The Story Of The Wrong Party

(photo by Marc Kreisel)

A long time ago, I lived downtown Los Angeles in what is now the downtown arts district, but before it got gentrified, it was just one of the many shitty parts of downtown at the ass end of skid row. The only thing that separated me from the bums was that I paid rent for the inside of walls, while they got the outside of them for free.

Around the corner from my house (which wasn’t really a house at all, but part of an old factory) was a dive bar called Al’s. Picture the diviest dive bar you’ve ever been in and make it even sleazier. Add graffiti on all the walls inside and out, cigarette butts everywhere and the smell. Ugh. The smell of cheap piss, a by-product of cheap beer, because it was safer to pee outside in the alley than to risk your life using the bathrooms.

Al’s was positively glorious and my favorite bar in the world. There is so much music history contained within those walls that the day Al’s Bar closed, it might as well have been the day the music died.

(photo by Marc Kreisel)
(photo by Marc Kreisel)

Anyway, while Al’s was still Al’s and not some tame, bullshit place where suburban people feel safe and “like a part of something, you know?” a band named Green Jello played there. Green Jello is now called Green Jellÿ (still pronounced “green jello”). Kraft Foods sued them because they’re greedy corporate assholes with no sense of humor. Green Jellÿ will always be O to me. Anyway, Green Jello is a ridiculous band with puppets and a very strange stage show. They are hella fun.

After the show, they invited us to a party at their place in Hollywood. We decided to go, because why not and beer.

It was at a big building on Sunset, three or four stories high and a block long, which in Los Angeles is damn long. There was a huge party at one end. My friends and I explored the building to look for Green Jello and wandered into a private performance by Cypress Hill. Well, alright then. In a room with a few dozen people is still the only time I’ve ever seen Cypress Hill perform. And I still don’t really like this song:

We milled around and talked to some people. I met a boy. We ended up talking all night. Still, we couldn’t find Green Jello.

Eventually, as things always do, the boy and I got around to talking about music. He was in a band that had the same manager or promoter or something as Cypress Hill. How do you know Cypress Hill? I don’t know Cypress Hill other than I just wandered into a room where they were performing, and apparently, I’m drinking their beer. Oh.

We were at the wrong party. It turns out that Green Jello was on the other end of the building completely, which seemed about half a mile away.

We walked down there and found a much mellower party at the coolest studio space I’ve ever seen. It had a huge papier mâché tree in the middle with a tire swing hanging from it and more colors than the rainbow everywhere. When the sun came up, we had pancakes at IHOP with assorted people from both parties. And that’s how Cypress Hill met Green Jello.

The Hollywood rehearsal studio was torn down not long after. The giant block was chopped up into bite-sized pieces. The part that was Green Jello’s is one of those designer shoe warehouse things now. There is no papier mâché tree or tire swing. There’s hardly any color at all.

Legendary Al’s Bar, where countless bands got their start, is now a yoga studio, because suburbanites are assholes who think there isn’t enough yoga in Los Angeles like there’s not enough coffee in Seattle. I moved away from downtown LA, partly because I couldn’t stand all the yoga-touting, latte-drinking, rich suburbanite assholes milling about my smelly neighborhood bragging about how they were there before it got cool. Their presence caused my rent to skyrocket.

Now, I live in another arts district that’s slowly undergoing the same miserable latte transformation. There’s a place around the corner that charges $9 for a piece of dry ass pie. Fuck you and your dry pie. Get off my lawn.

The boy and I dated for a while, which proved to be yet another example of why I shouldn’t date musicians. During which time, he was awfully fond of telling people the story of how we met at the wrong party. He thought it was kismet that brought me to Cypress Hill’s place that night. Maybe it was, but I’m more inclined to believe it just turned out to be the wrong party and a good story.

