The Sobriety Battle Of Los Angeles

Beverly Hills
That's where I want to be
(gimme gimme gimme gimme)
Living in Beverly Hills
Beverly Hills
Rolling like a celebrity
(gimme gimme gimme gimme)
Living in Beverly Hills
--Weezer, "Beverly Hills"

I don't know.

Holy God.

Maybe technology is killing me from the inside out, or maybe the last part of me that refuses not to believe that this is all self-flagellating rising action before the triumphant denoument. (Don't you guys love the fact I'm a journalism geek? DON'T YOU!?) TV, magazines, websites--all point to The Dream. Ubiquitous, rich, famous, therapied and botoxed out of my flippin' skull, 4 houses, 3 Hummers, 2 girlfriends (one a singer-actress, the other an actress-singer), and my own private island.

Those things have taught me my reality should be nothing but the best--I should've gone up and left two corpses where there once were credit cards, running over and into Jessica Alba as a result, eating dinner together before going to the local karoake bar (selections? "Love And Happiness", "Rock N' Roll Ain't Noise Pollution" around midnight for everybody going nutso drunk off their ass, and closing the joint out with "Let's Get It On" or "Sexual Healing"--depending on the day) and back to her five-star hotel, where despite having my body weight in alcohol I would've put on a display of sexual gymnastics to the point where I would've had to quit my job and take a month-long 17-city nationwide tour to demonstrate the Rosser to the less fortunate. At this very moment her head would be looking over my shoulder as she put her chin against it, pinching me to know when I've gone too far.

See what I mean? CRAZY.

(Of course, all the best things were accomplished by people assumed nuts...)

Anyway, the point before the recap: we are conditioned to think anything less than the peak of awesomeness ceases to be awesome. But there is such a thing as non-demonstrative non-ostentacious really great awesome. It just doesn't get the hype something ludicrously awesome does. It plays Marvin Harrison to Chad Johnson if that helps you.

Saturday and I'm up so fucking early I start regretting not going out the night before and just staying up through it to the end. Like, 7. Trust me, when you set up your college schedule and job to make it so that you usually don't have to be conscious until 9 or 10, let alone out the door at 8, this makes a difference. It's Aaron, Ivan and I going up to la-la to see Amanda. Once there, she's giving us the touristplus treatment.

Butch's Things I've Learned, #47, #48, #49: The only thing I regret about this weekend--not going to the Pulp Fiction diner, Lou's from Fight Club, or Sunnydale High.

We hit the big brother to the north, and here's a surprise: besides a small accident, we make it in a little over two hours. Past Disneyland, Knotts, all that work. Even though she was expecting us a little later, because who the fuck actually says they're going to get from LA to SD in 2.5 and then does so, Amanda is ready to show us about Burbank and the Metropolitan Greater Los Angeles Area. We get some good food at a little mom and pop and then it's off to the damn races. [This part will be greatly enhanced with pictures later in the week, at which point I can remove this sidenote.] Past the Warner Brothers and sister lot, and past DreamWorks, a bunch of divisions of Sony or Warner, past NBC.

Horrifying.

Not just this is where they allow Leno to attempt comedy but there's a row of plus-sizes apparently applying for the Biggest Loser. It's not sad they're fat and willing to trade their dignity for television time; it's sad how long the line is. If it's true life eats souls, this town is the express lane.

Butch's Things I've Learned #5: FUCK LENO.

We go by Sacred Heart, actually, after that--like everything great on TV it looks horribly rundown from the outside, though they were filming. We run around (and miss a golden opportunity to drive into the lot and into infamy shortly followed by County when the security guard crosses the street and leaves the lot, if only for a 10-second-window, open) and then continue onward.

Ambulance, check. Exterior upper, check. Actual logo or sign? Fail (logo was draped off, sign's probably in the back where we didn't get to see anything).

After such a morbid look into the human psyche, it quickly becomes clear that we need to steal a page from the book of Brandon Boyd and drown it out with buzzing lights.

The Walk Of Fame it is.

The Walk Of Fame is a lot less elite than you'd think it'd be, with a lot of repeats. Even so, a few blocks of it is quite entertaining: I mean, someone had the visionary sense to put Hasselhoff and Swayze next to each other and DeanO way down the block from Sammy. Ivan steps on Reitman's name and gets his own star for a moment. I take pictures of many name old-time black celebs' stars for my mom (assuming she'll care), and take my picture with Chris Rock's, pretend to spit on Leno's, and et alsoforthia. Amanda & Ivan get one next to Don Francisco's. Aaron thinks about passing out on Charlie Sheen's, doesn't, and regrets it afterwards. Fun, fun, fun. We stop in a script & poster shop where I buy the pilot of Scrubs. A couple of cut scenes, and the fact Dr. Cox's original name was PHIL!

