I TRY TO CELEBRATE AS MANY NEW CHECKS AS MY FINANCES PERMIT AT BAMBOO. $20 plates make it the most expensive restaurant in the neighborhood. The waitresses are all pretty Latin girls. The seafood pasta and the paella put my seafood itch in the ground every time. The bar has Bushmills whisky, a sugar cane press for mojitos and makes me want to book a flight somewhere Catholic, as does the tropical patio. This all means that the mere sight of Bamboo makes me feel broke, turned on, hungry as Dom Deluise, and thirsty as Dean Martin all at once. And since it's across The Parking Lot (story) from my mayoral compound, it's a feeling I know intimately. So blowing a week's grocery money on sea cockroaches and sugary drinks is a relatively easy way for me to feel more like the wealthy jetsetter I try to convince myself I am. Who cares if the older waiter seems to think a caipirinha is a mojito without mint, and always looks at me like he wants to pummel me with a straw chair? So what if that one waitress who I tried (and failed) to holler at on the block a few years ago won't stop trying to upsell us, and wouldn't credit Nikiya's debit card back for a month after overcharging her by $40? What's it to me if I ask the new waiter for a spoon and he gives me a knife? It's Bamboo. You want customer service? Go to an Apple Store. I want prawns.
Now, what you don't do is steal someone's half a joint. Even if it was hidden in a pack of Dentyne that I left on the table when we walked out last night. They even had the balls to give it back to me the moment I came back for it ten minutes later. He didn't even dig around in the trash or anything.
Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice, WLA. Down the block from Bamboo, actually. I deejay ten to two. No cover. No AA members. No Evanescence. And if you can't make it, tune into soulpublicradio.com tomorrow and Sunday 3pm-4pm PST for the next best thing: a recorded broadcast of me deejaying at Saints in all my triple-distilled, oak-aged glory.
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