The better part of the last three months I've spent with Brandon Patton. That's 25% of the goddamn year, which must count for something. Vouchers maybe? Gift certificates? Something.
So when I dropped him off at the airport at 5:00AM this morning, it really was sort of like a summer romance was ending. Aside from the glory of our Jukebox Stories shenanigans, Brandon is perhaps the only person in the world who not only willingly indulges me and my stories—Deal or No Deal, etc.—but also begs to watch upwards of four episodes of Celebrity Apprentice in a row with me at 2 in the morning. I mean, who does that?!
I guess it's only natural to absorb some of the characteristics of your friends, especially if you spend so much time together, but obsessing over Celebrity Apprentice? Brandon Patton is a little piece of heaven!
This must explain why I willingly let Brandon drag me to places like the Rainbow Bar and Grill on the Sunset Strip. He describes it as "a den of tramps," and he's right on the money about that. I mean, I've used the word "tramp" willy-nilly in the past, but, man, this place is full of real, full-fledged, genuine tramps. Trashy drunk rocker chicks, drug-addled trophy girls, make-up slathered ho bags—they're all at the Rainbow Bar and Grill, where everybody also happens to be a musician. I'm not kidding. You can walk up to about 99% of the clientele and ask, "Can I have your demo CD?" And a disc will be in your hand within two seconds flat.
Well, I'm now a bit sad that Brandon is gone. I am left to enjoy my stories alone, and I will likely never be back to the Rainbow, where the company of tramps yields good blog entries. We all lose.