Thursday 8.21.08

APART FROM SOUTHY (RESPLENDENT IN A BEIGE TRILBY WHICH HE CLAIMS IS HIS FATHER'S), there were two people at the bar when I walked in around 5pm: a guy having his first legal drink as a 21-year-old, and a cat named Christopher, who I started talking with after he recognized me as the extremely drunk guy in sunglasses who almost fell over in front of the bar last Thursday. On the bar was a sprig of basil, part of which Southy was mashing into a glass as Christopher read a drink recipe aloud from a piece of paper, using the word "muddled" at least four times. Turns out he's a chemist, and has created a series of drinks named after the seven sins and seven virtues (get it? saints? sinners?), which he is hoping Saints will adopt as signature beverages. Then he handed me a sky blue martini. And I don't know about you, but when a chemist holding a sprig of basil hands me a drink he designed, I drink it. This wasn't one of the aforementioned drinks, but another concoction of his called the Gin Ocean, which was damn good. While I drank it, Christopher told me the story of his friend who accidentally drank some seawater last week and now has a hole in his stomach.

The other Christopher Creation I tried was a Diligence, a mixture of apricot brandy and some other stuff that escapes me at present, which formed the basis for my longest conversation with the Fat Tire Phantom (see Thursday 8.7.08 aka "Fat Tire Phantom, Who Art Thou?"). He asked me what I was drinking.

I fly tonight for Montego Bay, Jamaica, where upon landing at 6:13am Saturday morning I will be charged Yankee rates to be shoved into a war-torn automobile which a smoked-out cab driver will drive at 90m.p.h. down windy mountainside highways scattered with cows and crash victim memorials to Negril, where I will watch my ex-girlfriend get married, party hearty, then retire alone to the Negril Yoga Center (link), where I am renting a bed. I have my heart set on a certain someone, so there will be no downward-facing dog this vacation. From Jamaica, I fly direct to Atlanta for the wedding of our good friends Nzinga and Sum.

I say all that to say, I won't be deejaying at Saints until Friday September 5. Tonight I will be in the air, and next Friday I will be in a hotel in Atlanta filled top to bottom with Sum's relatives, several gallons of Remy Martin, and 100 decks of cards. Maybe if you bastards post some comments, I will post some pictures. I know you're reading.

DAMAGE: (1) Gin Ocean, (1) Diligence, (1) Hellfire, (1) Guinness/Johnnie Walker boilermaker, (1) Pilsner, (1) shot of something Truck fucked up then decided to give to me.


Friday 8.15.08

Still drunk.

It is 11am the morning after, so I'm writing this now to preserve what precious little I can recall from last night before it's gone completely. Then I'm going to put some clothes on. I think my neighbors would like that.

Sum is in Atlanta inspecting doileys for his wedding next Friday, so it was all me on laptop duty. I opened the floor for all song requests (within reason), to give the patrons of Saints & Sinners an opportunity to redeem themselves after last Friday's clusterfuck (see 8.8.08 post), which, one "Fergalicious" request aside, they did. Truck must have been on some serious cold medicine, because she was mouthing the words to "Supersonic" by JJ Fad when I played it. I didn't know Truck knew what rap is. Impressive.

I won't get too deeply into what transpired in the bar after hours, but I can tell you that it involved me, Jodeci and a flashlight.

Then I walked to Cinco De Mayo and had a carnitas plate while reading Cinco's Yelp reviews (link) on my phone. Some people are stupid, man. "It's so greasy." Duhhh. And you probably complain about the lack of intellectual stimulation in Adam Sandler movies too. These are the kind of people who get out of the shower to take a piss.

DAMAGE: (3) Stellas, (2) Wild Turkey Honey & sodas, (1) Hellfire, and (1) Casadores on the rocks.


Thursday 8.14.08: Sum's last Thursday before he gets married. Promise.

Chip, looking kind of like a beakless bird in this picture.

As you're probably aware, we have been milking this "Sum's getting married" angle for the last two weeks. Last Friday the emails and text messages said "Sum's last Friday before he gets married!", so people came through and gave him the hugs and backslaps and their opinions on marriage and left not expecting to hear from Sum again until the deed was done. So when we sent out the "Sum's last Thursday before he gets married!" messages almost a week later, I think many of the people who showed up came just to make sure he was actually going to fucking leave this time. Don't worry, people. I live on his block, so take it from me. He's definitely gone. There will be no more marriage-related text messages.

But come to think of it, the turnout was pretty nice. Pudge, Tika, X-Man, Rareform a.k.a. the Planters Man, Benny, Jorge, Jason... I'm starting to think we should have gone even further with the marriage angle. "Sum's last hamburger before he gets married!" "Sum's last dentist appointment before he gets married!" Hey, you know what they say about publicity.

