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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
My first encounter with Ronny was in the backyard, where his recent tedium in activities led to the creation of a menacing gun he was trying to perfect.
Blasting rounds off into the sky rowdily isn’t a problem when neighbors lack existence. I stood back at a distance, since archaic creations may fail due to human error, could have an unwanted malfunction and explode, blow your cheek off.
I got there late, so I saw Nikki and Sasha for a hot second.
I managed to sneak in a dance with them before they headed to bars, told them to come back later. They never did. I was stoked to see Nikki, but before I knew, her and her cohort were gone, ready to meet up with some other females while I faked that it didn’t really matter to me. Nikki knows that.
The night was cold enough to make for an unprecedented sausage Jacuzzi fest. For once I stayed out, deciding to sit back and watch the spectacle take place, something the world has never seen, my eyes lucky enough to lay claim on actual memory.
Then, after a dip, Ronny strongly helmed the DJ position, going from one record to the next with precision timing. He favors big beats in a rave sort of way, techno that hits hard. The no neighbor fact means the pulsating rhythms can be heard until dawn.
Mitch was at the Bash as well, seen here chatting up the premier DJs of the night.
One of the girls was getting down and dirty with her moves, a sign of good DJing.
Walking into Ronny’s room is something of an experiment in outer psychoanalysis. It penetrates your skull and grabs hold, the cushioned floor and required bare feet evoking memories of times past, the feeling of being at home.
The Hoff had already passed out, which didn’t stop me from bothering him and running some smack.
By having The Hoff out of play, Lenard is almost always the first to take over DJing if Ronny is pursuing other opportunities. At least he has good taste in music.
I told Lenard to play some Duran Duran, and he knew why.
Returning to Long Beach feels like the first time every time, fresh and fun. The Fire Spinning Goddess was A.W.O.L., caught in some vortex unleashed to keep water from boiling and collars from heating. I still think about her sometimes.
It also reminded me of the late night solo photo from their Christmas Party of the strangest man I’ve ever met in my life.
Predictably, he wouldn’t stop his assault about all the Metallica concerts he’d been to, and he was very drunk. His eyes would fix on you so hard that breaking away seemed impossible, like those conversations you get sucked into but can’t get away from, mentally grabbing for rope. Your desperation pleads for a saving, a rescue needed from a trustworthy source or a belligerent enemy. This time I got stuck in a conversation with Boater Guy.
He was talking about his boat, the address, the length and the width, the power of the engine, even the stock in the bar, which interested me the most. I began to wonder what it’s like being adrift with only bar stock to live on. Then I knew I had to exit the conversation, so I said, “Sorry bro, I really gotta go to the bathroom, I’ll be back.” I bumped into Tomahawk and Space Ghost on the way in.
Others started looking all cracked out.
After having the flashback, I contemplated differing options, maybe meeting Nikki and Sasha out on town or ending it regretless. Regardless, I needed to think about how to make my stacks Bashing until sun up. Ericka certainly crossed my mind the most.
I’ve been on a crazy Pete Rock tangent of late, my soundtrack of life right now, his library all I’ve been listening to courtesy of motivation from Moistworks. A bit odd considering my disenchantment with the state of rap, but now I go back full force, albeit cheating with the classics. His work is exemplary on turntables, like you can always spot the Pete Rock sound, I mean, he is The Creator. This will force me to make a Top Twenty All-Time Favorite Rap Albums List.
Leaving Long Beach always saddens me before breakfast.