Screw You, Cindy Lou Part 2: The Epic Conclusion


I nearly typed Screw You, Cindy Lou Part 2: Electric Booglaloo, but rhyming that many times in one title would throw the earth off its axis and force the moon to drift off to the orbit of Venus, leaving us to wobble through infinite space to hang out with Pluto in the No Longer A Planet Club, if we didn’t run smack dab into lard-ass Jupiter first. In any event, not good things come from rhyming thrice five times in one title.

Crap, I typed it anyway, didn’t I? Well, here’s hoping for the best. *Waves at Mars as we pass by.

Since we’re still seemingly on our normal rotation around the sun for the time being, while we’re waiting for Jupiter, allow me to regale you with the epic, albeit ultimately, anti-climatic fizzle of the story of the traffic ticket.

Approximately a light year ago, in the house of Leo when Virgo ascended 18°57′, I received a traffic ticket. Part 1, the receiving of the ticket part, can be found here, but it went a little something like this:


I was pulled over by the teeniest cop in the largest vehicle for “unsafe lane change,” even though a) I was already on the freeway, and therefore, had the right of way and b) I had my turn indicator, signal, blinker, or whatever they call it in your neck of the woods, firmly in the blinky position, thereby signaling that I was intending to get over to the right.

I probably wouldn’t have fought the ticket–I would have just paid it and done traffic school in order to avoid having to stand up in court since public speaking is hell to me–if it were not for the second part of the ticket.

You see, when Cindy Lou Cop pulled me over and I reached in my bag for my wallet, I found that particular part of my bag to be as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

Why are you looking for your wallet in the cupboard anyway? (
Why are you looking for your wallet in the cupboard anyway?

I had forgotten my wallet. I do this from time to time seeing as, every night, I take my dog to the dog park. Before I go, I switch my shoes to my dog park shoes and switch the important contents of my bag to my dog park bag, because dogs are gross and things that aren’t machine washable are best left at home.

It just so happens that, on the eve of my acquaintanceship with Cindy Lou, my brain farted and I forgot to put my wallet back into my work bag. Whoopsies. So, when Cindy Lou asked for license, registration and proof of insurance, I was unable to offer any of the above.

Cindy Lou ticketed me for no proof of insurance. This is what is called a fix it ticket, where you can show the court that you did, in fact, have insurance at the time and be on your merry way. Unfortunately, due to the “unsafe lane change” allegation, I was unable to fix my fix it ticket. I had to go to court.

Thus, began an epic 14-month, 3-day, and 42-minute journey though the wretched bureaucratic nightmare that is the United States Court system. This journey is not an adventurous epic like Raiders Of The Lost Ark, but a boring epic like Gilgamesh, so we’ll skip over most of the details.

It started with my request for a three month extension since I was not prepared for the journey and still needed to pack. Once my reprieve was over, I logged onto the court website where a computer glitch allowed me to pay bail, schedule an arraignment date and close my case at the same time. How can a case be both closed and open? I don’t know. Ask the Superior Court of Los Angeles.

I only discovered my case was closed when I showed up for the arraignment. Bail and arraignment are such heady words for a piddly traffic infraction.

I demanded satisfaction, and they reopened my case and scheduled another arraignment, which was exactly like the first. How can someone be arraigned twice for the same traffic ticket? I don’t know. Ask the Superior Court of Los Angeles.

At the second arraignment, my case appeared to be open. I spent nearly three hours in court just to say, “Not guilty, your honor,” wherein they scheduled an actual trial date, which was this morning.

So, this morning, I trundled off to court for the third time. At least I knew where I was going and which bathroom has the shortest line. Court starts at 8:30. Sometime after 8:34, which was the last time I looked at my watch, they ushered us into the courtroom and took roll. About half of the names said “here.” The other half said nothing, because they didn’t show up for trials they had requested themselves. G’jorb.

After being delayed for an interminable amount of time, they told us that things would be delayed. They were still waiting for cops and alleged criminals to show. How lovely. It’s always some who ruin it for everyone.

