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.

Holy Matrimony

Rita agreed to Tony’s advances, so to the alter they went to seal the deal and finalize all outstanding contracts. I was invited to their wedding to witness a marriage, on the condition, of course, that I maintained good behavior and relented from Detonator style mischief. Nothing prepared me for what I experienced.

A bride this stunning makes men weep.

The location was incomparable, so after much serious contemplation, I was the one yelling “Fore” on random back swings from the bushes.

A major highlight was my ticket to the pre-game festivities, where champagne and females were abundant. I got there extra early for obvious reasons.

When it comes to make-up application, nobody does it better than Holly Valentine. She went to work on everyone, including Rita’s sister Roxie.

I had never before witnessed the preparation involved behind the scenes. Envy in the eyes of other males was surely apparent, especially when empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot led to multiple walks through the field to retrieve another three bottles. Everyone was taking care of each other.

The best part was the encircling, everyone wanting to get a piece of last second make-up primping for the bride, a tradition well respected among most female clans. The final touches reached a frenzy many will reminisce about for years. Everyone was going to look their best.

The ceremony was planned to perfection, no detail overlooked. It also helps to have endless champagne and Chivas to loosen up the bride and Maid of Honor.

I've read that marriage is done for the purpose procreation and requires consummation. There are other obligations to consider, like in some wacky cultures women are required to bear many children. Roxie simply believes in the power of love.

The sheer energy and introspective words of the preacher brought shivers down my spine. The look in Rita’s eyes gazing into that of her love boldly moved the spectators.

That soon led to the rampage of congratulations for the bride, here seen with her business partner Alice.

Bernadette Bender was there too, willing to cause stirs with her unrequited desire to Bash.

It had been forever since I challenged her wits, one of the many things I treasure from such a close friend.

One of my favorite bartenders Danny was there, which was no surprise to anyone with half a pulse.

He later fell into some type of drunken wormhole of self-realization. He claimed that the only way to terminate a marriage is by death.

Roxie gave a very well-received speech during the beautiful reception, certainly one of the many high points.

No matter what type of wedding traditions a family may follow, you have to love the dances with the father.

I was stoked to see Uncle Bob there, who Bashed me into submission with perfectly targeted insults, the kind that are the truth.

He pointed out that the age of consent in Spain is 13, 14 in a bunch of other European countries. As we had an in depth discussion on the many virtues of marriage, the beats from DJ Preston Moronie brought out Holly Valentine and her microphone. The Bash needed some Hyper Crush.

Virtually on cue, they began doing a daring mash up of the Hyper Crush catalog, moving the crowd from verse to verse with purpose. To do it up right, I hit the dance floor to liven things, a typical reaction since I know how to shake it with the crew.

The absurd amount of stiff pours from behind the bar only made the situation more manic. Roxie and Holly made sure to elevate the excitement of the proceedings.

No matter where I went, from front to back, I was viciously attacked by females fueled by thoughts that maybe, just maybe one day, they'll have their day.

Before leaving, I made sure to have a permanent impact by passing along five volumes of “The Art of Bashing” to a promising young college student, one with potential to dominate.

Spreading subversive propaganda around suffices when a positive mood accommodates my passion for the greater good. I gladly pulled ripcord before things could get too out of hand. The fortune showered forth was enough inspiration to attack Del’s Saloon. I was immediately greeted with a handshake from the peerless Amaury Guerrero.

One female was particularly perturbed by our brash behavior, which surely bordered on amazing. Some hussies are easily scared and get inexplicably caught in the headlights. This one was caught off guard, but then became very friendly.

When they figure out the method and understand the threat, calmness closes them and happiness shines supreme. She also suggested that all marriages include a dowry. Her annoying friend was not impressed. Neither was I.

Amaury immediately led her away with the heavy lure of darts. That also led to Amaury belting out an unsolicited karaoke duet with an extra amorous female who had a head full of impromptu drunkenness.

All in all, I survived Rita's wedding and Del’s, so I guess my political career remains intact. It was around this time I realized people were getting rather stupid from the excessive liquid abuse. Very few knew I recklessly stole the bouquet, figuring it would shower me with unprecedented luck.

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.