After I drank a Black Dahlia, fiancé got a Jack and Coke and BusTard had a double scotch and we all had our fill of nuts we finally got on the 76 and was on our way to the Art Walk (to go to Kevin Flint’s party,) but we were pretty drunk by that point. Somewhere about five minutes into the bus ride BusTard says, “we have to get off, because we’re going to miss it…”
The Department of General Services, what the hell does that mean...
Now I know this particular projects (just for your info a projects is a place where the economically disadvantage live all together like a big happy family, its like a co-op, sort of like eco-village but everyone qualifies for section 8 and there are no white people or daddy to make it go away when you’re done with slumming, it takes a long time to get in, sort of like eco-village, but it’s still pretty shitty, sort of like eco-village, but it’s cheap, sort of like eco-village…) which are on Main we hadn’t even passed yet, which is before the tenth block, which would be about ten blocks away from the Brewery which was at the 20th block, but BusTard was adamant about us getting off.
We get off and start walking and then I say, “You’re such a fucking dumb ass, we had a good three stops to go.”
So 20 minutes later and after passing the Department of General Services we finally arrive at the Brewery Art Walk to attend Kevin Flint’s party, but on our way trying to find it we run into Mat Gleason.
I think Mat Gleason is the best thing since sliced bread, but Mat and BusTard are contemporaries, so I don’t know if BusTard thinks he’s as neat as I do.
“So do you think it’s a conflict of interest that you work for Gallery C and running Coagula,” BusTard.
Then Mat tells us about a bigger conflict of interest. I tell Mat I’m happy that’s he’s all legit now and things.
For god sake BusTard this isn’t New York.
No one ever gives their real opinion out here.
Everything is a conflict of interest.
Then Mat, BusTard and I walk to this other gallery and then we lose him (or he ditches us,) but fuck, I’ve forgotten to ask where Kevin Flint’s loft is.
At this time the fiancé gets a bit tired and decides to take a cab home….I should have gone with him, but I was determined to find this party and BusTard was determined to find a fight.
After 30 minutes of going in circles we finally get to Kevin’s place and we run into Adrian and Richard a photographer and sculptor respectively.
Richard tells us that there is something better going on at the 410 Boyd Grill, so we decide to hitch a ride with Adrian, but first Richard asks what the fuck is up with us not having a car.
I explain cops are bastards and I explain that BusTard thinks this is New York and won’t let that dream go.
Richard finishes his drink.
They tell us to come along.
We hop in Adrian’s very sensible Honda Civic and follow our drunk friend Richard in his vintage diesel Mercedes (which I’m in the market for,) he tells us not to worry about him getting arrested, because they don’t arrest white people in LA.
I guess that’s true, unless you have a vagina and then they make you spend weeks in jail for something most people spend a night in jail for tops, but whatever..
We get to 410 Boyd and we see some art and I get asked if I’m a call girl, because BusTard looks way older than me and people always wonder what the hell, but he’s not that old and I’m not that young.
We see some art with people I know in it.
A person that makes paper dolls, named Steven.
“Hi Steven,” me.
“Hi Browne,” Steven.
Later I’m told by Paige Wery that Steven is the artist Suzan’s boyfriend….I love gossip….
As we were leaving we were going to catch a cab, but decided to walk by some homeless people and heard Turbonegro playing.
TurboTVatDetour2007
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“Hey that’s Turbonegro,” BusTard.
So we walk towards the sound and we’ve run into LA Weekly's Detour where we let a guard know that we didn’t have to pay.
It was pretty much that easy. You just tell the guard, this is a public street and unless you are going to arrest me, be gone rent-a-cop.
So we walk in. I was about to get a churro, but it costs four dollars. Now it’s not as if I didn’t have four dollars, but I wasn’t going to pay for a dried pastry of fried bread with sugar at the tail-end of a music festival.
We hear this Depeche Mode (BusTard says Cure) like band, I don’t know what the hell it is, but it has a way more huge crowd than Turbonegro. Obvious to me that Turbonegro got the bitch stage…hey I guess playing for an LA Weekly event is worth being on the shitty stage.
But I remember in the ads they were going on about all of the local LA band. I guess that was to make the old timers feel good.
Popular British MTV band with huge crowd plays and me and BusTard find a seat on the balcony lay back and drink and wonder who do they sound more like? Depeche Mode or Cure, then the band leader says, “Hey you kids on the balcony be careful.” And the crowd of 7,000 or so turn around and look at us.
Creepy that British guys still have that kind of power over the teeny bopper set.
After crashing a party that was taking place in City Hall that had nothing to do with Detour and being thrown out and then being told off by some assholes in suits after chatting with security and trying to figure out who the heck would rent City Hall to have a party and hire such a crappy band, singing the very bad songs from the late 80s, which everyone knows was the worse part of the 80s.
“Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?” asshole in a tacky overpriced suit.
“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business,” BusTard.
We left Detour.
I would have never thought that I would have ever gone to Detour, not because I’m one of those losers who hate the LA Weekly. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the Weekly. I for one think they do a good job at what they do. Wouldn’t want to work for them or hang out with the people who read it, but I respect their art.
I think to really hate the LA Weekly you have had to have gotten fired by them, which 75% of the writers over forty who live in LA and didn’t make it to the LA Times can proudly state.
Don't run into them at a bar. They will go and on and on and on about it like that fat chick in HR that keeps going on about how no one asked her to prom.
“I hate the LA Weekly, sure they fired a bunch of people to hire my New York bred ass, but still, they weren’t supposed to fire me,” disgruntled former LA Weekly employee.
Yeah, but it didn’t suck that much, but I think if you paid to get in or paid four dollar for a churro, that you’re a tool.
That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, but you aren’t very punk rock that’s all.
by Browne
BlocPartyDetour2007
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