At 8:52, the clerk called a name and said, “You posted bail and your officer hasn’t checked in yet. I just need to verify your address, so that if your officer doesn’t check in within the next ten minutes or so, we know where to send your bail. Are you still on Asshat Boulevard?”

Then she called another name with the same spiel. And another. And then, she called my name and asked me if I still reside on Glorious Redemption Of The Common People Avenue. Yes, I do!

I sat there fidgeting nervously for the next eight light years. I just had to wait it out. I silently recited the mantra, “please, don’t show,” to no one in particular, besides a Cindy Lou I suppose. For a completely non-superstitious person, I silently recite mantras a lot. They never work. That could be why I’m not superstitious.

Knowing my luck, I would get the “your officer hasn’t checked in” speech only to have Cindy Lou confirm her presence with ten seconds to spare. Every time the door to the courtroom opened, my head swiveled around like a guided cruise missile. I couldn’t remember what Cindy Lou looked like other than the fact that she was diminutive and female. None of the cops in the shop were female nor particularly diminutive.

Then, the judge arrived. All hail the judge. She said some words I don’t remember and called out the same four names that the clerk had, mine among them. “Your police officers failed to show. You are free to go.” Well, Tally fucking ho! I’m outta here!

And that was that. Court is over, my alleged crimes have been expunged and I didn’t even get to face Cindy Lou. Even though I didn’t have to pay the fine or speak in court, I still had to spend 14-months, 3-days, and 42-minutes with this hanging over my head, so I feel fully justified in saying, “Screw you, Cindy Lou, wherever you are.”

Flashback: Shroooooms.

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I’m pressed for time and not feeling particularly inspired, so it’s time for another Flashback Reblog from the fishbowl archives about the last time I did psychedelic mushrooms.

Disclaimer: this post is not meant to serve as encouragement to do drugs. Don’t do drugs, kids. Drugs are bad, mkay?

Originally posted on Fish Of Gold:

As I’ve probably already detailed somewhere in this here blog, I have an affinity for teh drugs. I like them. Sometimes too much. Especially uppers of any variety, which is why I stay away from them altogether as much as possible.

But there are certain drugs which pose little to no issues to my addictive nature. Mushrooms are one of them. They couldn’t exactly be considered an upper; they’re more in the downer/hallucinogen category, which makes them safe for me. There’s little chance that I could become addicted (I can’t even imagine trying to work on mushrooms), so they pose little threat. Also, I prefer taking them with other people since I would imagine that I would freak myself out too much if I were to do them alone. One needs partners in crime for that sort of thing.

Mushrooms are an event. They’re not something you just take for…

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Flashback: The Montebello Incident

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The international date line makes for confusing travel. Male told me he was flying home this afternoon, but because he crossed an imaginary boundary, he actually arrived yesterday. He got two Saturdays. Lucky him. Because there’s a snoring gorilla next to me, which makes for some difficult writing, today, we’re taking a trip in the flashback machine.

I’ve been blogging for over five years and I’ve only had an audience for the last few, which means a lot of my early posts haven’t been read by anyone ever, so I’ve started to reblog some of my favorites. This is probably the best story on this entire blog. Even though it doesn’t seem like it, it is entirely true.

It’s a long story, but I think it’s worth reading. Enjoy my embarrassing drunken shenanigans.

Originally posted on Fish Of Gold:

I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life; some things I regret and some things that were just plain idiotic. I’m not proud of them, but they all happened. They keep me up at night, cringing, alone in the dark. Some decisions, once made, cannot be unmade and we have to learn to live with the consequences. Most of the time, they don’t leave any permanent damage and give us some pretty good stories, but only in hindsight. One such story of mine has come to be known as The Montebello Incident.

It all started at a friend’s party. It was a pretty good party with lots of people in a celebratory mood. So, when a pickup truck drove by, asking if we wanted to go to a party in the middle of nowhere, thereby leaving the nice, safe comfort of my friend’s abode, well, it made my positive…

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