Ok, smarty. Go to a party. Girls are scantily clad and showing body…

The Young MC is torturing me.

I went to an underground art opening where you had to hide behind a gate so the cops wouldn’t see the crowd from the street and shut the party down. They let in about five of us at a time and while we waited, a food truck sold hot dogs in the parking lot. Yeah, hot dogs.

A chick walks by and you wish you could sex her, but she’s in another world like you was poindexter…

A girl we know was kicking off her birthday at this thing and it was a good call. There was free beer, a half-pipe, DJs and ex-Circle Jerk Keith Morris’s band, Off! was playing. The art was by Raymond Pettibon. It looked like his early punk rock show flyers. They were selling like hotcakes.

Next day’s function, high-class luncheon, food is served and you’re stone cold munching.

Over by the half-pipe, the birthday girl slipped and fell down the rickety stairs leading to the beer garden. Carefully I headed that way myself.

You’re on a mission and you’re wishin’, someone to cure your lonely condition. Looking for love in all the wrong places, no fine girls just ugly faces…

I’d like to give a special thanks to the dude that burped food truck hot dog in my face while I was making my way through crowd.

From frustration, first inclination, is to become a monk and leave the situation…

The “beer garden” was a keg positioned aways into an unkempt backyard filled with rocky and uneven terrain obscured by super tall weeds. The keg seemed really far away. I didn’t expect to have to go on a Hero’s Journey for a beer that night. And from the smell of things, there was a lot of dog shit hidden amid the path to the keg. Retreating, we saw someone fell down the stairs again. Then another person fell but this time into the dog shit. We left the “beer garden” as carefully as possible.

But every dark tunnel has a light, I hope, so don’t hang yourself with a celibate rope…

Back inside, the gallery was filling up with kids of all ages and grown up people I hadn’t seen since the 90s.  Oh look! Tony Alva!! Whoops, the stairs took a few more people out.

The movie’s showing, so you’re going, could care less about the five you’re blowing…

As soon as the band plugged in, we said our goodbyes and left for dinner. On our way out, I got pretty excited when I saw Jeff McDonald from my favorite power pop band of all time, Redd Kross, walk in. I love Redd Kross. His brother, Steve McDonald, also of Redd Kross, is in Off! with Keith. That’s great and I’m happy for them but I’m still glad I left before they started playing.

The theater gets dark just to start the show and spot a fine woman sitting in your row…

By some miracle, we caught a cab on 6th Street east of Alameda. I’m not kidding, it was a total miracle. The art show was way outside of the main drag for cabs in downtown Los Angeles. (edit: this was DTLA pre-gentrification, I am that fucking cool.)

She’s dressed in yellow, she says, “Hello, come sit next to me, you fine fellow…”

Dinner was a little Fernet Branca and a slice of chocolate cream pie. The bartender told me to stop.

“Stop what?” I asked.

“Stop being so beautiful.”

You run over there without a second to lose and what comes next, hey bust a move…

I tipped that bartender well.

In the city, ladies look pretty. Guys tell jokes so they can seem witty…

Back at home I wondered if I had ever inadvertently killed someone. Like, what if while I was driving, I made a lane change without signaling and scared the person behind me half to death? What if they were so upset they swerved out of control, crashed and died? I’d never know, of course, because I would be long gone, but I started to wonder how many times, if any, I have unknowingly been the catalyst of someone’s untimely death. It’s morbid, but I also wondered who was the unknowing catalyst of my death?

Tell a funny joke just to get some play, then you try to make a move and she says, “No way….”

Keith Morris has been in Los Angeles forever. Between bands, he’s had a few civilian gigs. He once worked as a short order cook at a diner in Silver Lake. A guy I used to date told me he took me there once for breakfast. I don’t remember that at all.

Girls are fakin’, goodness sakin’, they want a man who brings home the bacon…

He insisted he took me the morning after I stayed the night with him. He said we sat at the counter and entire time we were there I had dried semen on my neck.

I remember the diner but what I remember is waiting for a seat and looking to see if Keith Morris was cooking, which he was. I remember being okay wearing last night’s wife beater and jeans because they still looked pretty good even in broad daylight. I don’t remember having dried semen on my neck but that’s a pretty great detail and I when tell the story now, I always include it.

I remember that I never stayed the night with that guy when we were dating. I always drove home because he wasn’t a night-to-morning guy to me.

Anyway, the fact remains that the one time I went to that diner, Keith Morris was definitely cooking so maybe I did go with that guy and I probably did have dried semen on my neck.

Some girls are sadistic, materialistic…

I wonder if Keith Morris has ever inadvertently killed someone? He was in all those punk rock bands, then he was a cook at diner, and then he worked in A&R at a record company. There are plenty of potentially lethal situations in those fields, especially A&R. Think about it.

Looking for a man makes them opportunistic…

I still can’t get “Bust A Move” out of my head so I’ve decided to go with it. Fighting it will only trigger thoughts about things like unknowingly being the tipping point for someone’s tragic death.

You got no money, you got no car, you got no woman, and there you are…

Speaking of not knowing, I found out this actor guy I knew decided he was gay not long after going out with me. I ran into him on an airplane where we made a big deal about being long-lost friends and convinced our assigned seatmates to switch around so we could sit next to each other for the flight. He ordered us two drinks each and that’s when he told me. He swears I had nothing to do with it. He said he just turned the page one day and no longer liked women.

They’re lying on the beach perpetrating a tan, so a brother with money can be their man…

Even if by the smallest chance I was even remotely a factor when my friend realized he didn’t like women, gay is not the same as dead.

So on the beach you’re strolling, real high rolling, everything you have is yours and not stolen…

I don’t know what I’m thinking. There is no way I can unknowingly be responsible for another person’s death. I’m no Keith Morris.

A girl runs up with something to prove…

Don’t just stand there, bust a move.