Hair & Losses

Roxie worked mystical wonders with my unruly hair, so she has officially attained the most desirable responsibility of being my personal hair stylist.
Apparently being a distinguished professional coiffeuse has its drawbacks. The main concern is the fact autopsies have shown that massive amounts of customer hair collect in stylists lungs over the years, something I never fathomed, a practical detail that I’ve always neglected.After her masterful work on the dome, we cooked the most incredible garlic artichoke heart chicken with sides of creamed spinach, garlic cayenne potato hash and vegetable stir fry. The chicken was one of the greatest kitchen creations in some time, outlandish in a way, but so yummy that tummy stuffing was the only alternative to smelling the tantalizing aroma.

Entering poker night with new hair plus a gut full of beer and garlic is highly recommended. I felt like a drunk version of Paul Newman in The Sting, stumbling into a train suite wasted off vodka, making a mockery of the whole thing to eliminate the guard of opponents. I acted up a bit.
Poker Guy didn’t fare all that well, his demise undocumented by being at the other table. He shrugged off the early exit unashamed, surely because of the many victory trophies placed on his mantle. I was kind of sad, being unable to experience first-hand the hi-jinx of the extraordinary Poker Guy.

Catrina intrigued my interests once again, making me wonder if these fantastical thoughts of grandeur erupt from some inherent, irrational emotional wanting without any sort of real grounding. Is it her ploy to toy with my emotions so? I'm enthralled. She held her cards close to vest and played smart, finished ahead of me in second place, took down $100 compared to my $40.

That chump she was with last time didn’t play, didn’t even bother asking the whereabouts. Rollo was around though, his smirk burying its way under my skin, like hearing metal claws screeching on a chalk board. He went out early, around the time I helped expedite Lance's untimely exit.
I had quite a bit of chips at one point, sloppily put together and unorganized, partially due to moderately hindered motor skills and quick movement of the game. Catrina took me out with her rivered flush over my turn straight, very fitting. I'd be pissed if I had lost to that scum R.J.

Poker Guy

Last night didn’t result in any unnecessary entanglements or pitfalls, though “very drunk” ended up on the docket. Barney’s Beanery on me capped the night off, Irish Nachos style.
He was already wasted when we met, borderline useless with sane analysis, yet hilarious with his perfectly timed wisecracks. The Detonator will remain here until the weekend, meaning the fall of human civilization isn’t far from fruition.

Tonight, on the other hand, a different beast surfaces. Every Wednesday at 9:30pm, like Swiss clockwork, is the Echo Park Poker Tour. Hosted by homeboy Lance, it’s frequented by a variety of twisted personalities, most of which are crucial to callously chucking cash into the pot, and the few who strike fear in all those lacking readiness and foresight. I unfortunately committed to go after Lance questioned my manhood on Saturday.

I’ve resourcefully avoided poker confrontations the last couple weeks, mostly because of common appearances by Poker Guy. You can sometimes see the apparition of Poker Guy in the shadows late at night, worse is in the flesh on poker night. Rightly so, being pragmatic dictates that throwing my money away when he plays is boneheaded, so every now and then I skip out, knowing in my heart better things are happening and that money is better spent.

I still manage to bump into him at group events, and seriously, every time he sees me, Poker Guy starts asking everyone if they want to play poker. On that rare occasion he’ll garner interest, a guarantee when the men outnumber women, the game will commence and the odds usually fall in his favor.
His game is respectable, often relying on cunning remarks to garner tells from opponents. By occasionally pushing the boundaries of good taste and tactfulness, he can cause people to drift from their game, lose their edge, lose their dollars faster. You don't have to like it, but it works.

Admittedly, an excellent reason to go is the regular appearance of Catrina, a skilled poker player in her own right, one who often finishes in the money. The ease of her relaxed radiance shifts gravity in ways never witnessed before, rather notorious for fumbles caused. I must find out if she ditched that loser from the other night, if she's finally decided to join the winning team.

Anywhere from 12 to 30 will show for the $20 buy-in, which the top three finishers divvy up at the conclusion of the tourney.

To get my edge and lose excess ego from my head, Roxie is cutting my hair in two hours, and hopefully my trust will not be betrayed.

Return of The Detonator

One associate I regretably neglected to mention was The Detonator. Unfair warning erupted on my cell phone hours ago, that The Detonator was briefly returning from Philly, that he’s ready to Bash.
He came into the struggle many years ago, a fledgling journalist inspired by mayhem and any female interviewee. From there Iceland for a year, then most of Europe and the world on tour with some game show I’ve never seen. His Bam highlight reel of love astounds.

Doesn’t come around often, probably for the best, for in his wake he’s capable of leaving irreparable damage, with hearts broken and shattered. The Detonator’s pulled more chicks than that Sultan of Brunei freak, willingly in his case. Some have been prizes admired.
A worldly traveler who happens to put many Bashers to shame by diligently Bashing more, he’s known for many infamous “Hit & Run” scandals that never strike headlines, while he smoothly mixes up rooms with the heaviness of inspired mire. All seem to look up to his cerebral bravura, and his overstuffed contact list proves it. He’s a Bruin, so when I received his celebratory text message on Saturday all the girls cheered fiercely.

First obvious stop tonight will be The Coronet, since scores of quality conversations and pulls have led to new and improved implementation of Bashing protocols. Some Bashers attain balance by mere luck. He is one of those, wise in ways coveted.
So back from Philly with a vengeance, his methods learned there not all agreed upon to be urbane by local standards. Domination isn’t his issue, it’s control, which is where I can contribute significantly.

