I was heading to lunch to meet my boy Dee Hustle at this hotspot off West Sunset. I’ve never been there, didn’t know what I was looking for. Saw two big burly black guys outside the address and called Dee confused.
“I don’t know, this doesn’t look like the right place….”
Dee calls his boy threeway and puts me through to him. He tells me to tell the guards the secret name/password, which I do, and I’m allowed in. This is not what I expected. Turns out Dee had me meet him at an event being thrown to celebrate the BET Awards. There’s a music room with a dude playing piano, a massage area with ladies giving massages (yeah I got hooked up), Rebel Spirit handing out some sick gear, and my very own host to show me around and make me comfortable until Dee arrived. AN hour later. In the meantime, Harry the host takes me to each key spot, introduces me to each key player and next thing I know I’m being handed these gift bags and snack packs and lovely little capri sun style pouches filled with my favorite beverages on earth. Booze. Capri Booze pouches sans straw. Fucking fantasy land. And as many as I want. They are on ice. They are free. They are portable and perfect for drinking on long road trips or standing in line for Transformers. It is the best idea I’ve never had, and only three months too late.
THREE MONTHS TOO LATE.
Bastard capri booze pouches, tempting me with their frosty and oh so delicious appley goodness. Lemon droppy delightedness. Patron pouches of heaven. Mother. FUCKER. If only I’d have stumbled upon this heavenly party three months and a week ago I could have partaken of the finer party items and had myself a lovely time! I could have smoked weed with the weed man, drank every pouch that came my way, and called a cab home after fighting with Dee over my keys. The best part? The funniest part? I would never have handled the business that I managed to handle today.
I spoke with every person I could in a clear coherent fashion. Entirely business. I made some contacts that I’ve already followed up on and have some great ideas that can possibly come to light. I remember the event and didn’t make a drunken fool of myself. I kicked it with the weedman, and even told him I could roll him a B-La blunt, he laughed. Stunned.
“You would roll me a blunt and not even smoke it? Daaaaamn. You may be the perfect girl!”
“Well, hold on now. That’s a tall order.”
“Naw, that’s perfection right there.”
I left that little shindig when I felt my willingness to stay sober start to wear, when I started thinking how nice it would be to take a fat rip from the blunt, or how just one little pouch wouldn’t wreck my day too much. The thought that ran through my head directly following these two was “If I get fucked up now, I’ll never get my 90 day chip. Or my 6 month. Or 9. I’ll never get a fucking cake. I want a fucking cake.” And I dipped out. I left, sober as I came, with a gift bag full of cards from people I remember and meetings to set up and ideas to bring to life. I left feeling stronger than I came, my first real life test of character, and the first time I realized I’m actually committed to this decision. And it feels good. It feels really good actually.
I followed the events of the day up with a walk down to my favorite store, Fresh and Easy, to buy some celebratory ice cream with my man E-Deezy. Little did we realize that the entire fucking world is on Hollywood blvd mourning Michael Jackson at his star. All of the charges and allegations aside, it appears he is cleansed of his “sins” in death. I suppose the same is happening with me and that sweet little pornstar Penny Flame, just like the St. Francis prayer says…And in death, we are reborn. RIP MJ and PF. RIP.