offers. Can't sleep on the luxurious luxury box either, as long as they keep bringing in the overpriced six-packs of Heineken at a steady clip.

They usually do. Aside from choice seating, the best thing about Dugout Club is the food. During most day games, the coolest pony-tailed omelette chef prepares the incredible, dare I say best, omelette I've ever had, the "Everything."

Wayne agrees, and it's convenient that you can eat at the seats. The amazing Philly cheese steak in-seat special often echoes in mind whenever thoughts of culinary grandeur float around in my brain. Few examples of yumminess compare to the pho bar.

Actually, there's a long list of Dugout Club faves. When you eat a lot, like I do, you need the option of all-you-can-eat Dodger Dogs with chili, root beer floats, with a varying menu I've experienced that includes carved ribe-eye, Santa Maria tri-tip roast, BBQ beef brisket, brown sugar and mustard crusted prime rib, garlic studded sirloin, citrus roasted/maple glazed turkey, chipotle crusted pork, seared rockfish with mango salsa, herb roasted lamb, Greek sliders, Buffalo sliders, Vindaloo sliders, crispy baked basa sandwiches, Cuban tortas, gyros, brats, picnic basket chicken, apple smoked tubesteaks, chorizo, Kung Pao chicken, jerk chicken, BBQ oyster shooters, seafood stew (with shrimp, scallops, muscles, clams, salmon), teriyaki salmon skewers, clam bake, bahn mi, spinach-artichoke mac-n-cheese, sweet potato fries, hot wings, chicken strips, loaded nachos, taco bar, baked potato bar, crepe bar, waffle bar, and ice cream sandwiches with top notch chocolate chip or oatmeal cookie. Had the salad once. Think the other L.A. team (in name only by questionable circumstance) has anything that could remotely touch the brilliance of Dugout Club? I love the Dodgers! The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim can shove it. No offense to Sylvester, I understand that nobody's perfect. But I like Orange County a lot, so this is the tentative site of my future home in Newport Beach.

And when I'm there, late at night, I'll continue dancing in the pale moonlight.

Still the King of Bash!

Everything's been fine. No complaints. This blackout drunk photo may bring me out of retirement. Need heavier lures though.

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.