This Heaven Give Me Me-Grain!

Is Ben Widdicome's Gatecrasher column dead or have I been in L.A. for too long?

Last Friday, upon exiting a loft party near the East L.A bridge, we saw two dudes from next door's party fighting in the middle of the street. One bro rocked typical hipster fare while the other (that was getting beat down) couldn't seem to shake his distinct Wassup Rockers mystique.

Wassup Rockers' size 0 unzipped black jeans were falling fast, barely hiding his brown flabby flesh as he wiped his bloody nose with a tattered white tee. He looked piss-drunk, livid from the altercation, pacing back and forth in front of the private parking garage gate from which we just exited.

Sax and I sat in the back of a white SUV as his pal and our driver, Drums walked over to shut the gate. Drums's Armenian lady ran back inside to fetch his almost-forgotten wallet. All I kept thinking was. "Please don't talk to Wassup".

He did.

Wassup (screaming at the top of his lungs): I just got kicked out of the party for being an activist, bro! I was trying to preach activism but in a different way.

Drums(hands in pocket feigning sympathy): That's fucked up, bro.

EVERYBODY IN L.A FUCKING SAYS BRO!

Wassup: When I make millions of dollars trying to save all of you motherfuckers, they'll be sorry!

I opened the door so that Drums would stop giving Wassup the time of day, but he stayed out there to wait for Ms. Armenia, a chick who felt up my leg less than an hour before and pinched my cheek way way too hard (!).

Wassup: They fucking beat the shit out of me for expressing myself, bro

Sax: Yeah, probably expressing himself with his genitalia, dude!