We even got a visit from Chip, the infamous patron saint of... Saints. Chip's current occupation is being paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to write the inane voice-over blather for shows like World's Greatest Pogo-Stick Chases and When Sharks Rob Banks. But he was a bartender at Saints until last year, and was more or less the face of the place: Magnum P.I. shades, a handlebar mustache and one hand on your ass, no matter what is or isn't swinging beteween your thighs. Which reminds me: what is it with white guys and the gay play? White guys will drop their nuts on their friend's forehead, or squeeze a dude's ass just to piss him off, all for laughs. I knew there was a reason I never joined a fraternity in college.

I thought it was so nice of Chip to go out of his way to stop by and wish Sum well on his leap into this next phase of life, but now that I think about it, he told me he was on his way to the movie theater and just stopped through to get a drink. So there's that.

Anyway, Chip is the guy who gave us our first gig at Saints, so I'll always be grateful to him for that. Or, Chip is the reason I wake up drunk two mornings a week, so I'll always harbor a deep resentment toward him. Either works.




Friday 8.8.08: Invasion Of The Hideous Request Monsters

Sum was supposed to be basking in the warm, glowing, warming glow of his last Friday night DJ set as an unmarried man this night. But Ian asked him to barback, which means more money for both of us - so I flew solo while Sum shuttled the booze.

We had been told earlier that an '80s-themed birthday party for a girl named Amy was going to be happening there that night, so I knew what I was in for when I walked in: drunk, badly-dressed white people lining up by the DJ booth to ask for awful songs. Jorge, the DJ famous for the "No Song Requests" sign that he props up once every couple months or so on the turntables, was already scowling when I walked in, and half of his set is always '80s music. So I knew these had to be some requests straight from the bowels of the earth. And they were.

The night's main offenders were two girls in frilly prom dresses and frizzed hair who couldn't have been more than toddlers in 1989, and seemed to think that rubbing my elbow and batting their eyelids was going to get shit like "I Love Your Smile" by Shanice played. I told them that I was aware there was an '80s-themed party going on, and as such, they had a handful of 'corny credits' with me, but no amount of credits was going to get "I Love Your Smile" to come through these speakers. Besides, that song is from the '90s, kid.

So they asked for "I Touch Myself" by The Divinyls (another '90s song), assuring me that the crowd would erupt, so I played it, and nobody cared. So when they came back and I pointed out that their last request didn't exactly burn the place down, they promised me they would dance on the bar if I played "Like A Virgin". I played it, and they just stood in the corner sucking down their drinks and keeping a low profile, so their Corny Credits were revoked at that juncture.

And just in case you think only women can come up with this shit, a man in rather tight tennis shorts asked me to play "Black And White" by Michael Jackson.

I had to stay at the bar after hours until 4am just to drink it off.


Thursday 8.7.08 aka "Fat Tire Phantom, Who Art Thou?"

Yo, last week was dead, son. DUMB dead. Tumbleweed and dust bowl dead.

The only company your friendly neighborhood DJs had besides Jorge and Southy was a dude we like to call "The Fat Tire Phantom".... you may remember reading about him a couple of posts ago. This is the mysterious white guy in a hoodie who runs into the bar ONLY on the deadest of happy hours, with his car running outside the bar on Venice in rush hour traffic, orders one pint of Fat Tire and drinks it in three gulps or less....while standing. Then vanishes from sight. It's one of the illest drinking techniques we've ever seen.

Because nothing else really happened that night, it's giving us a perfect opportunity to really pick this apart. Cus why? Cus this dude is the Regular Who Isn't. This dude doesn't just guzzle his beer, he waits until no one is looking.... he waits until both DJs are looking at computers or mirrors, ....he waits until Southy is looking down cutting lemons and Jorge is deep in the LA Weekly, then he gulps


and disappears. Completely vanishes. At most, we'll see his back on the way out.

Fat Tire Phantom, Who Art Thou?

I've seen you walk into the bar wearing Kid Robot paraphernalia...are you a toy maker? Do you make toys, Fat Tire Phantom?

Why don't you chill a taste? Why do you leave your car running in front of the fire hydrant?

One day we started asking him these questions, and at first he was laughing. But after about 4 questions, he gave us the "back the f%#k up" face and stopped answering. The last exchange we had went something like this:

Sum: Hey dude, why don't you just chill for a minute and sit down to enjoy your drink?
Fat Tire Phantom: I don't drink.