Regardless, I’m in possession of photos which may derail his eventual run for public office, his preference being Mayor, yet it’s in the interest of all humanity that, even though I like him quite a bit, his opponent gets all the votes. That’s like ten years from now, and I do have a price.
As he once so eloquently said, “There’s Hell, and then there is Los Angeles.”

Bruins Bash Trojans

Football is a great excuse to swill brew, and when Nikki Carmichael is happily in attendance, being around one of my favorite girls in the world isn’t optional.

Superior female Basher, Bruin fan till the death, she has a knack for making me laugh with her unrivaled witticisms and uncanny observations of the absurd. She is also a dominator of the male species, a tongue sharp enough to cut through the strongest mental armor, and a smile to melt the hardest of hearts. She’s definitely better friend than foe.

I probably put her on a pretty high pedestal, an unrestrained fault of my own doing, but I look up to her ways and methods, envy some of her traits, the true femme fatale.
The game was fraught with little to no expectation on the outcome, with USC coming into the game as a heavy favorite over the struggling Bruins. It took one quarter of play to realize this wasn’t just another Trojan trampling.

The UCLA contingency (all the girls in this case) celebrated this unexpected victory with joyous screams of elation and ebullient post-game drinking contests.
Lara, as usual, managed to drink more than her counterparts, a feat for her size that often amazes onlookers, especially when the humorous barbs fly with pin-point accuracy, in this case, much to the chagrin of lone USC fan. Mitch was bitter at the loss.
The drunken stupor wasn’t enough to stop me from attending a bash on Crescent Heights, a bit of a distance from the initial fray, but worthy because Lance never fails when calling out a party shot.

Results were much better than the sausage fiasco the other night, which has emotionally scarred me for at least the next couple months.
Lance, behind the turntables as usual, brought the bash up another level, a talent that consistently remains effortless on his part. Some train years to achieve greater standing in an art, but for some it comes naturally.

Not a whole lot of worthy females, but much more than that debacle on Friday. Plus this bash had more booze. No hot tub, no naked broads, but the sweet confections made by the party host were irresistible, I probably gained 15 pounds from all the beer and party host chocolate treats.
Two phone numbers attained with ease after utilizing Camera Theory, crap shoot as to whether blessing arrives later in the form of a phone call. Once again it’s proven that most nights can’t go smoothly, which was compounded by the late appearance of Joel.
Sunday was a wash. Didn’t wake up with a girl in my arms, hungover, got out of bed around 1pm after watching football for an hour, crawled across the street for the Del’s $10 bucket of five High Lifes, hated life, tried to drink but could do so only slowly while a looming despair of knowing the Raiders would find yet another creative way to lose a ballgame became apparent and recognized. Finished my beers, crawled back to bed and crashed, and here I am, another Monday with females on the mind again.

Business begins again.

Pure Sausage, the Finest Ever Served

I went to a party in West Hollywood last night. It really sucked. These were the imbeciles that greeted me at the door, a sure sign of what was to come.
I imagined other scenarios going in, not necessarily that of coherent explanation, but better than observed.

Sausage fest gains new meaning when excessive, when the ratio eyed without count means there’s no need for actual headcount. The numbers are in, they’re staggering, you’re taken aback, not so much from the testosterone overload, but like a brick wall flying into you and the resulting recovery is bleak.
Tested a few theories to wilt the initial boredom blocking social interactions. One can never fear starting a conversation, because the opening leads into the direction you’ve chosen. And it shouldn’t be contemplated longer than a moment.

This was the only girl I talked to at the party, the only one of the five worth talking to.
Didn’t get her information, wasn’t really into the chase this night, instead opted for guilt free conversation and a few laughs. Looking around was absurd to begin with, unfathomable considering the source for this bash, the usual hit parade M.I.A.

I once asked where all the good women were, and now I’ve come to a startling conclusion. All the good women are allegedly unavailable. So now, infinite wisdom dictates that I need to go after taken women, institute the Better Deal Theory without delay.

Female First Team All-Bashers

Only two girls make First Team All-Basher, although admittedly quite a few help maintain the Balance of Bash in other important capacities, which will undoubtedly be cited later as appropriate.

The first is Roxie . . .
She is the queen of style, fashion and kitchen works. Always excitable, generally nice to everyone, likes to Bash with the best; an asset and artist. Aside from being the creative neighbor across the street, she is favorable Partner in Crime in all circumstances, too many adventures to recount at once. We hold the kind of mutual trust which can’t be shattered, her intellect elevates my own.

Lara, on the other hand, isn’t one to be fooled with.
Can spot a phony in crowds at a distance, then will tend to proceed in humoring herself simply at a charlatan’s expense. A spectacle to behold, and knowing the intent often forces me to hide my smirk away. She is my hero, I never laugh more.
They always make me look good, no matter where I am. Qualification automatic.

These two have assisted with meltdowns and the purest of fun possible. As a testament to them, I’ve vowed to be unflinching in my belief in self, because I know they have it more than any male friends known. Their parents should be proud at the results.

I saw Roxie tonight, since every Thursday we hit Del’s Saloon to knock back a few and formulate devious plans for world domination. She figured out everything relevant of late in my life, my new approach is unflappable.

Lara is a huge UCLA football fan, so I’ll be seeing her Saturday to witness the battle against USC. Don’t like either teams, wish they could both lose, but by bringing libations and good manners I’ll surely pull through adequately.