Corn Hole

Angel City brewery — the hustle bustle of beer drinkers and brawlers held at a dim roar as I shook hands with my old friend Majik. Big husky, pulling his 250 pound frame in toward my body as we did our trademark handshake/hug. Strength in vulnerability. Steven yelled my name and I saw him flash his huge trademark grin as a beanbag flew across the hall down and slid to his feet.

“Let’s play!”

The bean bag, 2 pounds or so in my palm, felt hefty. Feeling the weight of a failed music career in my palm. Gravity of the past, pulling me into the cement floors. Pulling-up, I heaved it hard — high into the air, with a nice little arc, it started to fly and fly, and drop.

“Boomf”

Landing on the wood, bottom left corner. I gulped, angel city IPA guzzling down my throat. Carbonated and bitter, friendship going to my head. Andres was laughing on the other end, shaking his head — sporting a bright neon pink shirt that actors are prone to wear in LA.

“OK nice shot, now watch this.”