*Sum closes his eyes in laughter, and when they open, the Phantom is gone, leaving a $3 tip and two sips of beer in his pint*

One day man, we're gonna figure you out. But if we don't, it's all good... as long as you're around, we know The Palms Weekend is still alive. And really weird.


Friday 8.1.08 aka "Three Left Jabs, a Right Hook and She's Out"

Nikiya & Aweh before the storm.

Sometimes, newbies become regulars in one night.... and regulars turn into complete strangers who change clothes four times in one night, and complete strangers become.... big ole violent assholes that wanna fight your door guys for no reason. And sometimes big ole assholes become best friends in that moment when you both agree that the next dude who's wriggled into the DJ booth, wrapped his neck and face in a coat and is bobbing furiously to The Pointer Sisters is a bigger asshole than either one of you could ever be, and you toast each other over a stiff shot of Tennessee whiskey or mossy scotch.

Alot of people dissolved into shadowy versions of themselves on this night, and it was strange...like full moon night strange. It probably all started when Grogworld's Finest Denmother Nikiya, her hub-to-be Jimmie and Aweh all strolled in. Aweh drops by every few months, has a drink or two and walks out standing up with 100% respectability and all men's jaws in seeing distance scraping the floor.

Not tonight. Gin and Tonic, meet Aweh. Aweh, meet "uh yo Aweh, you aight?".

In between the time she had her first sip of gin and tonic and the time when we were scraping her off the bar couch at 3:00am, a gang of wacky and weird shit went down which included

1) A fight outside the bar that I didn't see. But upon stepping outside, Isaac was nursing a hand in ice, and he, Greg and Sonny were staring off into the eastern horizon like they just saw a lion run down the sidewalk towards Inglewood.

2) Sonny, who apparently helped fend off the attacker outside, was talk-in-your-ear-with-thick-slobber drunk and screaming in our ears about how he knocked some fool out after ducking a punch, hitting him with three left jabs, a right hook, a flying roundhouse crescent kick, a mule kick to the chest and two Steven Segal arm-breaks. Meanwhile, he could barely sit in his stool or stop saying "i'm faded fool...i'm faded... play "BONITA APPLEBUM"! i'm faded, shit...i'm faded fool *laughing*".

3) Jorge saying bye FOUR times and coming back after each farewell in a different outfit....the Budweiser sweater....the leather jacket with no shirt under it and a fedora....

4) A huge spread of vomit across the bathroom floor in the men's room. Not cool. Not cool at all Sonny.

At closing time, the bodies filed out like they always do....feeling good, smiling, shaking hands and bumming cigarettes. But one body laid slain on the couch.... one body with really nice toes and every available man in the bar rushing to it with room temperature water and hangover advice. A body that knew not what happens when you come to Saints looking great asking for gin from the likes of Ian and Bart.

They will destroy you if you let them...and they did. But even in death-grip of gin, the lady held her poise as good as anyone of us who aren't drinkers could have. There was no spitting thick globs of slobber on the DJs' faces asking for "Bonita Applebum" or throwing up all over the floor like you were blind.

Two cheers for poise young lady, bravo.


Thursday 7.31.08: presenting the STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN.


SOUTHY HIT US WITH THIS DRINK for the first time a few Thursdays ago. He found it looking through a drink book, and loving the immortal guitarist as much as he does (along with being surprised that a veteran drink-slinger like himself had never heard of it before), he whipped it up. And it was good. Especially on this balmy Thursday evening when we delivered a serious blow to Saints & Sinners' triple sec reserves.

We got our monthly visit from Jay, our neigborhood bashful writerly type, who always looks bursting at the seams to spill his guts and talk your ear off with all the profound thoughts writerly types are always grappling with, until he has a few drinks, morphs into a cackling hound, and forgets what he was going to talk about. Nikiya dropped in and put a good dent in the bar's Remy Martin bottle. I saw Benny on the other side of the bar looking pretty sober, although it's hard to tell with that guy sometimes. Janet strolled in for a Shirley Temple shot towards the end of our set and was promptly serenaded into dance mode by Jorge, who never misses an opportunity to claw at some thigh.

It was a a regulars' reunion of sorts - we even got a visit from the guy who comes in once every few weeks after work on Thursdays, orders a beer, drinks the whole thing in one gulp, throws a bill down on the bar, and strides back into his car, which is double-parked and running on Venice Blvd. Harleigh covered for Southy, who came in late to cover for Truck since it was her birthday, so it wasn't a complete set, but close enough. Word to the mid-50s white man with the narc mustache and Hawaiian shirt bopping his head all evening to Wu-Tang and Redman and Too Short.


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