The first stop was the liquor store for some party favors. I waited in the car as Lucc went in to get what we needed. A couple minutes later, we took off for Beverly Hills. The party was on the roof of some hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills and since that’s not really a place I frequent, we enlisted the services of my (un)trusty GPS. The drive there was punctuated with conversations about music, idiots, memories, the usual. After a while we realized we were lost in the maze of faded opulence that is Beverly Hills. The GPS was useless—it had brought us into the main vicinity of the hotel but it seemed to give up the idea of getting us all the way there. Welcome to the 21st century—even our machines are lazy and entitled. It just sits there, sucking up the power from my car, “kind of” getting me to where I need to go, but happily directing me right in to the heart of the BPS Jungles hood. Someone needs to fix that.
We finally made it to the correct hotel, valet parked the car, and headed up the elevator. We headed up to a room belonging to Phil the Agony (another member of Strong Arm Steady). I’d met Phil and the rest of Strong Arm Steady before but he didn’t remember me. It usually takes meeting about 4 times for people to remember me. This was the second. No dice. “We were probably really high,” I told him. He nodded. That will happen. It was still early. The sky was turning a beautiful grayish pink (the sky is always “grayish something” in L.A.) and the air was warm. Dusk in LA is like a second morning. People spend it quietly preparing, gathering themselves for the debauchery, schmoozing, lying, and networking to come. This room was no different. We were enjoying the changing colors of the gray sky, and I was staying quiet; I wanted to pace myself that night when it came to socializing.
Being the “white homie” is a precarious and unique position. You have to work your way out of the immediate dismissal. All of the white homies make beats or are graphic designers or something. They always want to talk about it, especially with other white homies. “What do you use to make beats? Oh that’s cool…I use blah blah blah blah”. Then they take their phone out and play you a beat saved on it. The sound is tinny and horrible and you can’t hear anything other than the mediocre soulless drums that they got from the “LA StreetFire Volume II” drum pack on “www.superproducerdrumz.com/bangin-drumz”. They sell it hard, bobbing their head like it’s the most amazing piece of music since Beethoven. Even I immediately dismiss it… if I dismiss it, why would any well-known artist want to listen when they have the most amazing producers just a phone call away? Dammit, the white homies ruin it for all the other white homies. Damn us, white homies. I figured it would be better to just join conversations when I fit into them, play the slow game and get known based on who I was and not my “bangin drumz”.
The party moved upstairs. I put a hat on when I left the house because I rolled out of bed and got dressed. The person checking the guest list told me that I needed to take my hat off if I wanted to enter--maybe I should have worn a fedora with some non-prescription Run DMC glasses and skinny jeans…that would have been fine, I’m sure, asshole. Either way, now I was the white homie with the goofy bed-head. Whatever. The rooftop was just what I’d imagined. Super modern, palapas lining the perimeter, and a pool in the middle. This early in the evening, the place was pretty empty but I’m sure it was only a matter of time before some drunk socialites were in the pool with their clothes on, trying to look like they were having more fun than everyone else while still looking pretentious and unimpressed. I could see it now. Posing in pictures for their facebooks, making the unlucky photographer take 40 shots, checking each one for that perfect balance of “look how fun I am” and “look how sexy and unimpressed I am.” Not far behind would be those girls who use literally the exact same pose and facial expression in every picture...a look they've carefully crafted in the mirror to hide imperfections and boost what they perceive to be their strong points (e.g. ass pushed out, certain side of face showing).
We sat down under the palapa that had been reserved for us. I decided to order some food and a Kirin beer (which I don’t usually do). I was starving and like an idiot, started on my beer before the food got there. The thing about Kirin is it hits you a little different than other beers. Dare I say, it has an “herbal” tinge to it. Of course, the food I ordered wasn’t very substantial—I think it was like a tuna sashimi tartar tostada thing…real L.A.-ish. As I was busy making mistakes, Planet Asia and Blaq Toven showed up. I’d met Planet Asia before too, but he also didn’t remember me. I said “What up?” to him, mentioned some mutual contacts and he did his best to pretend to remember the context in which we’d met before.
Before long, the small group got down to business. Someone had some Backwoods and someone had some herbal remedies to fill them with. Was I going to jump in the rotation and smoke something out of the strongest blunt wrap that exists on an empty stomach full of strong Japanese beer and a body that isn’t used to alcohol? Yes. Yes of course I was. I gladly accepted the gnarled but expertly rolled cigar as it got to me. I inhaled deeply. The chemical taste of the Backwood punched my chest from inside my lungs. I did my best not to cough like a high school kid smoking with some seniors behind the gym for his first time. Although I had smoked before, I was still relatively new to it. My tolerance was not up to a normal smoker’s standards…much less “California Rapper” standards. The herb crept through my body like a green monster pretending to be friendly. The way it made me feel, I wanted to start rapping grimy smoking bars. I didn’t though…that would be stupid—imagine me doing that.
Time blurred. One blunt…two blunts…I don’t really remember at this point. All I know is that at one point my body started to vibrate inside. It was the biggest buzz I had thus far caught. Voices echoed, vision tunneled. Was I going to throw up? I was I going to go to sleep? I felt the way those people must feel on those televangelist shows when they “receive the holy ghost”. It was too much. I was too high. Way too high. “Hey, sit through three blunts with Strong Arm Steady and friends…you’ll be fine.” Yeah, right. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but something was going to happen. Hunter S. Thompson’s words came to mind: “Ignore this terrible drug.” I decided that whatever was going to happen, it would be better if it happened in the bathroom and not in front of all my favorite rappers.
Stay Tuned for part 3