Butch's Things I've Learned #74,261: Little things make big differences.

I think I speak for every fan of the show when I say that would have never worked ever and they would've been cancelled quicker than you can say "Emily's Reasons Why Not". Still room for you on the show, Heather, but you're the Janitor's girl now.

We also stop in a sex museum for a couple minutes and this is only notable for the noticable blanching of face when Amanda shows Aaron and I the nipple clamps.
***
And now, the real reason anybody worth their salt finds their way to Tinseltown when all you can really be expected to do is look from the outside in--

CELEBRITY STALKING!

Butch's Things I've Learned #674: The Playboy Mansion is very secluded from the public.

Butch's Things I've Learned #4,362: The Osbournes still haven't changed the front gates.

Butch's Things I've Learned #62: Pauly Shore has an inflatable cow in his front yard, tethered down.

Butch's Things I've Learned #78: Halle Berry's house is nice without being ostentacious.

Butch's Things I've Learned #79: I should call ahead to make sure she's there.

Anyway, we spend too much time driving up and down Hillcrest Drive, Charing Cross Road, and four streets all named the same fucking thing (jesus h. vishnu, the highest per capita on the goddamn galaxy and you people can't give your streets different names?!) and deciding whether or not Brittany Murphy's a big enough star for us to go by (isn't...sorry.)

Butch's Things I've Learned #784: Driving by David Spade's house and yelling "Get a real job, hippie!" at the top of your lungs--even if it's Aaron's idea--is still fun.

By the way, looking around at houses in Beverly Hills is like watching your eyes turn into green dollar signs and beating the maxim "The meek shall inherit the earth" to death with a shovel.

There's something about taking Paparazzo 101 that depletes the energy source, so Amanda's the usual 17 steps ahead of us and knows what's on the menu next on the trip.

Amanda and LA being the hosts, the locale becomes just as important as the food.

Three words, loyal reader: Goth Mexican restaurant.

No, really.

The Velvet Margarita Cantina is blacker than I am, and improbably a lot cooler as well. Black mariachi hats turn into a mock chandelier. Velvet paintings of Atlantis hang next to Elvis. Plasma screens play Fantasy Island in French while Elvis saves a villa on the next one over. Despite it filling quickly we're there right as they open; wouldn't you know Amanda could sweet talk a Klan member into moving to Compton and has talked us into reservations while we loitered next door?

I drink a margarita drink, put some salad in my system to break up the debauchery, and then slowly consume my chicken asado tacos. Ivan falls for our awesome red-headed waitress and it's a shame because without me there he probably would've had a shot. She brings out a birthday ice cream and apple empanada platter right after they sweep my dishes. The plate is filled with powdered sugar, which I blow everywhere in the course of making my wish. (Insert Kate Moss joke here.) They have a nice patio in back and little mock shrines to (just remebering the last 3--Bruce Lee, Sid Vicious, and Scarface) between floor and restrooms.

Highest Possible Recommendation.

Back to Amanda's place, where we decompose temporarily.

In an hour, it's back out. If this city never sleeps Saturday night, God only knows what LA's like. Even though we're not hitting The Scene in order to give me something to do next time other than get thrown off of Halle Berry property we are hitting A scene.

Off to the Universal CityWalk we go. It's very Vegasy, and the Latin place is absolutely jumpin', but no time for love, Dr. Jones.

So, it's Howl At The Moon what left this on my right arm palmside down. To get into it: Howl has two guys playing piano. They sing classic songs and dirty songs, and every happy birthday gets punctuated with a rousing en masse YOU BITCH! YOU SLUT! YOU WHORE! It is raucous, loud, and crazy. How Amanda came up with this place for moi is beyond me. We stand sort of on the upper level while groups of people sip from buckets of alcohol (soooooooo what I'm getting next time), and after downing a shot and ordering the mandatory Heinie--

--and looking rather shocked, I must say, that I do such things or at any rate do them this quickly--

Butch's Things I've Learned #126: I'm immune to all the long-term effects of booze, apparently. Told you I was the shit, didn't I?

--but it sure doesn't take long for Amanda to order me up a special shot served up by a chesty blonde who apparently absolutely has to be on my lap to administer the whatever-the-fuck-it-is she dropped down my throat or the responding whipped cream. There is an awesome moment as I remember what else Aaron got not 48 hours before that I also loved the shit out of after the party limped home and suddenly find myself wondering exactly where the ones are supposed to go. Having drank for dinner, during the break, and the second I got the possibility I find myself getting from low buzz to chin music pretty quick. Also should be noted--rum, beer, tequila, at the least. And that's before the couple sitting next to me and in front of us buys me a slippery nipple. Which would find itself ursurped in my Favorite New Drink Discovered This Weekend in a day but c'mon. It's a Werther's Original that you can drink that can fuck you up! Is it any wonder I didn't have the heart to tell them she wasn't my girlfriend? I should be so lucky as to get somebody to rent big-chested blondes for my birthday in the future. Serious, like.

