Los Angeles is Burning

"Look at this morose mother fucker right here," directed my friend Kent towards me, quoting Ben Affleck's character from the movie Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back.

I was sitting outside a local coffee shop with this girl who worked there, shooting the breeze, killing time. I wish I could remember her name, but sadly, about the only thing I can recall about her was that she got my attention by drawing a chocolate flower on top of my mochaccino and saying, "Look, I made you a flower!"

Instantly, I hated her.

Therefor it was only a natural progression that I would spend her lunchtime with her.

"Who's this?" asked Kent, never the one to be bashful. Perky as the day was long, and with almost supernatural speed, she hopped out of her seat and introduced herself to him.

Kent hated her too.

"So listen," he said, now ignoring the perk monster and turning his attention back to me. "There's this house on Mount Olympus, a couple guys we know are having a barbeque there this Saturday." You could tell from the look on our faces that we both hoped the perkster would not ask to join us. Thankfully, she didn't, and I told Kent I would ride to the party with him as long as he agreed to drive, as I planned on drinking. Never the one to voluntarily give up drinking priveleges, Kent begrudgingly accepted the terms and quickly made his exit.

Soon after, I too bid perkus maximus farewell, and went home to continue being a morose mother fucker.

Mount Olympus is one of the areas of Los Angeles where the hoyte toyte live. So when Kent and I pulled up to this behemoth home nestled among the trees, we both couldn't help but notice that it was completely void of furniture. In fact, it was totally empty of any earthly possessions except for a grill in the back yard, some plastic patio chairs positioned around the pool, and blue and red cups filled to the brim with ice cubes and copious amounts of alcohol.

When we inquired into the status of this home that was currently catering to sixty or seventy of Hollywood's unfinest, someone clearly not of legal age, holding what appeared to be his third-too-manyeth cup of vodka, took us aside. Leaning a little too close for comfort, the kid said in a hushed tone, "Nobody owns it right now. We're not supposed to be here."

"Thank you, numbnuts!" I disapprovingly groaned to both the boy wonder and Kent.

Before Kent could even point to the abundance of bikini-laden boobage near the pool and plead his case for staying, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Settle down, Beavis" said the sweet, feminine voice from behind me.

I didn't even need to turn around to already know I was staying.

Kent, being painfully aware of my weaknesses - of which there are many, gave me a victorious smirk and walked off, as I swiveled around to respond to whomever it was that was obviously stuck in 1995.

And there she was, in all her glory. Short, petite, black hair with a red streak in it flowing down to her jawline, and a smile so bright it trumped the beautiful skyline of California on that warm July afternoon. It was the chick from [Band Name Removed].

"No fucking way!" I shouted at her, uncharacteristically unable to keep myself from giggling like a little schoolgirl. She gave me the "calm the fuck down" look, and immediately I knew the clock was ticking. I had to act quickly or lose the opportunity of a lifetime.

I pulled myself together in what can only described as nanoseconds, and immediately engaged in efforts to redeem myself in the eyes of this gorgeous creature.

"Excited about your show next week?" I asked.
"Yeah, I love touring," she said enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I have tickets," I lied.

She approved, I had recovered the fumble.

"Lets get us a drink," I said while motioning her outside.
"I'll have what you're having," she said, as I paid the ten bucks for our already-ordered two Captain and Coke's.

TSOL was blaring on the CD player in the back yard, and it was painfully obvious they were a band neither one of us was very fond of since we both looked for the spot furthest away from the speakers to park our laurels.

We found two seats under a shady tree beside the pool and exchanged stories for a good hour. I eventually explained to her why I was yelling at the now missing teenager as I pointed out my compadre Kent in a crowd of six or seven people across from the pool. Before she could even be shocked by our entry into the illegal world of tresspassing and squatting, she gave the group Kent was with a once-over and did a double take, tilting her head sideways.

"Is that..." she began to ask.
"Fuck me, I think it is." I laughed.

In an ironic turn of what could already be described as a surreal afternoon, it turns out the party we were attending was also being graced upon by a few hollywood has-beens we instantly recognized.

"No fucking way!" I shouted for the second time that day.

As I brought us our third round of drinks, we were beginning to become giddy. The Hollywood Has-beens had been transformed into the Double H Squad. The Double H Squad eventually became the Hoo's Hoo of Hollywood. Finally, we settled upon Hoo Hoo as the winner of the "Give them a nickname" game we'd been playing for several hours now.

So every time a new song came through the speakers, we lifted our drinks in triumphant salute and shouted, "Hoo Hoo!"

"HOO HOO!" the crowd began chanting with us between songs. Eventually even Kent's too cool for school group couldn't help but fall to the peer pressure of the crowd and bellowed with us, "HOO HOO!" They were unwittingly shouting their own nickname, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could please us more at that very moment. We were sitting on the grass by this point, giggling like schoolkids, shoulder to shoulder, drinking the day away. I didn't want it to end.

Dusk was setting in and Los Angeles Is Burning by Bad Religion had just come on. And with one last "HOO HOO!" the final chapter to our little story was being written. Extra lighter fluid was poured onto the now unused grill, and a huge bonfire was born.

"Los Angeles is Burning!" we sang in unison. Rock Stars, Hollywood Has-beens, and nobody's alike, we watched the flames rise into the night and sang our hearts out that day. Whichever posh fashionista would end up owning this beautiful piece of real estate would never be able to truly appreciate the landmark they were about to come into possession of, I thought to myself.

The second the song came to a close, as if they were waiting for their cue, there was a knock at the door. The LAPD was there to shut us down. The underage began to panic, girls started scrambling to find their clothes, and one kid could only be heard muttering, "Oh fuck, oh fuck."

As one courageous soul went to answer the door, Kent and I, along with my new friend and her companion, quickly snuck out the side, narrowly escaping the buzzkill of Johnny Law. We made haste for our rides.

"I'll see you at the show," she said with a smile as she hurriedly got into her car.

"Absolutely," I lied again.