After Party Boy

  • Winter in LALA Land, and I was at this after-party following a gig. It was a sprawling swank Hollywood Hills house of some stunner of a rich chick with a daddy Warbucks type who has a lot of money to throw around and at her to keep her comfortably away from the main family mansion, but at least she’s not a pacifier-sucking clubber dancing to some masked geek with an open laptop, and somehow she and her upper crust crowd still liked actual musicians who play real live music, so one plus in her corner for being so relatively young and trying to live in a dying dream with the rest of the losers in leather and denim. Must be a new retro fad the silver spooners are trying out this year.
  • Everybody was really drunk and/or high; everybody but me. I had the shittiest vehicle in the drive, and it was full of equipment that I had to get home safe and sound: Mr. Responsibility to the rescue. I was only there because I’m the pussy hound of bassist’s ride, and one of the girls in the “in-crowd” needed to add his STDs to hers. So, instead of being back home inland where it’s safe from cruisers full of cops looking for revenue and occasional heads to smash, it’s social beers and awkward conversations with the eternally smashed and saved by money crowd while observing them in their natural habitat, and they’re not easy with it. Although outwardly dumb and purposely vacuous, they know when they are being watched and cataloged.
  • My skills as a musician lost their use hours before and once off the stage, my veneer as one of them is shed in one or two lines of talking to me. The guitarists and singer were nowhere to be found; they probably bolted when that last run of blow didn’t materialize, already rushing back to the eastern valleys before the stimulants were overran by the whiskey, beating the sunrise like drug sucking vampires.
  • It was about that point in the morning right before sunup, where the night is the darkest it’s going to get; the cocaine that was fueling the party completely ran out an hour before, and the whole thing wound down quickly like a child’s toy in a quick mechanical spiral, leaving the detritus in its wake: empty booze bottles everywhere, a pile of ransacked and mostly empty takeout bags (probably a cold taco still left in the bottom of one of them), a passed out pill-head couple on the couch in a deep nod like life-sized, Goth rag dolls, a circle of discarded acoustic guitars and hand drums in the living room — some drunken metal-head, Satanic Kumbaya moment that’s more of a pre-mating ritual; I think that’s when Mr. Bassman and the dirty dishwater blond with the blue streaks in her hair and more tattoos than a biker went to one of the bedrooms to pound it out. He gave me the thumbs up signal that it was okay for me to leave; his expertise as a cocksman will guarantee him not only breakfast but probably a ride home, but for some reason, I didn’t leave. I had been forced into this world again, and I wasn’t done hating these people yet.
  • Muffled music and moans came from the several bedrooms in the back of the otherwise quiet house as I walked though looking around and taking notes. Not a book on a shelf anywhere. Idiots. Not even any albums or CDs; everything is digital. If it wasn’t for their clothes, the framed Pink Floyd poster in one of the rooms and the fact that they were at a live music venue, you wouldn’t even know what their music taste was. One last piss before I hit the road, and I took it outside to the small back lawn near a tiny kidney shaped pool.
  • It was a glorious night. Full moon over the sea of lights that is LA, a choppy and brisk breeze off the ocean that tells you it’s what we call winter here and what brings people from Mid-west and rust belt shitholes where they would be digging themselves out of ten foot snow banks right now. I did my business in the rich girl’s shrubs, adding a bit of nitrogen fixing agents to the soil.
  • As I turned around to go back in the house to look for a bottle of booze to steal for the road, I noticed the hostess in a deck chair next to the pool as she tried to light up a cigarette and failed a couple of times. Before my eyes adjusted to the dark, I hadn’t seen her there. She was smashed, the cocaine overtaken by the booze and probably a handful of pills. She had hate in her voice when she addressed me, “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”
  • “I’m the drummer.”
  • “Well, we don’t need one of those right now,” she practically hissed.
  • I might as well have been the gardener or some waiter with the wrong order. She’s absolutely gorgeous, a rocker’s dream girl but with an ugly soul when it comes to the surface (still a rocker’s dream girl). Finally able to hold her lighter on long enough to find the end of her cigarette, she lit up her smoke and illuminated her face and body, legs splayed off the chair with her high black mini-skirt open for business and totally commando. Her shaved to the bone snatch had so much metal in it, it looked like a fly-fisherman’s mini-tackle-box, the lures glimmering in the quick light of the flame.
  • She hissed again, “We don’t need you here anymore.”
  • I laughed a bit realizing the feeling was mutual and started to walk toward the open sliding glass door. Her hand with the cigarette dropped, she started to pass out in the chair, and her head went back as she started to throw up a little. Fuck. Fucking stupid leaning backwards Adirondack chairs. Might as well have bean bags surrounding the pool. She couldn’t be at a standard deck chair at a table and fall forward while puking. The last thing I wanted to do was assist this chick who had been giving me the evil eye all night since we piled into her pad and ended it by addressing me like the help.
  • I pondered what level of evil it would be to just stand there and watch her choke on her booze, blow and pill vomit then realized that if in the process I got a hardon from that experience, it would add one more complication to my life I didn’t need, so I did the nice guy thing, got to her, pushed her forward a bit and got out of the way for the inevitable shot of puke that was coming, and three points to her for getting most of it right in the pool. I wiped her face off with what I’m sure was an expensive Ebay score of an old AC/DC concert T from the 80s, and carried her 105 pound actual soaking wet ass to the couch; she must have jumped into the pool with her clothes on at some point.
  • I plopped her down face first on the leather couch, and she came back to life a bit, arching up her butt and hiking up her skirt over a flawless ass that had escaped from a porn set.
  • “You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she said, not even looking back at me. It seemed almost reflexive, mechanical, a machine doing its programmed task, i.e. not really sexy.
  • “No, I don’t,” I whispered in her ear. “You’re doing a fine enough job of that yourself.”
  • She passed out almost instantly, wet-fart-snoring against the leather of the couch, and then I did fuck her, sort of. When I was carrying her, a wad of wet hundreds, probably the cash for the last failed coke run, fell out of her little back pocket. So, I scooped that up off the floor, payment for services rendered, grabbed unopened bottles of upscale tequila and a very pricey bourbon from her bar and made my way out of her house and her life and back to my proletariat existence with the rest of the dirt people in the inland valleys.