Yes, I did the Robot.

Yes, I did the Running Man.

No, I didn't get to sing.

Yes, I was stinking drunk and closed the fucker out. That's how I roll.

Butch's Things I've Learned #83: If it's worth it, it's worth it until they have to kick you out.

Drunk as I am, Aaron steals the post-game wrapup show by morphing into Barney Gumble and doing a rant pro-candy-cane and anti-harp-seal for the entirety of the way back. It must be said despite never touching a drop of firewater he manages to sound drunker than I actually am. In order to compensate, back at her place I start going up the wrong set of steps and do a belly flop onto her couch. I pause to lay out my sleeping bag and crawl in it, and within five minutes it's ash to ash, dust to dust, fade to blaaaaaaaaaaack...
***
8:32. Hellllllllllllll no.

9:57. No.

11:17. There we go.

Aaron went into the trip on just enough sleep to drive him insane, is hibernating. I read Rolling Stone as Ivan and Amanda come out of the woodwork. Once Aaron's up, I shower. (Song choices: "Sugar, We're Going Down", "Rock And Roll Ain't Noise Pollution", and "Take Me To The River" as I shaved the beard.)

It takes us a while to get going, but Amanda's down the block from a highly-respected eatery named Hill Street Something-Or-Other. Yes, I said "Let's be careful in there" as we pulled in. I decide to have some Belgian waffle with my syrup and butter. Knott's makes an apple cinnamon jelly that tastes like the inside of an apple pie and I think I will be licking some off of Jess or Katherine in the dream this evening when I kill off this post.

We get back and watch the end of the Matrix. I was thinking we should've gone out to see the 3 places we missed I wanted to hit, buuuuuuuuuut...

Butch's Things I've Learned #4,171: Passing out + bread + syrup + real butter = groggy.

After a bit, we start playing Illuminati Poker. It's the version of Texas Hold 'Em you've heard me write about a couple of times where land, people, superpowers are bet in lieu of cash. It only gets named tonight because of a joke I told after Amanda bitchslapped Ivan with a full house and got Oprah and Bill Gates' net worths amongst other winnings...

B: I was going to say after you won that hand, you've become a member of the Illuminati, but now I think you are the Illuminati!

(not pictured: light bulb)

So it's going well as I deal and drink while Amanda quietly and then overwhelmingly takes the boys down, and then her roomate Kataneh gets involved.

This is still a family-friendly post, I swear it.

But in keeping with the motif of the evening...

Butch's Things I've Learned #3: Hot women are trouble.

Butch's Things I've Learned: #4: Hot women with poker knowledge, as more attractive as that may make them, are real trouble.

Butch's Things I've Learned #6: It would be real nice if you were informed they won a tournament in Vegas before you actually start playing against them.

Aaron gets the final hand winner-takes-everything-awesome-ever-in-perpetuity-through-the-universe in the last hand of IllumiPoker (Ha! I've already shortened my own phrase! I am so riding my nut right now.) Kataneh is practically begging to play us for money, but even without it I go out first. (Qs and As vs. Amanda's flush draw, and Al Green gave it to her.) Ivan goes out shortly after. I don't really care, as he has introduced me to Amaretto.

Butch's Things I've Learned #36: Amaretto--ain't nothing wrong with THAT!

Aaron is left to defend the entirety of the male species against the girls. Kataneh shakes him like a British nanny and shortly thereafter gets rid of Amanda. I think she goes into the Hot Friends Of Friends Mt. Rushmore (who're the other 3 names? Oh, I'll never tell. 8 letters, 6 letters, 5 letters.) first-ballot. Though for my immediate future, using Amanda to spot the marks in Vegas should work much better.

After Irvine but before San Diego...a nice way of saying it all looked the same to me...I thought about both towns, and all the friends, and all the small and big presents. I complain so much because my destiny isn't quite fulfilled. And for everything good I have I see the bad moon on the rise for it. Not this time. I stared off into the sky and the spattering of stars, and thought about my friends being my family.

I spent most of the ride home quietly overjoyed and nearly overwhelmed; Adam Duritz told me to hold on to these moments as they pass and I believe him.

And so before we go our seperate ways, I get the moment I was denied in the CityWalk.

Happy birthday to me (butch)
Happy birthday to me (butch)
Happy birthday dear butch
YOU BITCH!
YOU SLUT!
YOU WHORE!
Happy birthday to me...
***
Last thought: tomorrow's Valentine's Day. In the immortal words of Christopher Wallace--rest his soul--fuck all you hos.

np: "Smile Like You Mean It" by the Killers